SAXON AND CELT
WHEN amicable relations between two men happen to be in jeopardy, there
is least danger of an ensuing quarrel if the friendly intercourse has
been of artificial growth, on either side. In this case, the promptings
of self-interest, and the laws of politeness, have been animating
influences throughout; acting 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 provocation, which make unendurable demands on human
fortitude. In a true attachment, 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 kindly
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 propriety are powerful enough to stifle our cry of
rage and pain. The enemies who have once loved each other are the
bitterest enemies of all.
Thus, the curt 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 Harry had been too
readily angry: he remembered what was due to Mr. Mountjoy. Mr. Mountjoy
had been too thoughtlessly abrupt: he remembered what was due to Lord
Harry. The courteous Irishman bowed, and pointed to a chair. The
well-bred Englishman returned the polite salute, 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 motive for this irrelevant 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 jealousy from the first, Hugh failed--naturally
perhaps in his position--to understand the regard for Iris, 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 concealed 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 hesitation."
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 refreshment?" he asked, getting away
from the subject again, without so much as an attempt at concealment.
Hugh thanked him, and declined.
"Not even a glass of wine? Such white Burgundy, my dear sir, as you
seldom taste."
Hugh's British obstinacy was roused; he repeated his reply. Lord Harry
looked at him gravely, and made a nearer approach to an open confession
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 entirely, 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
delusion, 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 motives honourable 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 adventurous 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.