CHAPTER LXXVI.

HETTA AND HER LOVER.

Lady Carbury was at this time so miserable in regard to her son that

she found herself unable to be active as she would otherwise have

been in her endeavours to separate Paul Montague and her daughter.

Roger had come up to town and given his opinion, very freely at any

rate with regard to Sir Felix. But Roger had immediately returned to

Suffolk, and the poor mother in want of assistance and consolation

turned naturally to Mr. Broune, who came to see her for a few minutes

almost every evening. It had now become almost a part of Mr. Broune's

life to see Lady Carbury once in the day. She told him of the two

propositions which Roger had made: first, that she should fix her

residence in some second-rate French or German town, and that Sir

Felix should be made to go with her; and, secondly, that she should

take possession of Carbury manor for six months. "And where would Mr.

Carbury go?" asked Mr. Broune.

"He's so good that he doesn't care what he does with himself.

There's a cottage on the place, he says, that he would move to." Mr.

Broune shook his head. Mr. Broune did not think that an offer so

quixotically generous as this should be accepted. As to the German or

French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but

he doubted whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible

sacrifice demanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go

to the colonies. "That he might drink himself to death," said Lady

Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune. Sir Felix in the

mean time was still in the doctor's hands up-stairs. He had no doubt

been very severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much

ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the

present moment better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come

out of his room and to meet the world. "As to Melmotte," said Mr.

Broune, "they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will

ruin him and all who have trusted him."

"And the girl?"

"It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been

summoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud;--but

it was postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still

means to marry the girl. I don't think anybody knows the truth

about it. We shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know

something." The "we" of whom Mr. Broune spoke was, of course, the

"Morning Breakfast Table."

But in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however,

thought very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to

take some special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover,

written to her from Liverpool. They had never met since she had

confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once

answer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear what Roger

Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle. Roger Carbury had spoken,

leaving a conviction on her mind that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means

a fiction,--but indeed a fact very injurious to her happiness. Then

Paul's second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and

contentment,--with not a word in it which seemed to have been in the

slightest degree influenced by the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had

there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta

could have desired; and she could have answered it, unless forbidden

by her mother, with all a girl's usual enthusiastic affection for her

chosen lord. But it was impossible that she should now answer it in

that strain;--and it was equally impossible that she should leave

such letters unanswered. Roger had told her to "ask himself;" and

she now found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and

answer the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some

written account of Mrs. Hurtle,--so that she might know who the lady

was, and whether the lady's condition did in any way interfere with

her own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, as follows:--

Welbeck Street,

16th July, 18--.

MY DEAR PAUL.

She found that after that which had passed between them she could not

call him "My dear Sir," or "My dear Mr. Montague," and that it must

either be "Sir" or "My dear Paul." He was dear to her,--very dear;

and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any conduct

bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had there been no

Mrs. Hurtle he would have been her "Dearest Paul,"--but she made her

choice, and so commenced.

MY DEAR PAUL,

A strange report has come round to me about a lady called

Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady

living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife.

I cannot believe this. It is too horrid to be true. But

I fear,--I fear there is something true that will be very

very sad for me to hear. It was from my brother I first

heard it,--who was of course bound to tell me anything he

knew. I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin

Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all;--but he will not tell

me. He said,--"Ask himself." And so I ask you. Of course I

can write about nothing else till I have heard about this.

I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very

unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had

better write. I have told mamma about this letter.

Then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration

which must naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she

subscribed herself,

Your affectionate friend,

HENRIETTA CARBURY.

"Most affectionately your own Hetta" would have been the form in

which she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever

written to him.

Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the

Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware

that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of

Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep back--almost nothing. But it had

been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he

had pleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who is

intelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible

for him then to have commenced the story of Mrs. Hurtle and to have

told it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a

second or a third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated

by letter. When Paul was called away to Liverpool he did consider

whether he should write the story. But there are many reasons strong

against such written communications. A man may desire that the woman

he loves should hear the record of his folly,--so that, in after

days, there may be nothing to be detected; so that, should the Mrs.

