CHAPTER XC.

HETTA'S SORROW.

When Hetta Carbury received that letter from her lover which was

given to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend

in any way to alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it over

half-a-dozen times, she could not bring herself to think it possible

that she could be reconciled to the man. It was not only that he had

sinned against her by giving his society to another woman to whom

he had at any rate been engaged not long since, at the very time at

which he was becoming engaged to her,--but also that he had done this

in such a manner as to make his offence known to all her friends.

Perhaps she had been too quick;--but there was the fact that with

her own consent she had acceded to her mother's demand that the man

should be rejected. The man had been rejected, and even Roger Carbury

knew that it was so. After this it was, she thought, impossible that

she should recall him. But they should all know that her heart was

unchanged. Roger Carbury should certainly know that, if he ever asked

her further question on the matter. She would never deny it; and

though she knew that the man had behaved badly,--having entangled

himself with a nasty American woman,--yet she would be true to him as

far as her own heart was concerned.

And now he told her that she had been most unjust to him. He said

that he could not understand her injustice. He did not fill his

letter with entreaties, but with reproaches. And certainly his

reproaches moved her more than any prayer would have done. It was too

late now to remedy the evil; but she was not quite sure within her

own bosom that she had not been unjust to him. The more she thought

of it the more puzzled her mind became. Had she quarrelled with him

because he had once been in love with Mrs. Hurtle, or because she had

grounds for regarding Mrs. Hurtle as her present rival? She hated

Mrs. Hurtle, and she was very angry with him in that he had ever been

on affectionate terms with a woman she hated;--but that had not been

the reason put forward by her for quarrelling with him. Perhaps it

was true that he, too, had of late loved Mrs. Hurtle hardly better

than she did herself. It might be that he had been indeed constrained

by hard circumstances to go with the woman to Lowestoft. Having so

gone with her, it was no doubt right that he should be rejected;--for

how can it be that a man who is engaged shall be allowed to travel

about the country with another woman to whom also he was engaged a

few months back? But still there might be hardship in it. To her, to

Hetta herself, the circumstances were very hard. She loved the man

with all her heart. She could look forward to no happiness in life

without him. But yet it must be so.

At the end of his letter he had told her to go to Mrs. Hurtle herself

if she wanted corroboration of the story as told by him. Of course

he had known when he wrote it that she could not and would not go to

Mrs. Hurtle. But when the letter had been in her possession three or

four days,--unanswered, for, as a matter of course, no answer to it

from herself was possible,--and had been read and re-read till she

knew every word of it by heart, she began to think that if she could

hear the story as it might be told by Mrs. Hurtle, a good deal that

was now dark might become light to her. As she continued to read the

letter, and to brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned

from her lover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger.

Paul had of course behaved badly, very badly,--but had it not been

for them she might have had an opportunity of forgiving him. They had

driven her on to the declaration of a purpose from which she could

now see no escape. There had been a plot against her, and she was a

victim. In the first dismay and agony occasioned by that awful story

of the American woman,--which had, at the moment, struck her with

a horror which was now becoming less and less every hour,--she had

fallen head foremost into the trap laid for her. She acknowledged to

herself that it was too late to recover her ground. She was, at any

rate, almost sure that it must be too late. But yet she was disposed

to do battle with her mother and her cousin in the matter--if

only with the object of showing that she would not submit her own

feelings to their control. She was savage to the point of rebellion

against all authority. Roger Carbury would of course think that

any communication between herself and Mrs. Hurtle must be most

improper,--altogether indelicate. Two or three days ago she thought

so herself. But the world was going so hard with her, that she

was beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety and

delicacy to the winds. This man whom she had once accepted, whom she

altogether loved, and who, in spite of all his faults, certainly

still loved her,--of that she was beginning to have no further

doubt,--accused her of dishonesty, and referred her to her rival for

a corroboration of his story. She would appeal to Mrs. Hurtle. The

woman was odious, abominable, a nasty intriguing American female. But

her lover desired that she should hear the woman's story; and she

would hear the story,--if the woman would tell it.

