CHAPTER XXVI.

MRS. HURTLE.

Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville

Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had

many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and

Montague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the

reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed

his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would

venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed.

Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her

cousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he

disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy

ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own

conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just

at this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night which

had been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in

Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington.

Here he knocked at a decent, modest door,--at such a house as

men live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for Mrs.

Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs. Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the

drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of

an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and

then Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom

he had once promised to marry. "Paul," she said, with a quick,

sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she

pleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, "Paul, say that that

letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I

will 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 that

your promises to me are to go for nothing?"

"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at her

bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly,

but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that

he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but

the justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he

hardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life

which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present

difficulty. But he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion;

and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his

sympathies.

"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that." As

she said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether

she was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this

man's wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we

seldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines

of a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or the

expression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding

and false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almost

any dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female,

hairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures are

constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion,

sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled

negligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of the

sculptors' hands. Colours indeed are added, but not the colours which

we used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day given

place to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs. Hurtle

was not a beauty after the present fashion. She was very dark,--a

dark brunette,--with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be

soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black,

hung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. Her cheeks and

lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a

varying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Her

nose also was full, and had something of the pug. But nevertheless

it 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 was

full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was

beginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped;

but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at any

rate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seen

her, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk

or woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice,

always well-fitting, and most especially always simple. She was

certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She looked as

though she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a woman

ought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She

was in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five as

thirty. 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 it

can 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 chair

which 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 herself

upon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face.

"Paul," she said, "I have come again across the Atlantic on purpose

to see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me one

kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss." Of

course he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. How

could it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that she

would have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet what

could he do but embrace her? "Now tell me everything," she said,

seating herself on a footstool at his feet.

[Illustration: "I have come across the Atlantic to see you."]

She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill treat

or scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her

caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him

before he left her. He had known something of her temper before,

though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had

travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been

very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--for

he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at

Liverpool they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his

affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before

his second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown

to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life,--but

that she was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on

business. When he left her at the London railway station, from which

she started for Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had

offered to go with her, but that she had declined. But when he

remembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of his

engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to

whom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means he

did 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 greatest

miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as

the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. But

it was only when he thought of all this after she had left him,--only

when he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger

Carbury,--that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman's

cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that

he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressing

intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had been

missing.

He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it

was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a

railway train without knowing something about her. Roger did all

he could to persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partially

succeeded. It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man should

enjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--so

natural that during the journey he should allow himself to think that

she may during her whole life be all in all to him as she is at that

moment;--and so natural again that he should see his mistake when he

has parted from her! But Montague, though he was half false to his

widow, was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and that he

said ought to bind him. Then he returned to California, and learned

through the instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San

Francisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not

quite believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said that

there certainly had been a Mr. Hurtle, and that to the best of their

belief he still existed. The fact, however, best known of her was,

that she had shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had

not been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the

circumstances justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very

clever and very beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was

very dangerous. "She always had money when she was here," Hamilton

Fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from." Then he wanted to

know why Paul inquired. "I don't think, you know, that I should like

to 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 second

journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite

of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he

could make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader

will remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had

promised to follow him. Since that they had never met till this day.

She had not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate

before he had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England,

and these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to

explain, that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had

followed him to London! "Tell me everything," she said, leaning upon

him and looking up into his face.

"But you,--when did you arrive here?"

"Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday

I 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 that

you should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so

long ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would

not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment

I was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of

robbers." As she said this, she looked as though she could be very

persistent in claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her

own. "I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and

when I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And

now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful." As she said this

his arm was again thrown over her, so as to press her head to his

knee. "And now," she said, "tell me about yourself?"

His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he done

his duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, have

sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have

been his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make her

understand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he was

either too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as

that. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as she

sat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be his

wife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he did

not at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet

with properly apologetic courtesy. "I am engaged here about this

railway," he said. "You have heard, I suppose, of our projected

scheme?"

"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the

great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying

a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the

best of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are

very hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did."

"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some feeling of

shame, 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; but

the real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte."

"Ah,--I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is he

not? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him of

course?"

"Yes;--I know him. I see him once a week."

"I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes or

lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right

hand. What power;--what grandeur!"

"Grand enough," said Paul, "if it all came honestly."

"Such a man rises above honesty," said Mrs. Hurtle, "as a great

general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer

a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A

pigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the

rivers."

"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 live

in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to

nine at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his

pen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here

that he is not honest?"

"As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing

against him."

"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon

was a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I

shall see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would

not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your

Emperors."

"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay."

"Ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of

yours about coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that

commandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back

the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they

filch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is

dear to them in the world. Here is a man who boldly says that he

recognises 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 stronger

and the nobler he can be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins

inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets."

Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte. Though connected

with the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile a

scoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty,

and there was something of feminine eloquence in her words. But it

was shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. "Personally, I

do 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 hazardous

things in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous

till he is out of it. I fell into it altogether against my will. I

had 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 back

into our old way of talking, tell me what all this means. I have

talked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should our

engagement be over? You used to love me, did you not?"

He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waited

for an answer. "You know I did," he said.

"I thought so. This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my

love to you. Is it not so? Come, speak openly like a man. Do you

doubt 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 girl

from 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 have

never lied to you. I have taken nothing from you,--if I have not

taken your heart. I have given you all that I have to give." Then she

leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. "If you hate

me, say so."

"Winifrid," he said, calling her by her name.

"Winifrid! Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you

Paul from the moment you entered the room. Well, speak out. Is there

another woman that you love?"

At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no

coward. Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuous

she could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call

intending to tell her the truth which he now spoke. "There is

another," he said.

She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would

commence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him, standing

quite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the

left. "Oh," she said, in a whisper;--"that is the reason why I am

told 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 so

also you have learned to--hate me."

"Listen to me, Winifrid."

"No, sir; no Winifrid now! How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that

it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside? And so you

love--some other woman! I am too old to please you, too rough,--too

little like the dolls of your own country! What were your--other

reasons? Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that

they are lies."

The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by

Roger Carbury they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little

about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle.

His reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated. "We know

too 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 your

affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain? What is it that

you want to know? Ask anything and I will tell you. Is it about my

money? 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. What

more? If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will

deluge you with stories. I should have thought that a man who loved

would not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved

once."

He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible. It would have

been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have

remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must

have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and

very base. A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is

damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the

sufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and

might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath

could inflict upon him. But he would have been called upon for no

further mental effort. His position would have been plain. But now he

was 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 to

her. 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--this

lady?"

He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning

Hetta Carbury's name. He had never even asked her for her love, and

certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. "I can not

name her."

"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return

satisfied 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 shake

hands 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 Augustus

Melmotte 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 to

explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a

promise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his

engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he could

not accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought

to his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and

as 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 once

ready with his defence. "Oh, Paul," she said, changing at once into

softness,--"I am pleading to you for my life. Oh, that I could make

you feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to

this 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 against

me,--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 any

woman love you as I do;--live for you as I do? Think what I have done

in coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless

you are a friend. Listen to me. I have told the woman here that I am

engaged 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, perhaps

to 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 of

my being here? I am here because you have promised to make me your

wife, and, as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have the

fact advertised in every newspaper in the town. I told her that I

was 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-seeing

to doubt me, but had she doubted, I could have shown her your

letters. Now go and tell her that what I have said is false,--if

you dare." The woman was not there, and it did not seem to be his

immediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denounce

a lady whom he certainly had ill-used. The position was one which

required thought. After a while he took up his hat to go. "Do you

mean 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 all

your promises. Remember all our love,--and be good to me." Then she

let him go without another word.