The Way We Live Now

  CHAPTER XLVII.

  MRS. HURTLE AT LOWESTOFT.

  When Paul got down into the dining-room Mrs. Hurtle was alreadythere, and the waiter was standing by the side of the table ready totake the cover off the soup. She was radiant with smiles and madeherself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure thateverything was not well with her. Though she smiled, and talked andlaughed, there was something forced in her manner. He almost knewthat she was only waiting till the man should have left the roomto speak in a different strain. And so it was. As soon as the lastlingering dish had been removed, and when the door was finally shutbehind the retreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubthad been on her mind since she had walked across the strand to thehotel. "Your friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?"

  "Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was truethat he had dined."

  "I am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways ofdeclining as there are of accepting. I suppose he is on very intimateterms with you?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. Inpoint of fact he disapproves of me. Is not that it?" To this questionMontague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediateanswer. "I can well understand that it should be so. An intimatefriend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence.But unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to hisfriend's friend, when accident brings them together. You have told methat Mr. Carbury was your beau ideal of an English gentleman."

  "So he is."

  "Then why didn't he behave as such?" and Mrs. Hurtle again smiled."Did not you yourself feel that you were rebuked for coming here withme, when he expressed surprise at your journey? Has he authority overyou?"

  "Of course he has not. What authority could he have?"

  "Nay, I do not know. He may be your guardian. In this safe-goingcountry young men perhaps are not their own masters till they arepast thirty. I should have said that he was your guardian, and thathe intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he didafter I had gone."

  This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it. Nor washe sure that it would be well that he should deny it. The time mustcome, and why not now as well as at any future moment? He had to makeher understand that he could not join his lot with her,--chieflyindeed because his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he couldhardly insist because she could allege that she had a prior rightto his heart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as tocause all his friends to warn him against such a marriage. So heplucked up courage for the battle. "It was nearly that," he said.

  There are many,--and probably the greater portion of my readerswill be among the number,--who will declare to themselves that PaulMontague was a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnanceto face this woman with the truth. His folly in falling at firstunder the battery of her charms will be forgiven him. His engagement,unwise as it was, and his subsequent determination to break hisengagement, will be pardoned. Women, and perhaps some men also, willfeel that it was natural that he should have been charmed, naturalthat he should have expressed his admiration in the form whichunmarried ladies expect from unmarried men when any such expressionis to be made at all;--natural also that he should endeavour toescape from the dilemma when he found the manifold dangers of thestep which he had proposed to take. No woman, I think, will be hardupon him because of his breach of faith to Mrs. Hurtle. But theywill be very hard on him on the score of his cowardice,--as, I think,unjustly. In social life we hardly stop to consider how much of thatdaring spirit which gives mastery comes from hardness of heart ratherthan from high purpose, or true courage. The man who succumbs tohis wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, the master whosuccumbs to his servant, is as often brought to servility by acontinual aversion to the giving of pain, by a softness whichcauses the fretfulness of others to be an agony to himself,--as byany actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one may haveproduced. There is an inner softness, a thinness of the mind's skin,an incapability of seeing or even thinking of the troubles of otherswith equanimity, which produces a feeling akin to fear; but whichis compatible not only with courage, but with absolute firmness ofpurpose, when the demand for firmness arises so strongly as toassert itself. With this man it was not really that. He feared thewoman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to be silent;but he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utterdesertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bringhimself to tell her that he wanted her no further and to bid her go.But that was what he had to do. And for that his answer to her lastquestion prepared the way. "It was nearly that," he said.

  "Mr. Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showingyourself on the sands at Lowestoft with such a one as I am?"

  "He knew of the letter which I wrote to you."

  "You have canvassed me between you?"

  "Of course we have. Is that unnatural? Would you have had me besilent about you to the oldest and the best friend I have in theworld?"

  "No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and bestfriend. I presume you would declare your purpose. But I should nothave supposed you would have asked his leave. When I was travellingwith you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your ownactions. I had heard that in your country girls sometimes holdthemselves at the disposal of their friends,--but I did not dreamthat such could be the case with a man who had gone out into theworld to make his fortune."

  Paul Montague did not like it. The punishment to be endured was beingcommenced. "Of course you can say bitter things," he replied.

  "Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitterthings to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn thatyou should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and Ihave to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say butone word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will besoon an end to that bitterness. What shall I care for Mr. Carbury,except to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speakbut that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you rememberhow urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore thatyour happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? ThoughI loved you, I doubted. There were considerations of money, whichhave now vanished. But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and becauseI believed you. Give me that which you swore you had given beforeI made my gift to you."

  "I cannot say that word."

  "Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an oldglove? I have had many dealings with men and have found them to befalse, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing likethat. No man has ever dared to treat me like that. No man shalldare."

  "I wrote to you."

