CHAPTER XXVI.
MRS. HURTLE.
Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in SackvilleStreet, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he hadmany troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, andMontague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to thereader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowedhis mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he wouldventure to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed.Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept hercousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which hedisliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedyruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his ownconscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated justat this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night whichhad been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab inPiccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington.Here he knocked at a decent, modest door,--at such a house asmen live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for Mrs.Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs. Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into thedrawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter ofan hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, andthen Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whomhe had once promised to marry. "Paul," she said, with a quick,sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when shepleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, "Paul, say that thatletter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and Iwill forgive everything."
"I cannot say that," he replied, laying his hand in hers.
"You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me thatyour promises to me are to go for nothing?"
"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at herbidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly,but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think thathe had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, butthe justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which hehardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past lifewhich, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his presentdifficulty. But he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion;and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from hissympathies.
"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that." Asshe said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whethershe was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become thisman's wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which weseldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward linesof a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or theexpression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With paddingand false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almostany dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female,hairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures areconstructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion,sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevellednegligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of thesculptors' hands. Colours indeed are added, but not the colours whichwe used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day givenplace to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs. Hurtlewas not a beauty after the present fashion. She was very dark,--adark brunette,--with large round blue eyes, that could indeed besoft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black,hung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. Her cheeks andlips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving avarying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Hernose also was full, and had something of the pug. But neverthelessit was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect.Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. Her chin wasfull, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck wasbeginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped;but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at anyrate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seenher, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silkor woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice,always well-fitting, and most especially always simple. She wascertainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She looked asthough she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a womanought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. Shewas in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five asthirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.
"You are beautiful as ever you were," he said.
"Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless itcan bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means."Then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chairwhich she gave him.
"I told you in my letter."
"You told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off.Why is it to be--off? Do you not love me?" Then she threw herselfupon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face."Paul," she said, "I have come again across the Atlantic on purposeto see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me onekiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss." Ofcourse he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. Howcould it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that shewould have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet whatcould he do but embrace her? "Now tell me everything," she said,seating herself on a footstool at his feet.
"I have come across the Atlantic to see you."]
She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill treator scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing hercaresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend himbefore he left her. He had known something of her temper before,though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He hadtravelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had beenvery good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--forhe had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed atLiverpool they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all hisaffairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was beforehis second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknownto him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life,--butthat she was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris onbusiness. When he left her at the London railway station, from whichshe started for Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He hadoffered to go with her, but that she had declined. But when heremembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of hisengagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady towhom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means hedid not know. He did know that she was some years older than himself,and that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family.She had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatestmiscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him asthe one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. Butit was only when he thought of all this after she had left him,--onlywhen he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell RogerCarbury,--that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman'scleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, thathe had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressingintimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had beenmissing.
He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that itwas impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in arailway train without knowing something about her. Roger did allhe could to persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partiallysucceeded. It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man shouldenjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--sonatural that during the journey he should allow himself to think thatshe may during her whole life be all in all to him as she is at thatmoment;--and so natural again that he should see his mistake when hehas parted from her! But Montague, though he was half false to hiswidow, was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and that hesaid ought to bind him. Then he returned to California, and learnedthroug
h the instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in SanFrancisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did notquite believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said thatthere certainly had been a Mr. Hurtle, and that to the best of theirbelief he still existed. The fact, however, best known of her was,that she had shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She hadnot been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that thecircumstances justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was veryclever and very beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she wasvery dangerous. "She always had money when she was here," HamiltonFisker said, "but no one knew where it came from." Then he wanted toknow why Paul inquired. "I don't think, you know, that I should liketo go in for a life partnership, if you mean that," said Hamilton K.Fisker.
Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his secondjourney to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spiteof his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what hecould make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the readerwill remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she hadpromised to follow him. Since that they had never met till this day.She had not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any ratebefore he had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England,and these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring toexplain, that their engagement must be at an end. And now she hadfollowed him to London! "Tell me everything," she said, leaning uponhim and looking up into his face.
"But you,--when did you arrive here?"
"Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On TuesdayI reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London,and so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand thatyou should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now solong ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I wouldnot tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that momentI was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth ofrobbers." As she said this, she looked as though she could be verypersistent in claiming her own,--or what she might think to be herown. "I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, andwhen I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. Andnow I am here. I at any rate have been faithful." As she said thishis arm was again thrown over her, so as to press her head to hisknee. "And now," she said, "tell me about yourself?"
His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he donehis duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, havesprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might havebeen his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make herunderstand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he waseither too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such asthat. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as shesat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be hiswife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he didnot at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yetwith properly apologetic courtesy. "I am engaged here about thisrailway," he said. "You have heard, I suppose, of our projectedscheme?"
"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is thegreat man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buyinga villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that thebest of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there arevery hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did."
"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some feeling ofshame, as he thought how very little he knew about it.
"You are the manager here in England?"
"No,--I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco; butthe real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte."
"Ah,--I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is henot? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him ofcourse?"
"Yes;--I know him. I see him once a week."
"I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes orlords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his righthand. What power;--what grandeur!"
"Grand enough," said Paul, "if it all came honestly."
"Such a man rises above honesty," said Mrs. Hurtle, "as a greatgeneral rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquera nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. Apigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over therivers."
