LEFT alone with the woman whose charm still held him to her, cruelly as she had tried his devotion by her marriage, Mountjoy found the fluent amiability1 of the husband imitated by the wife. She, too, when the door had hardly closed on Lord Harry2, was bent3 on persuading Hugh that her marriage had been the happiest event of her life.
“Will you think the worse of me,” she began, “if I own that I had little expectation of seeing you again?”
“Consider my situation,” she went on. “When I remember how you tried (oh, conscientiously5 tried!) to prevent my marriage — how you predicted the miserable6 results that would follow, if Harry’s life and my life became one — could I venture to hope that you would come here, and judge for yourself? Dear and good friend, I have nothing to fear from the result; your presence was never more welcome to me than it is now!”
Whether it was attributable to prejudice on Mountjoy’s part, or to keen and just observation, he detected something artificial in the ring of her enthusiasm; there was not the steady light of truth in her eyes, which he remembered in the past and better days of their companionship. He was a little — just a little — irritated. The temptation to remind her that his distrust of Lord Harry had once been her distrust too, proved to be more than his frailty7 could resist.
“Your memory is generally exact,” he said; “but it hardly serves you now as well as usual.”
“What have I forgotten?”
“You have forgotten the time, my dear, when your opinion was almost as strongly against a marriage with Lord Harry as mine.”
Her answer was ready on the instant: “Ah, I didn’t know him then as well as I know him now!”
Some men, in Mountjoy’s position, might have been provoked into hinting that there were sides to her husband’s character which she had probably not discovered yet. But Hugh’s gentle temper — ruffled8 for a moment only — had recovered its serenity9. Her friend was her true friend still; he said no more on the subject of her marriage.
“Old habits are not easily set aside,” he reminded her. “I have been so long accustomed to advise you and help you, that I find myself hoping there may be some need for my services still. Is there no way in which I might relieve you of the hateful presence of Mr. Vimpany?”
“My dear Hugh, I wish you had not mentioned Mr. Vimpany.”
Mountjoy concluded that the subject was disagreeable to her. “After the opinion of him which you expressed in your letter to me,” he said, “I ought not to have spoken of the doctor. Pray forgive me.”
Iris looked distressed10. “Oh, you are quite mistaken! The poor doctor has been sadly misjudged; and I”— she shook her head, and sighed penitently12 —“and, I,” she resumed, “am one among other people who have ignorantly wronged him. Pray consult my husband. Hear what he can tell you — and you will pity Mr. Vimpany. The newspaper makes such large demands on our means that we can do little to help him. With your recommendation he might find some employment.”
“He has already asked me to assist him, Iris; and I have refused. I can’t agree with your change of opinion about Mr. Vimpany.”
“Why not? Is it because he has separated from his wife?”
“That is one reason, among many others,” Mountjoy replied.
“Indeed, indeed you are wrong! Lord Harry has known Mrs. Vimpany for years, and he says — I am truly sorry to hear it — that the separation is her fault.”
Hugh changed the subject again. The purpose which had mainly induced him to leave England had not been mentioned yet.
Alluding13 to the newspaper, and to the heavy pecuniary14 demands made by the preliminary expenses of the new journal, he reminded Iris that their long and intimate friendship permitted him to feel some interest in her affairs. “I won’t venture to express an opinion,” he added; “let me only ask if Lord Harry’s investments in this speculation15 have compelled him to make some use of your little fortune?”
“My husband refused to touch my fortune,” Iris answered. “But”— She paused, there. “Do you know how honourably16, how nobly, he has behaved?” she abruptly17 resumed. “He has insured his life: he has burdened himself with the payment of a large sum of money every year. And all for me, if I am so unfortunate (which God forbid!) as to survive him. When a large share in the newspaper was for sale, do you think I could be ungrateful enough to let him lose the chance of making our fortune, when the profits begin to come in? I insisted on advancing the money — we almost quarrelled about it — but, you know how sweet he is. I said: ‘Don’t distress11 me’; and the dearest of men let me have my own way.”
Mountjoy listened in silence. To have expressed what he felt would have been only to mortify18 and offend Iris. Old habit (as he had said) had made the idea of devoting himself to her interests the uppermost idea in his mind. He asked if the money had all been spent. Hearing that some of it was still left, he resolved on making the attempt to secure the remains19 of her fortune to herself.
