MOUNTJOY had decided1 on travelling to Honeybuzzard, as soon as he heard that Miss Henley was staying with strangers in that town. Having had no earlier opportunity of preparing her to see him, he had considerately written to her from the inn, in preference to presenting himself unexpectedly at the doctor’s house. How would she receive the devoted2 friend, whose proposal of marriage she had refused for the second time, when they had last met in London?
The doctor’s place of residence, situated3 in a solitary4 by-street, commanded a view, not perhaps encouraging to a gentleman who followed the medical profession: it was a view of the churchyard. The door was opened by a woman-servant, who looked suspiciously at the stranger. Without waiting to be questioned, she said her master was out. Mountjoy mentioned his name, and asked for Miss Henley.
The servant’s manner altered at once for the better; she showed him into a small drawing-room, scantily5 and cheaply furnished. Some poorly-framed prints on the walls (a little out of place perhaps in a doctor’s house) represented portraits of famous actresses, who had been queens of the stage in the early part of the present century. The few books, too, collected on a little shelf above the chimney-piece, were in every case specimens6 of dramatic literature. “Who reads these plays?” Mountjoy asked himself. “And how did Iris7 find her way into this house?”
While he was thinking of her, Miss Henley entered the room.
Her face was pale and careworn8; tears dimmed her eyes when Mountjoy advanced to meet her. In his presence, the horror of his brother’s death by assassination9 shook Iris as it had not shaken her yet. Impulsively10, she drew his head down to her, with the fond familiarity of a sister, and kissed his forehead. “Oh, Hugh, I know how you and Arthur loved each other! No words of mine can say how I feel for you.”
“No words are wanted, my dear,” he answered tenderly. “Your sympathy speaks for itself.”
He led her to the sofa and seated himself by her side. “Your father has shown me what you have written to him,” he resumed; “your letter from Dublin and your second letter from this place. I know what you have so nobly risked and suffered in poor Arthur’s interests. It will be some consolation11 to me if I can make a return — a very poor return, Iris — for all that Arthur’s brother owes to the truest friend that ever man had. No,” he continued, gently interrupting the expression of her gratitude12. “Your father has not sent me here — but he knows that I have left London for the express purpose of seeing you, and he knows why. You have written to him dutifully and affectionately; you have pleaded for pardon and reconciliation13, when he is to blame. Shall I venture to tell you how he answered me, when I asked if he had no faith left in his own child? ‘Hugh,’ he said, ‘you are wasting words on a man whose mind is made up. I will trust my daughter when that Irish lord is laid in his grave — not before.’ That is a reflection on you, Iris, which I cannot permit, even when your father casts it. He is hard, he is unforgiving; but he must, and shall, be conquered yet. I mean to make him do you justice; I have come here with that purpose, and that purpose only, in view. May I speak to you of Lord Harry14?”
“How can you doubt it!”
“My dear, this is a delicate subject for me to enter on.”
“And a shameful15 subject for me!” Iris broke out bitterly. “Hugh! you are an angel, by comparison with that man — how debased I must be to love him — how unworthy of your good opinion! Ask me anything you like; have no mercy on me. Oh,” she cried, with reckless contempt for herself, “why don’t you beat me? I deserve it!”
Mountjoy was well enough acquainted with the natures of women to pass over that passionate17 outbreak, instead of fanning the flame in her by reasoning and remonstrance18.
“Your father will not listen to the expression of feeling,” he continued; “but it is possible to rouse his sense of justice by the expression of facts. Help me to speak to him more plainly of Lord Harry than you could speak in your letters. I want to know what has happened, from the time when events at Ardoon brought you and the young lord together again, to the time when you left him in Ireland after my brother’s death. If I seem to expect too much of you, Iris, pray remember that I am speaking with a true regard for your interests.”
In those words, he made his generous appeal to her. She proved herself to be worthy16 of it.
Stated briefly19, the retrospect20 began with the mysterious anonymous21 letters which had been addressed to Sir Giles.