So resolving, she wrote as follows to Mrs. Hurtle, finding great

difficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neither

too little nor too much, and determined that she would be restrained

by no mock modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the truth about

herself. The letter at last was stiff and hard, but it sufficed for

its purpose.

MADAM,--

Mr. Paul Montague has referred me to you as to certain

circumstances which have taken place between him and you.

It is right that I should tell you that I was a short time

since engaged to marry him, but that I have found myself

obliged to break off that engagement in consequence of

what I have been told as to his acquaintance with you. I

make this proposition to you, not thinking that anything

you will say to me can change my mind, but because he has

asked me to do so, and has, at the same time, accused me

of injustice towards him. I do not wish to rest under

an accusation of injustice from one to whom I was once

warmly attached. If you will receive me, I will make it my

business to call any afternoon you may name.

Yours truly,

HENRIETTA CARBURY.

When the letter was written she was not only ashamed of it, but very

much afraid of it also. What if the American woman should put it in

a newspaper! She had heard that everything was put into newspapers

in America. What if this Mrs. Hurtle should send back to her some

horribly insolent answer;--or should send such answer to her mother,

instead of herself! And then, again, if the American woman consented

to receive her, would not the American woman, as a matter of course,

trample upon her with rough words? Once or twice she put the letter

aside, and almost determined that it should not be sent;--but at

last, with desperate fortitude, she took it out with her and posted

it herself. She told no word of it to any one. Her mother, she

thought, had been cruel to her, had disregarded her feelings, and

made her wretched for ever. She could not ask her mother for sympathy

in her present distress. There was no friend who would sympathise

with her. She must do everything alone.

Mrs. Hurtle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that she

would retire from the contest and own herself to have been worsted.

It is, I fear, impossible to describe adequately the various half

resolutions which she formed, and the changing phases of her mind

before she brought herself to this conclusion. And soon after she had

assured herself that this should be the conclusion,--after she had

told Paul Montague that it should be so,--there came back upon her at

times other half resolutions to a contrary effect. She had written

a letter to the man threatening desperate revenge, and had then

abstained from sending it, and had then shown it to the man,--not

intending to give it to him as a letter upon which he would have to

act, but only that she might ask him whether, had he received it, he

would have said that he had not deserved it. Then she had parted with

him, refusing either to hear or to say a word of farewell, and had

told Mrs. Pipkin that she was no longer engaged to be married. At

that moment everything was done that could be done. The game had been

played and the stakes lost,--and she had schooled herself into such

restraint as to have abandoned all idea of vengeance. But from time

to time there arose in her heart a feeling that such softness was

unworthy of her. Who had ever been soft to her? Who had spared her?

Had she not long since found out that she must fight with her very

nails and teeth for every inch of ground, if she did not mean to be

trodden into the dust? Had she not held her own among rough people

after a very rough fashion, and should she now simply retire that

she might weep in a corner like a love-sick schoolgirl? And she had

been so stoutly determined that she would at any rate avenge her own

wrongs, if she could not turn those wrongs into triumph! There were

moments in which she thought that she could still seize the man by

the throat, where all the world might see her, and dare him to deny

that he was false, perjured, and mean.

Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague,

written at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carbury and

Hetta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement

to Hetta Carbury, and implored her to substantiate the truth of his

own story. It was certainly marvellous to her that the man who had

so long been her own lover and who had parted with her after such a

fashion should write such a letter to her. But it had no tendency to

increase either her anger or her sorrow. Of course she had known that

it was so, and at certain times she had told herself that it was only

natural,--had almost told herself that it was right. She and this

young Englishman were not fit to be mated. He was to her thinking

a tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be

wild,--fitter for the woods than for polished cities. It had been one

of the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to be bound

by tenderness of feeling to this soft over-civilised man. The result

had been disastrous, as might have been expected. She was angry with

him,--almost to the extent of tearing him to pieces,--but she did not

become more angry because he wrote to her of her rival.