"I prefer to be stopped by the ditches," said Montague.
"Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce. And I will grant you this,that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To livein plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning tonine at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of hispen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say herethat he is not honest?"
"As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothingagainst him."
"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleonwas a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where Ishall see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I wouldnot condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of yourEmperors."
"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay."
"Ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts ofyours about coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break thatcommandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing backthe grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while theyfilch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that isdear to them in the world. Here is a man who boldly says that herecognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is good,and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the strongerand the nobler he can be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblinsinside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets."
Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. Though connectedwith the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile ascoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty,and there was something of feminine eloquence in her words. But itwas shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. "Personally, Ido not like him," said Paul.
"I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove."
"Oh no."
"But you are prospering in this business?"
"Yes,--I suppose we are prospering. It is one of those hazardousthings in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperoustill he is out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. Ihad no alternative."
"It seems to me to have been a golden chance."
"As far as immediate results go it has been golden."
"That at any rate is well, Paul. And now,--now that we have got backinto our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I havetalked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should ourengagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?"
He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waitedfor an answer. "You know I did," he said.
"I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of mylove to you. Is it not so? Come, speak openly like a man. Do youdoubt me?"
He did not doubt her, and was forced to say so. "No, indeed."
"Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,--fit for a girlfrom a nursery! Out with it if you have anything to say against me!You owe me so much at any rate. I have never ill-treated you. I havenever lied to you. I have taken nothing from you,--if I have nottaken your heart. I have given you all that I have to give." Then sheleaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. "If you hateme, say so."
"Winifrid," he said, calling her by her name.
"Winifrid! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called youPaul from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is thereanother woman that you love?"
At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was nocoward. Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuousshe could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her callintending
to tell her the truth which he now spoke. "There isanother," he said.
She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she wouldcommence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him, standingquite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of theleft. "Oh," she said, in a whisper;--"that is the reason why I amtold that I am to be--off."
"That was not the reason."
"What;--can there be more reason than that,--better reason than that?Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another soalso you have learned to--hate me."
"Listen to me, Winifrid."
"No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing thatit was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so youlove--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough,--toolittle like the dolls of your own country! What were your--otherreasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you thatthey are lies."
The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward byRoger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but littleabout Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle.His reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. "We knowtoo little of each other," he said.
"What more do you want to know? You can know all for the asking.Did I ever refuse to answer you? As to my knowledge of you and youraffairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it thatyou want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about mymoney? You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none.Now I have ample means of my own. You knew that I was a widow. Whatmore? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I willdeluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who lovedwould not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was lovedonce."
He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would havebeen better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to haveremained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He musthave acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, andvery base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, isdamnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of thesufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, andmight have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrathcould inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for nofurther mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now hewas all at sea. "I wish to hear nothing," he said.
"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other? That, surely,is a poor excuse to make to a woman,--after you have been false toher. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together?Think of it, Paul. Is not that mean?"
"I do not think that I am mean."
"No;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always. Who is--thislady?"
He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioningHetta Carbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, andcertainly had received no assurance that he was loved. "I can notname her."
"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to returnsatisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections?That is to be all, and you think that fair? That suits your own mind,and leaves no sore spot in your heart? You can do that, and shakehands with me, and go away,--without a pang, without a scruple?"
"I did not say so."
"And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise AugustusMelmotte because you think him dishonest! Are you a liar?"
"I hope not."
"Did you say you would be my husband? Answer me, sir."
"I did say so."
"Do you now refuse to keep your promise? You shall answer me."
"I cannot marry you."
"Then, sir, are you not a liar?" It would have taken him long toexplain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break apromise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break hisengagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he couldnot accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been broughtto his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, andas to his uncertainty about her husband. If Mr. Hurtle were alive,certainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs.Hurtle. He did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at onceready with his defence. "Oh, Paul," she said, changing at once intosoftness,--"I am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could makeyou feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise tothis lady also?"
"No," said he. "I have given no promise."
"But she loves you?"
"She has never said so."
"You have told her of your love?"
"Never."
"There is nothing, then, between you? And you would put her againstme,--some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint,who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you. Is that so?"
"I suppose it is," said Paul.
"Then you may still be mine. Oh, Paul, come back to me. Will anywoman love you as I do;--live for you as I do? Think what I have donein coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unlessyou are a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I amengaged to marry you."
"You have told the woman of the house?"
"Certainly I have. Was I not justified? Were you not engaged to me?Am I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhapsto be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere,because I am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause ofmy being here? I am here because you have promised to make me yourwife, and, as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have thefact advertised in every newspaper in the town. I told her that Iwas the promised wife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr.Melmotte in managing the new great American railway, and that Mr.Paul Montague would be with me this morning. She was too far-seeingto doubt me, but had she doubted, I could have shown her yourletters. Now go and tell her that what I have said is false,--ifyou dare." The woman was not there, and it did not seem to be hisimmediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denouncea lady whom he certainly had ill-used. The position was one whichrequired thought. After a while he took up his hat to go. "Do youmean to tell her that my statement is untrue?"
"No,--" he said; "not to-day."
"And you will come back to me?"
"Yes;--I will come back."
"I have no friend here, but you, Paul. Remember that. Remember allyour promises. Remember all our love,--and be good to me." Then shelet him go without another word.