Hurtle of his life at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may

with a clear brow and undaunted heart say to his beloved one,--"Ah,

this is the trouble of which I spoke to you." And then he and his

beloved one will be in one cause together. But he hardly wishes to

supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And then

who does not know how much tenderness a man may show to his own

faults by the tone of his voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by

an admixture of words of love for the lady who has filled up the

vacant space once occupied by the Mrs. Hurtle of his romance? But the

written record must go through from beginning to end, self-accusing,

thoroughly perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under

the half-expressed truth. The soft falsehoods which would be sweet as

the scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand in danger

of being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in a letter. I

think therefore that Paul Montague did quite right in hurrying up to

London.

He asked for Miss Carbury, and when told that Miss Henrietta was with

her mother, he sent his name up and said that he would wait in the

dining-room. He had thoroughly made up his mind to this course. They

should know that he had come at once; but he would not, if it could

be helped, make his statement in the presence of Lady Carbury. Then,

up-stairs, there was a little discussion. Hetta pleaded her right to

see him alone. She had done what Roger had advised, and had done it

with her mother's consent. Her mother might be sure that she would

not again accept her lover till this story of Mrs. Hurtle had been

sifted to the very bottom. But she must herself hear what her lover

had to say for himself. Felix was at the time in the drawing-room

and suggested that he should go down and see Paul Montague on his

sister's behalf;--but his mother looked at him with scorn, and his

sister quietly said that she would rather see Mr. Montague herself.

Felix had been so cowed by circumstances that he did not say another

word, and Hetta left the room alone.

When she entered the parlour Paul stept forward to take her in his

arms. That was a matter of course. She knew it would be so, and she

had prepared herself for it. "Paul," she said, "let me hear about all

this--first." She sat down at some distance from him,--and he found

himself compelled to seat himself at some little distance from her.

"And so you have heard of Mrs. Hurtle," he said, with a faint attempt

at a smile.

"Yes;--Felix told me, and Roger evidently had heard about her."

"Oh yes; Roger Carbury has heard about her from the beginning;--knows

the whole history almost as well as I know it myself. I don't think

your brother is as well informed."

"Perhaps not. But--isn't it a story that--concerns me?"

"Certainly it so far concerns you, Hetta, that you ought to know it.

And I trust you will believe that it was my intention to tell it

you."

"I will believe anything that you will tell me."

"If so, I don't think that you will quarrel with me when you know

all. I was engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle."

"Is she a widow?"--He did not answer this at once. "I suppose she

must be a widow if you were going to marry her."

"Yes;--she is a widow. She was divorced."

"Oh, Paul! And she is an American?"

"Yes."

"And you loved her?"

Montague was desirous of telling his own story, and did not wish to

be interrogated. "If you will allow me I will tell it you all from

beginning to end."

"Oh, certainly. But I suppose you loved her. If you meant to marry

her you must have loved her." There was a frown upon Hetta's brow and

a tone of anger in her voice which made Paul uneasy.

"Yes;--I loved her once; but I will tell you all." Then he did

tell his story, with a repetition of which the reader need not be

detained. Hetta listened with fair attention,--not interrupting very

often, though when she did interrupt, the little words which she

spoke were bitter enough. But she heard the story of the long journey

across the American continent, of the ocean journey before the end of

which Paul had promised to make this woman his wife. "Had she been

divorced then?" asked Hetta,--"because I believe they get themselves

divorced just when they like." Simple as the question was he could

not answer it. "I could only know what she told me," he said, as he

went on with his story. Then Mrs. Hurtle had gone on to Paris, and

he, as soon as he reached Carbury, had revealed everything to Roger.

"Did you give her up then?" demanded Hetta with stern severity.

No,--not then. He had gone back to San Francisco, and,--he had not

intended to say that the engagement had been renewed, but he was

forced to acknowledge that it had not been broken off. Then he had

written to her on his second return to England,--and then she had

appeared in London at Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings in Islington. "I can

hardly tell you how terrible that was to me," he said, "for I had by

that time become quite aware that my happiness must depend upon you."

