Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1428 page)

“I don’t understand the subject,” Mountjoy replied. “May I ask why you take
me
into your confidence?”

“Because I look upon you as my best friend.”

“You are very good. But surely, Mr. Vimpany, you have older friends in your circle of acquaintance than I am.”

“Not one,” the doctor answered promptly, “whom I trust as I trust you. Let me give you a proof of it.”

“Is the proof in any way connected with money?” Hugh inquired.

“I call that hard on me,” Mr. Vimpany protested. “No unfriendly interruptions, Mountjoy! I offer a proof of kindly feeling. Do you mean to hurt me?”

“Certainly not. Go on.”

“Thank you; a little encouragement goes a long way with me. I have found a bookseller, who will publish my contemplated work, on commission. Not a soul has yet seen the estimate of expenses. I propose to show it to You.”

“Quite needless, Mr. Vimpany.”

“Why quite needless?”

“Because I decline lending you the money.”

“No, no, Mountjoy! You can’t really mean that?”

“I do mean it.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

The doctor’s face showed a sudden change of expression — -a sinister and threatening change. “Don’t drive me into a corner,” he said. “Think of it again.”

Hugh’s capacity for controlling himself gave way at last.

“Do you presume to threaten me?” he said. “Understand, if you please, that my mind is made up, and that nothing you can say or do will alter it.”

With that declaration he rose from his chair, and waited for Mr. Vimpany’s departure.

The doctor put on his hat. His eyes rested on Hugh, with a look of diabolical malice: “The time is not far off, Mr. Mountjoy, when you may be sorry you refused me.” He said those words deliberately — and took his leave.

Released from the man’s presence, Hugh found himself strangely associating the interests of Iris with the language — otherwise beneath notice — which Mr. Vimpany had used on leaving the room.

In desperate straits for want of money, how would the audacious bankrupt next attempt to fill his empty purse? If he had, by any chance, renewed his relations with his Irish friend — and such an event was at least possible — his next experiment in the art of raising a loan might take him to Paris. Lord Harry had already ventured on a speculation which called for an immediate outlay of money, and which was only expected to put a profit into his pocket at some future period. In the meanwhile, his resources in money had their limits; and his current expenses would make imperative demands on an ill-filled purse. If the temptation to fail in his resolution to respect his wife’s fortune was already trying his fortitude, what better excuse could be offered for yielding than the necessities of an old friend in a state of pecuniary distress?

Looking at the position of Iris, and at the complications which threatened it, from this point of view, Mountjoy left the hotel to consult with Mrs. Vimpany. It rested with her to decide whether the circumstances justified his departure for Paris.

CHAPTER XXVI

LONDON AND PARIS

INFORMED of all that Hugh could tell her relating to his interview with her husband, Mrs. Vimpany understood and appreciated his fears for the future. She failed, however, to agree with him that he would do well to take the journey to France, under present circumstances.

“Wait a little longer in London,” she said. “If Iris doesn’t write to me in the next few days there will be a reason for her silence; and in that case (as I have already told you) I shall hear from Fanny Mere. You shall see me when I get a letter from Paris.”

On the last morning in the week, Mrs. Vimpany was announced. The letter that she brought with her had been written by Fanny Mere. With the pen in her hand, the maid’s remarkable character expressed itself as strongly as ever: —

“Madam, — I said I would let you know what goes on here, when I thought there was need of it. There seems to be need now. Mr. Vimpany came to us yesterday. He has the spare bedroom. My mistress says nothing, and writes nothing. For that reason, I send you the present writing. — Your humble servant, F.”

Mountjoy was perplexed by this letter, plain as it was.

“It seems strange,” he said, “that Iris herself has not written to you. She has never hitherto concealed her opinion of Mr. Vimpany.”

“She is concealing it now,” Mr. Vimpany’s wife replied gravely.

“Do you know why?”

“I am afraid I do. Iris will not hesitate at any sacrifice of herself to please Lord Harry. She will give him her money when he wants it. If he tells her to alter her opinion of my husband, she will obey him. He can shake her confidence in me, whenever he pleases; and he has very likely done it already.”

“Surely it is time for me to go to her now?” Hugh said.

“Full time,” Mrs. Vimpany admitted — ”if you can feel sure of yourself. In the interests of Iris, can you undertake to be cool and careful?”

“In the interests of Iris, I can undertake anything.”

“One word more,” Mrs. Vimpany continued, “before you take your departure. No matter whether appearances are for him, or against him, be always on your guard with my husband. Let me hear from you while you are away; and don’t forget that there is an obstacle between you and Iris, which will put even your patience and devotion to a hard trial.”

“You mean her husband?”