  "Wrote to me;--yes! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. I thinkbut little of my life and have but little for which to live. Butwhile I do live I will travel over the world's surface to faceinjustice and to expose it, before I will put up with it. You wroteto me! Heaven and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hearsuch impudence!" She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on thetable as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at afurther distance. "Wrote to me! Could any mere letter of your writingbreak the bond by which we were bound together? Had not the distancebetween us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared towrite that letter? The letter must be unwritten. It has alreadybeen contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in thiscountry."

  "I am sorry to hear you say that."

  "Am I not justified in saying it?"

  "I hope not. When I first saw you I told you everything. If I havebeen wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it."

  "This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on thebeach. You are acting now under his orders. No doubt he came with thepurpose. Had you told him you were to be here?"

  "His coming was an accident."

  "It was very opportune at any rate
. Well;--what have you to say tome? Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said allthat is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should arguethe matter out with your--friend, Mr. Carbury."

  "What has to be said, I believe I can say myself."

  "Say it then. Or are you so ashamed of it, that the words stick inyour throat?"

  "There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say thatwhich will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, hadI been fairly careful."

  Then he paused. "Don't spare me," she said. "I know what it all isas well as though it were already told. I know the lies with whichthey have crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up inOregon--I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down deadat my feet." Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked athim. "Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitateto tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of thatdying wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunkenscreech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heapjust below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thusalone that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I mustafterwards have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they nottry me for his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss thevery hems of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you knownothing of such necessity. A woman here is protected,--unless it befrom lies."

  "It was not that only," he whispered.

  "No; they told you other things," she continued, still standing overhim. "They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies,and who made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character ofmy former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and ascoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; youcan hardly know what my life has been."

  "They told me that--you fought him."

  "Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are you todo but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud andtreachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but forfighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about aduel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him,and told him that he should only enter it over my body. He went awayto the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That wasthe duel. And they have told you that he is not dead."

  "Yes;--they have told me that."

  "Who has seen him alive? I never said to you that I had seen himdead. How should I?"

  "There would be a certificate."

  "Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles fromGalveston! And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from himaccording to the law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law makea woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us? I suedfor a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness. He made noappearance, and the Court granted it me. Am I disgraced by that?"

  "I heard nothing of the divorce."

  "I do not remember. When we were talking of these old days before,you did not care how short I was in telling my story. You wanted tohear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have becomemore particular. I told you that he was dead,--as I believed myself,and do believe. Whether the other story was told or not I do notknow."

  "It was not told."

  "Then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen. And theyhave made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back myproperty?"

  "I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself havesaid unasked. I have asked no question about your property."

  "You are welcome. At last I have made it again my own. And now, sir,what else is there? I think I have been open with you. Is it becauseI protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? AmI to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of areprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--orbecause by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am notto be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."

  She had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, butin doing so had left him without a word to say. She had owned toshooting the man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a womanshould shoot a man--especially in Oregon. As to the duel with herhusband,--she had half denied and half confessed it. He presumedthat she had been armed with a pistol when she refused Mr. Hurtleadmittance into the nuptial chamber. As to the question of Hurtle'sdeath,--she had confessed that perhaps he was not dead. But then,--asshe had asked,--why should not a divorce for the purpose in handbe considered as good as a death? He could not say that she hadnot washed herself clean;--and yet, from the story as told byherself, what man would wish to marry her? She had seen so much ofdrunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so muchof a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before heassumed to be her master. "I do not condemn you," he replied.

  "At any rate, Paul, do not lie," she answered. "If you tell me thatyou will not be my husband, you do condemn me. Is it not so?"

  "I will not lie if I can help it. I did ask you to be my wife--"

  "Well;--rather. How often before I consented?"

  "It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent. I have sincesatisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both ofus."

  "You have?"

  "I have. Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of meas you please. I can hardly defend myself."

  "Hardly, I think."

  "But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for thebest in declaring that I will not become--your husband."

  "You will not?" She was still standing, and stretched out her righthand as though again to grasp something.

  He also now rose from his chair. "If I speak with abruptness it isonly to avoid a show of indecision. I will not."

  "Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man afterman false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bearit! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money?--or rank? Or isit that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speakfor herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary?Perhaps you think that I am--old." He was looking at her intently asshe spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added toher face. It was full of lines round the mouth, and the light playof drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed,--and her eyes seemedto be deep in her head. "Speak, man,--is it that you want a youngerwife?"

  "You know it is not."

  "Know! How should any one know anything from a liar? From whatyou tell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from yourcharacter. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came toyou, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between meand him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowingwhat you would be at, from anything that you would say,--thatis impossible. Once again I have come across a mean wretch. Oh,fool!--that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters ofthe world! My last word to you is, that you are--a liar. Now for thepresent you can go. Ten minutes since, had I had a weapon in my handI should have shot another man."

  Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not butthink that perhaps Mrs. Hurtle might have had some excuse. It seemedat any rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her,--thoughluckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on thepresent occasion. "I will say good-bye to you," he said, when he hadfound his hat.

