CHAPTER XLVII.

MRS. HURTLE AT LOWESTOFT.

When Paul got down into the dining-room Mrs. Hurtle was already

there, and the waiter was standing by the side of the table ready to

take the cover off the soup. She was radiant with smiles and made

herself especially pleasant during dinner, but Paul felt sure that

everything was not well with her. Though she smiled, and talked and

laughed, there was something forced in her manner. He almost knew

that she was only waiting till the man should have left the room

to speak in a different strain. And so it was. As soon as the last

lingering dish had been removed, and when the door was finally shut

behind the retreating waiter, she asked the question which no doubt

had been on her mind since she had walked across the strand to the

hotel. "Your friend was hardly civil; was he, Paul?"

"Do you mean that he should have come in? I have no doubt it was true

that he had dined."

"I am quite indifferent about his dinner,--but there are two ways of

declining as there are of accepting. I suppose he is on very intimate

terms with you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then his want of courtesy was the more evidently intended for me. In

point of fact he disapproves of me. Is not that it?" To this question

Montague did not feel himself called upon to make any immediate

answer. "I can well understand that it should be so. An intimate

friend may like or dislike the friend of his friend, without offence.

But unless there be strong reason he is bound to be civil to his

friend's friend, when accident brings them together. You have told me

that 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 with

me, when he expressed surprise at your journey? Has he authority over

you?"

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

"Nay, I do not know. He may be your guardian. In this safe-going

country young men perhaps are not their own masters till they are

past thirty. I should have said that he was your guardian, and that

he intended to rebuke you for being in bad company. I dare say he did

after I had gone."

This was so true that Montague did not know how to deny it. Nor was

he sure that it would be well that he should deny it. The time must

come, and why not now as well as at any future moment? He had to make

her understand that he could not join his lot with her,--chiefly

indeed because his heart was elsewhere, a reason on which he could

hardly insist because she could allege that she had a prior right

to his heart;--but also because her antecedents had been such as to

cause all his friends to warn him against such a marriage. So he

plucked up courage for the battle. "It was nearly that," he said.

There are many,--and probably the greater portion of my readers

will be among the number,--who will declare to themselves that Paul

Montague was a poor creature, in that he felt so great a repugnance

to face this woman with the truth. His folly in falling at first

under the battery of her charms will be forgiven him. His engagement,

unwise as it was, and his subsequent determination to break his

engagement, will be pardoned. Women, and perhaps some men also, will

feel that it was natural that he should have been charmed, natural

that he should have expressed his admiration in the form which

unmarried ladies expect from unmarried men when any such expression

is to be made at all;--natural also that he should endeavour to

escape from the dilemma when he found the manifold dangers of the

step which he had proposed to take. No woman, I think, will be hard

upon him because of his breach of faith to Mrs. Hurtle. But they

will 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 that

daring spirit which gives mastery comes from hardness of heart rather

than from high purpose, or true courage. The man who succumbs to

his wife, the mother who succumbs to her daughter, the master who

succumbs to his servant, is as often brought to servility by a

continual aversion to the giving of pain, by a softness which

causes the fretfulness of others to be an agony to himself,--as by

any actual fear which the firmness of the imperious one may have

produced. There is an inner softness, a thinness of the mind's skin,

an incapability of seeing or even thinking of the troubles of others

with equanimity, which produces a feeling akin to fear; but which

is compatible not only with courage, but with absolute firmness of

purpose, when the demand for firmness arises so strongly as to

assert itself. With this man it was not really that. He feared the

woman;--or at least such fears did not prevail upon him to be silent;

but he shrank from subjecting her to the blank misery of utter

desertion. After what had passed between them he could hardly bring

himself 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 last

question prepared the way. "It was nearly that," he said.

"Mr. Carbury did take it upon himself to rebuke you for showing

yourself 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 be

silent about you to the oldest and the best friend I have in the

world?"

