WHEN amicable1 relations between two men happen to be in jeopardy2, there is least danger of an ensuing quarrel if the friendly intercourse3 has been of artificial growth, on either side. In this case, the promptings of self-interest, and the laws of politeness, have been animating4 influences throughout; acting5 under conditions which assist the effort of self-control. And for this reason: the man who has never really taken a high place in our regard is unprovided with those sharpest weapons of provocation6, which make unendurable demands on human fortitude7. In a true attachment8, on the other hand, there is an innocent familiarity implied, which is forgetful of ceremony, and blind to consequences. The affectionate freedom which can speak kindly9 without effort is sensitive to offence, and can speak harshly without restraint. When the friend who wounds us has once been associated with the sacred memories of the heart, he strikes at a tender place, and no considerations of propriety10 are powerful enough to stifle11 our cry of rage and pain. The enemies who have once loved each other are the bitterest enemies of all.
Thus, the curt12 exchange of question and answer, which had taken place in the cottage at Passy, between two gentlemen artificially friendly to one another, led to no regrettable result. Lord Harry13 had been too readily angry: he remembered what was due to Mr. Mountjoy. Mr. Mountjoy had been too thoughtlessly abrupt14: he remembered what was due to Lord Harry. The courteous15 Irishman bowed, and pointed17 to a chair. The well-bred Englishman returned the polite salute18, and sat down. My lord broke the silence that followed.
“May I hope that you will excuse me,” he began, “if I walk about the room? Movement seems to help me when I am puzzled how to put things nicely. Sometimes I go round and round the subject, before I get at it. I’m afraid I’m going round and round, now. Have you arranged to make a long stay in Paris?”
Circumstances, Mountjoy answered, would probably decide him.
“You have no doubt been many times in Paris before this,” Lord Harry continued. “Do you find it at all dull, now?”
Wondering what he could possibly mean, Hugh said he never found Paris dull — and waited for further enlightenment. The Irish lord persisted:
“People mostly think Paris isn’t as gay as it used to be. Not such good plays and such good actors as they had at one time. The restaurants inferior, and society very much mixed. People don’t stay there as long as they used. I’m told that Americans are getting disappointed, and are trying London for a change.”
Could he have any serious motive19 for this irrelevant20 way of talking? Or was he, to judge by his own account of himself, going round and round the subject of his wife and his guest, before he could get at it?
Suspecting him of jealousy21 from the first, Hugh failed — naturally perhaps in his position — to understand the regard for Iris16, and the fear of offending her, by which her jealous husband was restrained. Lord Harry was attempting (awkwardly indeed!) to break off the relations between his wife and her friend, by means which might keep the true state of his feelings concealed22 from both of them. Ignorant of this claim on his forbearance, it was Mountjoy’s impression that he was being trifled with. Once more, he waited for enlightenment, and waited in silence.
“You don’t find my conversation interesting?” Lord Harry remarked, still with perfect good-humour.
“I fail to see the connection,” Mountjoy acknowledged, “between what you have said so far, and the subject on which you expressed your intention of speaking to me. Pray forgive me if I appear to hurry you — or if you have any reasons for hesitation23.”
Far from being offended, this incomprehensible man really appeared to be pleased. “You read me like a book!” he exclaimed. “It’s hesitation that’s the matter with me. I’m a variable man. If there’s something disagreeable to say, there are times when I dash at it, and times when I hang back. Can I offer you any refreshment24?” he asked, getting away from the subject again, without so much as an attempt at concealment25.
Hugh thanked him, and declined.
“Not even a glass of wine? Such white Burgundy, my dear sir, as you seldom taste.”
Hugh’s British obstinacy26 was roused; he repeated his reply. Lord Harry looked at him gravely, and made a nearer approach to an open confession27 of feeling than he had ventured on yet.
“With regard now to my wife. When I went away this morning with Vimpany — he’s not such good company as he used to be; soured by misfortune, poor devil; I wish he would go back to London. As I was saying — I mean as I was about to say — I left you and Lady Harry together this morning; two old friends, glad (as I supposed) to have a gossip about old times. When I come back, I find you left here alone, and I am told that Lady Harry is in her room. What do I see when I get there? I see the finest pair of eyes in the world; and the tale they tell me is, We have been crying. When I ask what may have happened to account for this —‘Nothing, dear,’ is all the answer I get. What’s the impression naturally produced on my mind? There has been a quarrel perhaps between you and my wife.”
“I fail entirely28, Lord Harry, to see it in that light.”
“Ah, likely enough! Mine’s the Irish point of view. As an Englishman you fail to understand it. Let that be. One thing; Mr. Mountjoy, I’ll take the freedom of saying at once. I’ll thank you, next time, to quarrel with Me.”
“You force me to tell you, my lord, that you are under a complete delusion29, if you suppose that there has been any quarrel, or approach to a quarrel, between Lady Harry and myself.”
“You tell me that, on your word of honour as a gentleman?”
“Most assuredly!”
“Sir! I deeply regret to hear it.”
“Which does your lordship deeply regret? That I have spoken to you on my word of honour, or that I have not quarrelled with Lady Harry?”
“Both, sir! By the piper that played before Moses, both!”
Hugh got up, and took his hat: “We may have a better chance of understanding each other,” he suggested, “if you will be so good as to write to me.”
“Put your hat down again, Mr. Mountjoy, and pray have a moment’s patience. I’ve tried to like you, sir — and I’m bound in candour to own that I’ve failed to find a bond of union between us. Maybe, this frank confession annoys you.”
“Far from it! You are going straight to your subject at last, if I may venture to say so.”
The Irish lord’s good-humour had completely disappeared by this time. His handsome face hardened, and his voice rose. The outbreak of jealous feeling, which motives30 honourable31 to himself had hitherto controlled, now seized on its freedom of expression. His language betrayed (as on some former occasions) that association with unworthy companions, which had been one of the evil results of his adventurous32 life.
“Maybe I’ll go straighter than you bargain for,” he replied; “I’m in two humours about you. My common-sense tells me that you’re my wife’s friend. And the best of friends do sometimes quarrel, don’t they? Well, sir, you deny it, on your own account. I find myself forced back on my other humour — and it’s a black humour, I can tell you. You may be my wife’s friend, my fine fellow, but you’re something more than that. You have always been in love with her — and you’re in love with her now. Thank you for your visit, but don’t repeat it. Say! do we understand each other at last?”
“I have too sincere a respect for Lady Harry to answer you,” Mountjoy said. “At the same time, let me acknowledge my obligations to your lordship. You have reminded me that I did a foolish thing when I called here without an invitation. I agree with you that the sooner my mistake is set right the better.”
He replied in those words, and left the cottage.
On the way back to his hotel, Hugh thought of what Mrs. Vimpany had said to him when they had last seen each other: “Don’t forget that there is an obstacle between you and Iris which will put even your patience and your devotion to a hard trial.” The obstacle of the husband had set itself up, and had stopped him already.
His own act (a necessary act after the language that had been addressed to him) had closed the doors of the cottage, and had put an end to future meetings between Iris and himself. If they attempted to communicate by letter, Lord Harry would have opportunities of discovering their correspondence, of which his jealousy would certainly avail itself. Through the wakeful night, Hugh’s helpless situation was perpetually in his thoughts. There seemed to be no present alternative before him but resignation, and a return to England.
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amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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