Lord Harry’s explanation had been offered to Iris gratefully, but with some reserve, after she had told him who the stranger at the milestone22 really was. “I entreat23 you to pardon me, if I shrink from entering into particulars,” he had said. “Circumstances, at the time, amply justified24 me in the attempt to use the banker’s political influence as a means of securing Arthur’s safety. I knew enough of Sir Giles’s mean nature to be careful in trusting him; but I did hope to try what my personal influence might do. If he had possessed25 a tenth part of your courage, Arthur might have been alive, and safe in England, at this moment. I can’t say any more; I daren’t say any more; it maddens me when I think of it!” He abruptly26 changed the subject, and interested Iris by speaking of other and later events. His association with the Invincibles — inexcusably rash and wicked as he himself confessed it to be — had enabled him to penetrate27, and for a time to defeat secretly, the murderous designs of the brotherhood28. His appearances, first at the farmhouse29 and afterwards at the ruin in the wood were referable to changes in the plans of the assassins which had come to his knowledge. When Iris had met with him he was on the watch, believing that his friend would take the short way back through the wood, and well aware that his own life might pay the penalty if he succeeded in warning Arthur. After the terrible discovery of the murder (committed on the high road), and the escape of the miscreant30 who had been guilty of the crime, the parting of Lord Harry and Miss Henley had been the next event. She had left him, on her return to England, and had refused to consent to any of the future meetings between them which he besought31 her to grant.
At this stage in the narrative32, Mountjoy felt compelled to ask questions more searching than he had put to Iris yet. It was possible that she might be trusting her own impressions of Lord Harry, with the ill-placed confidence of a woman innocently self-deceived.
“Did he submit willingly to your leaving him?” Mountjoy said.
“Not at first,” she replied.
“Has he released you from that rash engagement, of some years since, which pledged you to marry him?”
“No.”
“Did he allude33 to the engagement, on this occasion?”
“He said he held to it as the one hope of his life.”
“And what did you say?”
“I implored34 him not to distress35 me.”
“Did you say nothing more positive than that?”
“I couldn’t help thinking, Hugh, of all that he had tried to do to save Arthur. But I insisted on leaving him — and I have left him.”
“Do you remember what he said at parting?”
“He said, ‘While I live, I love you.’”
As she repeated the words, there was an involuntary change to tenderness in her voice which was not lost on Mountjoy.
“I must be sure,” he said to her gravely, “of what I tell your father when I go back to him. Can I declare, with a safe conscience, that you will never see Lord Harry again?”
“My mind is made up never to see him again.” She had answered firmly so far. Her next words were spoken with hesitation36, in tones that faltered37. “But I am sometimes afraid,” she said, “that the decision may not rest with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I would rather not tell you.”
“That is a strange answer, Iris.”
“I value your good opinion, Hugh, and I am afraid of losing it.”
“Nothing has ever altered my opinion of you,” he replied, “and nothing ever will.”
She looked at him anxiously, with the closest attention. Little by little, the expression of doubt in her face disappeared; she knew how he loved her — she resolved to trust him.
“My friend,” she began abruptly, “education has done nothing for me. Since I left Ireland, I have sunk (I don’t know how or why) into a state of superstitious38 fear. Yes! I believe in a fatality39 which is leading me back to Lord Harry, in spite of myself. Twice already, since I left home, I have met with him; and each time I have been the means of saving him — once at the milestone, and once at the ruin in the wood. If my father still accuses me of being in love with an adventurer, you can say with perfect truth that I am afraid of him. I am afraid of the third meeting. I have done my best to escape from that man; and, step by step, as I think I am getting away, Destiny is taking me back to him. I may be on my way to him here, hidden in this wretched little town. Oh, don’t despise me! Don’t be ashamed of me!”
“My dear, I am interested — deeply interested in you. That there may be some such influence as Destiny in our poor mortal lives, I dare not deny. But I don’t agree with your conclusion. What Destiny has to do with you and with me, neither you nor I can pretend to know beforehand. In the presence of that great mystery, humanity must submit to be ignorant. Wait, Iris — wait!”
She answered him with the simplicity40 of a docile41 child: “I will do anything you tell me.”
Mountjoy was too fond of her to say more of Lord Harry, for that day. He was careful to lead the talk to a topic which might be trusted to provoke no agitating42 thoughts. Finding Iris to all appearance established in the doctor’s house, he was naturally anxious to know something of the person who must have invited her — the doctor’s wife.
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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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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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40
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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42
agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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