"No, I would not have had you be silent to your oldest and best

friend. I presume you would declare your purpose. But I should not

have supposed you would have asked his leave. When I was travelling

with you, I thought you were a man capable of managing your own

actions. I had heard that in your country girls sometimes hold

themselves at the disposal of their friends,--but I did not dream

that such could be the case with a man who had gone out into the

world to make his fortune."

Paul Montague did not like it. The punishment to be endured was being

commenced. "Of course you can say bitter things," he replied.

"Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitter

things to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn that

you should be my God upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and I

have to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say but

one word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be

soon 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 speak

but that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you remember

how urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that

your happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? Though

I loved you, I doubted. There were considerations of money, which

have now vanished. But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and because

I believed you. Give me that which you swore you had given before

I made my gift to you."

"I cannot say that word."

"Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old

glove? I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be

false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing like

that. No man has ever dared to treat me like that. No man shall

dare."

"I wrote to you."

"Wrote to me;--yes! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. I think

but little of my life and have but little for which to live. But

while I do live I will travel over the world's surface to face

injustice and to expose it, before I will put up with it. You wrote

to me! Heaven and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear

such impudence!" She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the

table as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at a

further distance. "Wrote to me! Could any mere letter of your writing

break the bond by which we were bound together? Had not the distance

between us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared to

write that letter? The letter must be unwritten. It has already

been contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in this

country."

"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 have

been wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it."

"This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the

beach. You are acting now under his orders. No doubt he came with the

purpose. 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 to

me? Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all

that is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue

the 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 in

your throat?"

"There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say that

which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had

I been fairly careful."

Then he paused. "Don't spare me," she said. "I know what it all is

as well as though it were already told. I know the lies with which

they have crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in

Oregon--I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead

at my feet." Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at

him. "Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate

to tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that

dying wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken

screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap

just below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus

alone that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must

afterwards have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not

try me for his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the

very hems of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know

nothing of such necessity. A woman here is protected,--unless it be

from lies."

"It was not that only," he whispered.

"No; they told you other things," she continued, still standing over

him. "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 of

my former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a

scoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you

can 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 to

do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and

treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for

fighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a

duel? 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 away

to the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That was

the 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 him

dead. How should I?"

"There would be a certificate."

"Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles from

Galveston! And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from him

according to the law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law make

a woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us? I sued

for a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness. He made no

appearance, 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 to

hear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have become

more 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 not

know."

"It was not told."

"Then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen. And they

have made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back my

property?"

"I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have

said 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 because

I protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? Am

I to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a

reprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or

because by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am not

to be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."

She had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, but

in doing so had left him without a word to say. She had owned to

shooting the man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman

should shoot a man--especially in Oregon. As to the duel with her

husband,--she had half denied and half confessed it. He presumed

that she had been armed with a pistol when she refused Mr. Hurtle

admittance into the nuptial chamber. As to the question of Hurtle's

death,--she had confessed that perhaps he was not dead. But then,--as

she had asked,--why should not a divorce for the purpose in hand

be considered as good as a death? He could not say that she had

not washed herself clean;--and yet, from the story as told by

herself, what man would wish to marry her? She had seen so much of

drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much

of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he

assumed to be her master. "I do not condemn you," he replied.

"At any rate, Paul, do not lie," she answered. "If you tell me that

you 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 since

satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of

us."

"You have?"

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

as you please. I can hardly defend myself."

"Hardly, I think."

"But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for the

best in declaring that I will not become--your husband."

"You will not?" She was still standing, and stretched out her right

hand as though again to grasp something.

He also now rose from his chair. "If I speak with abruptness it is

only to avoid a show of indecision. I will not."

"Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man after

man false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bear

it! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money?--or rank? Or is

it that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak

for herself,--and even act for herself if some action be necessary?

Perhaps you think that I am--old." He was looking at her intently as

she spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to

her face. It was full of lines round the mouth, and the light play

of drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed,--and her eyes seemed

to be deep in her head. "Speak, man,--is it that you want a younger

wife?"

"You know it is not."