He tried the gentle, soft falsehoods that should have been as sweet

as violets. Perhaps they were sweet. It is odd how stern a girl can

be, while her heart is almost breaking with love. Hetta was very

stern.

"But Felix says you took her to Lowestoft,--quite the other day."

Montague had intended to tell all,--almost all. There was a something

about the journey to Lowestoft which it would be impossible to make

Hetta understand, and he thought that that might be omitted. "It was

on account of her health."

"Oh;--on account of her health. And did you go to the play with her?"

"I did."

"Was that for her--health?"

"Oh, Hetta, do not speak to me like that! Cannot you understand that

when she came here, following me, I could not desert her?"

"I cannot understand why you deserted her at all," said Hetta. "You

say you loved her, and you promised to marry her. It seems horrid to

me to marry a divorced woman,--a woman who just says that she was

divorced. But that is because I don't understand American ways. And I

am sure you must have loved her when you took her to the theatre, and

down to Lowestoft,--for her health. That was only a week ago."

"It was nearly three weeks," said Paul in despair.

"Oh;--nearly three weeks! That is not such a very long time for a

gentleman to change his mind on such a matter. You were engaged to

her, not three weeks ago."

"No, Hetta, I was not engaged to her then."

"I suppose she thought you were when she went to Lowestoft with you."

"She wanted then to force me to--to--to--. Oh, Hetta, it is so hard

to explain, but I am sure that you understand. I do know that you do

not, cannot think that I have, even for one moment, been false to

you."

"But why should you be false to her? Why should I step in and crush

all her hopes? I can understand that Roger should think badly of her

because she was--divorced. Of course he would. But an engagement is

an engagement. You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle and tell her

that you are quite ready to keep your promise."

[Illustration: "You had better go back to Mrs. Hurtle."]

"She knows now that it is all over."

"I dare say you will be able to persuade her to reconsider it. When

she came all the way here from San Francisco after you, and when she

asked you to take her to the theatre, and to Lowestoft--because of

her health, she must be very much attached to you. And she is waiting

here,--no doubt on purpose for you. She is a very old friend,--very

old,--and you ought not to treat her unkindly. Good bye, Mr.

Montague. I think you had better lose no time in going--back to Mrs.

Hurtle." All this she said with sundry little impedimentary gurgles

in her throat, but without a tear and without any sign of tenderness.

"You don't mean to tell me, Hetta, that you are going to quarrel with

me!"

"I don't know about quarrelling. I don't wish to quarrel with any

one. But of course we can't be friends when you have married--Mrs.

Hurtle."

"Nothing on earth would induce me to marry her."

"Of course I cannot say anything about that. When they told me this

story I did not believe them. No; I hardly believed Roger when,--he

would not tell it for he was too kind,--but when he would not

contradict it. It seemed to be almost impossible that you should

have come to me just at the very same moment. For, after all, Mr.

Montague, nearly three weeks is a very short time. That trip to

Lowestoft couldn't have been much above a week before you came to

me."

"What does it matter?"

"Oh no; of course not;--nothing to you. I think I will go away now,

Mr. Montague. It was very good of you to come and tell me all. It

makes it so much easier."

"Do you mean to say that--you are going to--throw me over?"

"I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle over. Good bye."

"Hetta!"

"No; I will not have you lay your hand upon me. Good night, Mr.

Montague." And so she left him.

Paul Montague was beside himself with dismay as he left the house. He

had never allowed himself for a moment to believe that this affair

of Mrs. Hurtle would really separate him from Hetta Carbury. If she

could only really know it all, there could be no such result. He

had been true to her from the first moment in which he had seen her,

never swerving from his love. It was to be supposed that he had loved

some woman before; but, as the world goes, that would not, could

not, affect her. But her anger was founded on the presence of Mrs.