“I do.”

There was no more to be said, Hugh set forth on his journey to Paris.

On the morning after his arrival in the French capital, Mountjoy had two alternatives to consider. He might either write to Iris, and ask when it would be convenient to her to receive him — or he might present himself unexpectedly in the cottage at Passy. Reflection convinced him that his best chance of placing an obstacle in the way of deception would be to adopt the second alternative, and to take Lord Harry and the doctor by surprise.

He went to Passy. The lively French taste had brightened the cottage with colour: the fair white window curtains were tied with rose-coloured ribbons, the blinds were gaily painted, the chimneys were ornamental, the small garden was a paradise of flowers. When Mountjoy rang the bell, the gate was opened by Fanny Mere. She looked at him in grave astonishment.

“Do they expect you?” she asked.

“Never mind that,” Hugh answered. “Are they at home?”

“They have just finished breakfast, sir.”

“Do you remember my name?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then show me in.”

Fanny opened the door of a room on the ground floor, and announced: “Mr. Mountjoy.”

The two men were smoking; Iris was watering some flowers in the window. Her colour instantly faded when Hugh entered the room. In doubt and alarm, her eyes questioned Lord Harry. He was in his sweetest state of good-humour. Urged by the genial impulse of the moment, he set the example of a cordial reception. “This is an agreeable surprise, indeed,” he said, shaking hands with Mountjoy in his easy amiable way. “It’s kind of you to come and see us.” Relieved of anxiety (evidently when she had not expected it), Iris eagerly followed her husband’s example: her face recovered its colour, and brightened with its prettiest smile. Mr. Vimpany stood in a corner; his cigar went out: his own wife would hardly have known him again — he actually presented an appearance of embarrassment! Lord Harry burst out laughing: “Look at him Iris! The doctor is shy for the first time in his life.” The Irish good-humour was irresistible. The young wife merrily echoed her husband’s laugh. Mr. Vimpany, observing the friendly reception offered to Hugh, felt the necessity of adapting himself to circumstances. He came out of his corner with an apology: “Sorry I misbehaved myself, Mr. Mountjoy, when I called on you in London. Shake hands. No offence — eh?” Iris, in feverish high spirits, mimicked the doctor’s coarse tones when he repeated his favourite form of excuse. Lord Harry clapped his hands, delighted with his wife’s clever raillery: “Ha! Mr. Mountjoy, you don’t find that her married life has affected her spirits! May I hope that you have come here to breakfast? The table is ready as you see” —
 
—

“And I have been taking lessons, Hugh, in French ways of cooking eggs,” Iris added; “pray let me show you what I can do.” The doctor chimed in facetiously: “I’m Lady Harry’s medical referee; you’ll find her French delicacies half digested for you, sir, before you can open your mouth: signed, Clarence Vimpany, member of the College of Surgeons.” Remembering Mrs. Vimpany’s caution, Hugh concealed his distrust of this outbreak of hospitable gaiety, and made his excuses. Lord Harry followed, with more excuses, on his part. He deplored it — but he was obliged to go out. Had Mr. Mountjoy met with the new paper which was to beat “Galiguani” out of the field? The “Continental Herald “ — there was the title. “Forty thousand copies of the first number have just flown all over Europe; we have our agencies in every town of importance, at every point of the compass; and, one of the great proprietors, my dear sir, is the humble individual who now addresses you.” His bright eyes sparkled with boyish pleasure, as he made that announcement of his own importance. If Mr. Mountjoy would kindly excuse him, he had an appointment at the office that morning. “Get your hat, Vimpany. The fact is our friend here carries a case of consumption in his pocket; consumption of the purse, you understand. I am going to enrol him among the contributors to the newspaper. A series of articles (between ourselves) exposing the humbug of physicians, and asserting with fine satirical emphasis the overstocked state of the medical profession. Ah, well! you’ll be glad (won’t you?) to talk over old times with Iris. My angel, show our good friend the ‘Continental Herald,’ and mind you keep him here till we get back. Doctor, look alive! Mr. Mountjoy, au revoir.” They shook hands again heartily. As Mrs. Vimpany had confessed, there was no resisting the Irish lord.

But Hugh’s strange experience of that morning was not at an end, yet.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE BRIDE AT HOME

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 amiability of the husband imitated by the wife. She, too, when the door had hardly closed on Lord Harry, was bent 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?”

“Certainly not, Iris.”

“Consider my situation,” she went on. “When I remember how you tried (oh, conscientiously tried!) to prevent my marriage — how you predicted the miserable 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 frailty 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 — ruffled for a moment only — had recovered its serenity. Her friend was her true friend still; he said no more on the subject of her marriage.