  "Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid ofme. Pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy.Tell me that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman.You would,--were you not afraid to indulge yourself." He was nowstanding in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him animperative command. "I shall not stay here now," she said--"I shallreturn on Monday. I must think of what you have said, and mustresolve what I myself will do. I shall not bear this without seekinga means of punishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you tocome to m
e on Monday."

  He closed the door as he answered her. "I do not see that it willserve any purpose."

  "It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much acoward that you are afraid to come to me. If so, I shall come to you;and you may be assured that I shall not be too timid to show myselfand to tell my story." He ended by saying that if she desired it hewould wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. Onhis return to town he would write to her.

  When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile. Then sheclosed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the doorand with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, andfalling on her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table.Then she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling uponthe floor.

  Was this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest;--never haveone draught of cool water between her lips? Was there to be no end tothe storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In almost all thatshe had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all thetruth,--as which among us would in giving the story of his life? Shehad endured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemedagainst, and had schemed. She had fitted herself to the life whichhad befallen her. But in regard to money, she had been honest and shehad been loving of heart. With her heart of hearts she had loved thisyoung Englishman;--and now, after all her scheming, all her daring,with all her charms, this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journeywould this be which she must now make back to her own country, allalone!

  But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that ofdisappointed love. Full as had been the vials of wrath which she hadpoured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the stormof abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after allsomething counterfeited in her indignation. But her love was nocounterfeit. At any moment if he would have returned to her andtaken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but haveblessed him also for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart ofviolence and rough living and unfeminine words. When driven by wrongsthe old habit came back upon her. But if she could only escape thewrongs, if she could find some niche in the world which would bebearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pourforth all the genuine kindness of her woman's nature,--then, shethought she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl.When she first met this Englishman and found that he took delight inbeing near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at lastbe open to her. But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistolshot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as she hadoften told herself before, that it would have been better for her tohave turned the muzzle against her own bosom.

  After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had toldherself was a vain chance. Though angry enough when that letter firstreached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her,declared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural.In marrying her he must give up all his old allies, all his oldhaunts. The whole world must be changed to him. She knew enough ofherself, and enough of Englishwomen, to be sure that when her pastlife should be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided inEngland. With all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise inspeaking of the old country there was ever mixed, as is so oftenthe case in the minds of American men and women, an almost enviousadmiration of English excellence. To have been allowed to forget thepast and to live the life of an English lady would have been heavento her. But she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared inthe eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become almost aproverb for violence out in the far West,--how could she dare to hopethat her lot should be so changed for her?

  She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often beforeshe had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that thathesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness.But it had been so. Circumstances had made her what she was.Circumstances had been cruel to her. But she could not now alterthem. Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lostherself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed.She had, however, almost known that it could not be so. But this manhad relatives, had business, had property in her own country. Thoughshe could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous lifebe opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of thatjourney to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinarykind might detain him there for years. With what joy would she haveaccompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have beenfit.

  She was conscious,--perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty. That atany rate, she felt, had not deserted her. She was hardly aware thattime was touching it. And she knew herself to be clever, capable ofcausing happiness, and mirth and comfort. She had the qualities ofa good comrade--which are so much in a woman. She knew all this ofherself. If he and she could be together in some country in whichthose stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, couldshe not make him happy? But what was she that a man should give upeverything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarouscountry for her alone? She knew it all and was hardly angry withhim in that he had decided against her. But treated as she had beenshe must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. It wasconsonant with her old character, it was consonant with her presentplans that she should at any rate seem to be angry.

  Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but theplan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind wasthe writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him herfondest love, and telling him that he was right. She did write theletter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not have thestrength to send it to him. The reader may judge with what feelingshe wrote the following words:--

  DEAR PAUL,--

  You are right and I am wrong. Our marriage would not have been fitting. I do not blame you. I attracted you when we were together; but you have learned and have learned truly that you should not give up your life for such attractions. If I have been violent with you, forgive me. You will acknowledge that I have suffered.

  Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than any one else. I think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side. God bless you, and make you happy. Write me the shortest, shortest word of adieu. Not to do so would make you think yourself heartless. But do not come to me.

  For ever,

  W. H.

  This she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read ittwice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that sheought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could notbring herself to do so. It was early in the morning before she wentto bed but she had admitted no one into the room after Montague hadleft her.

  Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to thesea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyanceto take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning. At breakfasthe presented himself to the squire. "I have come earlier than youexpected," he said.

  "Yes, indeed;--much earlier. Are you going back to Lowestoft?"

  Then he told the whole story. Roger expressed his satisfaction,recalling however the pledge which he had given as to his return."Let her follow you, and bear it," he said. "Of course you mustsuffer the effects of your own imprudence." On that evening PaulMontague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that hewould thus avoid a meeting with Mrs. Hurtle in the railway-carriage.