“Tell me,” he said, “have you ever heard of such a thing as buying an annuity20?”
She knew nothing about it. He carefully explained the method by which a moderate sum of money might be made to purchase a sufficient income for life. She offered no objection, when he proposed to write to his lawyer in London for the necessary particulars. But when he asked her to tell him what the sum was of which she might be still able to dispose, Iris hesitated, and made no reply.
This time, Hugh arrived at the right conclusion.
It was only too plain to him that what remained of her money represented an amount so trifling21 that she was ashamed to mention it. Of the need for helping22 her, there could be no doubt now; and, as for the means, no difficulties presented themselves to Mountjoy — always excepting the one obstacle likely to be offered by the woman herself. Experience warned him to approach her delicately, by the indirect way.
“You know me well enough,” he said, “to feel sure that I am incapable23 of saying anything which can embarrass you, or cause a moment’s misunderstanding between two old friends. Won’t you look at me, Iris, when I am speaking to you?”
She still looked away from him. “I am afraid of what you are going to say to me,” she answered coldly.
“Then let me say it at once. In one of your letters, written long since — I don’t suppose you remember it — you told me that I was an obstinate24 man when I once took a thing into my head. You were quite right. My dear, I have taken it into my head that you will be as ready as ever to accept my advice, and will leave me (as your man of business) to buy the annuity”—
She stopped him.
“No,” she cried, “I won’t hear a word more! Do you think I am insensible to years of kindness that I have never deserved? Do you think I forget how nobly you have forgiven me for those cruel refusals which have saddened your life? Is it possible that you expect me to borrow money of You?” She started wildly to her feet. “I declare, as God hears me, I would rather die than take that base, that shameful25 advantage of all your goodness to me. The woman never lived who owed so much to a man, as I owe to you — but not money! Oh, my dear, not money! not money!”
He was too deeply touched to be able to speak to her — and she saw it. “What a wretch26 I am,” she said to herself; “I have made his heart ache!”
He heard those words. Still feeling for her — never, never for himself!— he tried to soothe27 her. In the passion of her self-reproach, she refused to hear him. Pacing the room from end to end, she fanned the fiery28 emotion that was consuming her. Now, she reviled29 herself in language that broke through the restraints by which good breeding sets its seal on a woman’s social rank. And now, again, she lost herself more miserably30 still, and yielded with hysteric recklessness to a bitter outburst of gaiety.
“If you wish to be married happily,” she cried, “never be as fond of any other woman as you have been of me. We are none of us worth it. Laugh at us, Hugh — do anything but believe in us. We all lie, my friend. And I have been lying — shamelessly! shamelessly!”
He tried to check her. “Don’t talk in that way, Iris,” he said sternly.
She laughed at him. “Talk?” she repeated. “It isn’t that; it’s a confession31.”
“I don’t desire to hear your confession.”
“You must hear it — you have drawn32 it out of me. Come! we’ll enjoy my humiliation33 together. Contradict every word I said to you about that brute34 and blackguard, the doctor — and you will have the truth. What horrid35 inconsistency, isn’t it? I can’t help myself; I am a wretched, unreasonable36 creature; I don’t know my own mind for two days together, and all through my husband — I am so fond of him; Harry is delightfully37 innocent; he’s like a nice boy; he never seemed to think of Mr. Vimpany, till it was settled between them that the doctor was to come and stay here —— and then he persuaded me — oh, I don’t know how!— to see his friend in quite a new light. I believed him — and I believe him still — I mean I would believe him, but for you. Will you do me a favour? I wish you wouldn’t look at me with those eyes that won’t lie; I wish you wouldn’t speak to me with that voice which finds things out. Oh, good Heavens, do you suppose I would let you think that my husband is a bad man, and my marriage an unhappy one? Never! If it turns my blood to sit and eat at the same table with Mr. Vimpany, I’m not cruel enough to blame the dear doctor. It’s my wickedness that’s to blame. We shall quarrel, if you tell me that Harry is capable of letting a rascal38 be his friend. I’m happy; I’m happy; I’m happy!— do you understand that? Oh, Hugh, I wish you had never come to see me!”
She burst into a passionate39 fit of weeping, broken down at last under the terrible strain laid on her. “Let me hide myself!” was all that Iris could say to her old friend — before she ran out of the room, and left him.
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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penitently
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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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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