Hurtle in London,--which he would have given half his possessions to

have prevented. But when she did come, was he to have refused to see

her? Would Hetta have wished him to be cold and cruel like that? No

doubt he had behaved badly to Mrs. Hurtle;--but that trouble he had

overcome. And now Hetta was quarrelling with him, though he certainly

had never behaved badly to her.

He was almost angry with Hetta as he walked home. Everything that he

could do he had done for her. For her sake he had quarrelled with

Roger Carbury. For her sake,--in order that he might be effectually

free from Mrs. Hurtle,--he had determined to endure the spring of the

wild cat. For her sake,--so he told himself,--he had been content

to abide by that odious railway company, in order that he might if

possible preserve an income on which to support her. And now she

told him that they must part,--and that only because he had not been

cruelly indifferent to the unfortunate woman who had followed him

from America. There was no logic in it, no reason,--and, as he

thought, very little heart. "I don't want you to throw Mrs. Hurtle

over," she had said. Why should Mrs. Hurtle be anything to her?

Surely she might have left Mrs. Hurtle to fight her own battles.

But they were all against him. Roger Carbury, Lady Carbury, and Sir

Felix; and the end of it would be that she would be forced into

marriage with a man almost old enough to be her father! She could not

ever really have loved him. That was the truth. She must be incapable

of such love as was his own for her. True love always forgives.

And here there was really so very little to forgive! Such were his

thoughts as he went to bed that night. But he probably omitted to

ask himself whether he would have forgiven her very readily had he

found that she had been living "nearly three weeks ago" in close

intercourse with another lover of whom he had hitherto never even

heard the name. But then,--as all the world knows,--there is a wide

difference between young men and young women!

Hetta, as soon as she had dismissed her lover, went up at once to

her own room. Thither she was soon followed by her mother, whose

anxious ear had heard the closing of the front door. "Well; what

has he said?" asked Lady Carbury. Hetta was in tears,--or very

nigh to tears,--struggling to repress them, and struggling almost

successfully. "You have found that what we told you about that woman

was all true."

"Enough of it was true," said Hetta, who, angry as she was with

her lover, was not on that account less angry with her mother for

disturbing her bliss.

"What do you mean by that, Hetta? Had you not better speak to me

openly?"

"I say, mamma, that enough was true. I do not know how to speak more

openly. I need not go into all the miserable story of the woman. He

is like other men, I suppose. He has entangled himself with some

abominable creature and then when he is tired of her thinks that he

has nothing to do but to say so,--and to begin with somebody else."

"Roger Carbury is very different."

"Oh, mamma, you will make me ill if you go on like that. It seems to

me that you do not understand in the least."

"I say he is not like that."

"Not in the least. Of course I know that he is not in the least like

that."

"I say that he can be trusted."

"Of course he can be trusted. Who doubts it?"

"And that if you would give yourself to him, there would be no cause

for any alarm."

"Mamma," said Hetta jumping up, "how can you talk to me in that way?

As soon as one man doesn't suit, I am to give myself to another! Oh,

mamma, how can you propose it? Nothing on earth will ever induce me

to be more to Roger Carbury than I am now."

"You have told Mr. Montague that he is not to come here again?"

"I don't know what I told him, but he knows very well what I mean."

"That it is all over?" Hetta made no reply. "Hetta, I have a right to

ask that, and I have a right to expect a reply. I do not say that you

have hitherto behaved badly about Mr. Montague."

"I have not behaved badly. I have told you everything. I have done

nothing that I am ashamed of."

"But we have now found out that he has behaved very badly. He has

come here to you,--with unexampled treachery to your cousin Roger--"

"I deny that," exclaimed Hetta.

"And at the very time was almost living with this woman who says that

she is divorced from her husband in America! Have you told him that

you will see him no more?"

"He understood that."

"If you have not told him so plainly, I must tell him."

"Mamma, you need not trouble yourself. I have told him very plainly."

Then Lady Carbury expressed herself satisfied for the moment, and

left her daughter to her solitude.