Her only present friend was Mrs. Pipkin, who treated her with the

greatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions about

the lost lover. "That letter was from Mr. Montague?" said Mrs. Pipkin

on the morning after it had been received.

"How can you know that?"

"I'm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters come

frequent."

"It was from him. And why not?"

"Oh dear no;--why not certainly? I wish he'd write every day of his

life, so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles

me so much as broken love. Why don't he come again himself, Mrs.

Hurtle?"

"It is not at all likely that he should come again. It is all over,

and there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on

Saturday week."

"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle!"

"I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came

over here for a certain purpose, and that has--gone by. Now I may

just go back again."

"I know he has ill-treated you. I know he has."

"I am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs. Pipkin."

"I should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mind

out free. I know it would me if I'd been served in that way."

"If I had anything to say at all after that fashion it would be to

the gentleman, and not to any other else. As it is I shall never

speak of it again to any one. You have been very kind to me, Mrs.

Pipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you."

"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, you can't understand what it is to me. It isn't

only my feelings. The likes of me can't stand by their feelings

only, as their betters do. I've never been above telling you what a

godsend you've been to me this summer;--have I? I've paid everything,

butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now you're

going away!" Then Mrs. Pipkin began to sob.

"I suppose I shall see Mr. Crumb before I go," said Mrs. Hurtle.

"She don't deserve it; do she? And even now she never says a word

about him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just being

better than Mrs. Buggins's children. That's all."

"She'll be all right when he has once got her home."

"And I shall be all alone by myself," said Mrs. Pipkin, with her

apron up to her eyes.

It was after this that Mrs. Hurtle received Hetta's letter. She had

as yet returned no answer to Paul Montague,--nor had she intended

to send any written answer. Were she to comply with his request she

could do so best by writing to the girl who was concerned rather than

to him. And though she wrote no such letter she thought of it,--of

the words she would use were she to write it, and of the tale which

she would have to tell. She sat for hours thinking of it, trying to

resolve whether she would tell the tale,--if she told it at all,--in

a manner to suit Paul's purpose, or so as to bring that purpose

utterly to shipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the

shipwreck were she so minded. She could certainly have her revenge

after that fashion. But it was a woman's fashion, and, as such,

did not recommend itself to Mrs. Hurtle's feelings. A pistol or a

horsewhip, a violent seizing by the neck, with sharp taunts and

bitter-ringing words, would have made the fitting revenge. If she

abandoned that she could do herself no good by telling a story of her

wrongs to another woman.

Then came Hetta's note, so stiff, so cold, so true,--so like the

letter of an Englishwoman, as Mrs. Hurtle said to herself. Mrs.

Hurtle smiled as she read the letter. "I make this proposition not

thinking that anything you can say to me can change my mind." Of

course the girl's mind would be changed. The girl's mind, indeed,

required no change. Mrs. Hurtle could see well enough that the girl's

heart was set upon the man. Nevertheless she did not doubt but

that she could tell the story after such a fashion as to make it

impossible that the girl should marry him,--if she chose to do so.

At first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all.

What was it to her? Let them fight their own lovers' battles out

after their own childish fashion. If the man meant at last to be

honest, there could be no doubt, Mrs. Hurtle thought, that the girl

would go to him. It would require no interference of hers. But after

a while she thought that she might as well see this English chit who

had superseded herself in the affections of the Englishman she had

condescended to love. And if it were the case that all revenge was to

be abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for all

the injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word

so as to smooth away the existing difficulties? Wild cat as she was,

kindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty. So she wrote

to Hetta making an appointment.

DEAR MISS CARBURY,--

If you could make it convenient to yourself to call here

either Thursday or Friday at any hour between two and

four, I shall be very happy to see you.

Yours sincerely,

WINIFRID HURTLE.