"Know! How should any one know anything from a liar? From what

you tell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from your

character. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came to

you, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between me

and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowing

what you would be at, from anything that you would say,--that

is impossible. Once again I have come across a mean wretch. Oh,

fool!--that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of

the world! My last word to you is, that you are--a liar. Now for the

present you can go. Ten minutes since, had I had a weapon in my hand

I should have shot another man."

Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not but

think that perhaps Mrs. Hurtle might have had some excuse. It seemed

at any rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her,--though

luckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on the

present occasion. "I will say good-bye to you," he said, when he had

found his hat.

"Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of

me. 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 now

standing in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an

imperative command. "I shall not stay here now," she said--"I shall

return on Monday. I must think of what you have said, and must

resolve what I myself will do. I shall not bear this without seeking

a means of punishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you to

come to me on Monday."

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

serve any purpose."

"It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much a

coward 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 myself

and to tell my story." He ended by saying that if she desired it he

would wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. On

his return to town he would write to her.

When he was gone she went to the door and listened awhile. Then she

closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door

and with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, and

falling 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 upon

the floor.

Was this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest;--never have

one draught of cool water between her lips? Was there to be no end to

the storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In almost all that

she had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the

truth,--as which among us would in giving the story of his life? She

had endured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemed

against, and had schemed. She had fitted herself to the life which

had befallen her. But in regard to money, she had been honest and she

had been loving of heart. With her heart of hearts she had loved this

young 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 journey

would this be which she must now make back to her own country, all

alone!

But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of

disappointed love. Full as had been the vials of wrath which she had

poured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm

of abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after all

something counterfeited in her indignation. But her love was no

counterfeit. At any moment if he would have returned to her and

taken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have

blessed him also for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart of

violence and rough living and unfeminine words. When driven by wrongs

the old habit came back upon her. But if she could only escape the

wrongs, if she could find some niche in the world which would be

bearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour

forth all the genuine kindness of her woman's nature,--then, she

thought she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl.

When she first met this Englishman and found that he took delight in

being near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last

be open to her. But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol

shot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as she had

often told herself before, that it would have been better for her to

have turned the muzzle against her own bosom.

After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told

herself was a vain chance. Though angry enough when that letter first

reached 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 old

haunts. The whole world must be changed to him. She knew enough of

herself, and enough of Englishwomen, to be sure that when her past

life should be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in

England. With all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in

speaking of the old country there was ever mixed, as is so often

the case in the minds of American men and women, an almost envious

admiration of English excellence. To have been allowed to forget the

past and to live the life of an English lady would have been heaven

to her. But she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in

the eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become almost a

proverb for violence out in the far West,--how could she dare to hope

that her lot should be so changed for her?

She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often before

she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that that

hesitation 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 alter

them. Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lost

herself 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 man

had relatives, had business, had property in her own country. Though

she could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous life

be opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of that

journey to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinary

kind might detain him there for years. With what joy would she have

accompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have been

fit.

She was conscious,--perhaps too conscious, of her own beauty. That at

any rate, she felt, had not deserted her. She was hardly aware that

time was touching it. And she knew herself to be clever, capable of

causing happiness, and mirth and comfort. She had the qualities of

a good comrade--which are so much in a woman. She knew all this of

herself. If he and she could be together in some country in which

those stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, could

she not make him happy? But what was she that a man should give up

everything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarous

country for her alone? She knew it all and was hardly angry with

him in that he had decided against her. But treated as she had been

she must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. It was

consonant with her old character, it was consonant with her present

plans that she should at any rate seem to be angry.

Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but the

plan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind was

the writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her

fondest love, and telling him that he was right. She did write the

letter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not have the

strength to send it to him. The reader may judge with what feeling

she 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 it

twice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that she

ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not

bring herself to do so. It was early in the morning before she went

to bed but she had admitted no one into the room after Montague had

left her.

Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the

sea-shore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyance

to take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning. At breakfast

he presented himself to the squire. "I have come earlier than you

expected," 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 must

suffer the effects of your own imprudence." On that evening Paul

Montague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he

would thus avoid a meeting with Mrs. Hurtle in the railway-carriage.