CHAPTER XCVII.

MRS. HURTLE'S FATE.

Mrs. Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs. Pipkin and

John Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to

Bungay and grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any

love for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to

witness a phase of English life, as from an irresistible tenderness

towards Paul Montague. She not only longed to see him once again, but

she could with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which

he was living. There was no hope for her. She was sure of that. She

had consented to relinquish him. She had condoned his treachery to

her,--and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken

her place. But still she lingered near him. And then, though, in all

her very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met,

she never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a return

to her own country. In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat

stupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the

rough tempests of her past days. Mrs. Pipkin, she thought, was less

intellectual than any American woman she had ever known; and she was

quite sure that no human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable

of two concurrent ideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in the

United States;--but, nevertheless, she liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almost

loved John Crumb. How different would her life have been could she

have met a man who would have been as true to her as John Crumb was

to his Ruby!

She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herself

for loving him. How weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable to

seize glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples

and prejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of

apprehension and readiness of action! But yet she loved him for his

very faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in his

English manners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land.

The man had been false to her,--false as hell; had sworn to her and

had broken his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything

blank before her by his treachery! But then she also had not been

quite true with him. She had not at first meant to deceive;--nor had

he. They had played a game against each other; and he, with all the

inferiority of his intellect to weigh him down, had won,--because he

was a man. She had much time for thinking, and she thought much about

these things. He could change his love as often as he pleased, and be

as good a lover at the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by his

defection. He could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek

his honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets of

which she had been rifled. She was not quite sure that such mourning

would not be more bitter to her in California than in Mrs. Pipkin's

solitary lodgings at Islington.

"So he was Mr. Montague's partner,--was he now?" asked Mrs. Pipkin a

day or two after their return from the Crumb marriage. For Mr. Fisker

had called on Mrs. Hurtle, and Mrs. Hurtle had told Mrs. Pipkin so

much. "To my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr. Montague." Mrs.

Pipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she

might be anxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that it

might be well to praise an American at the expense of an Englishman.

"There's no accounting for tastes, Mrs. Pipkin."

"And that's true, too, Mrs. Hurtle."

"Mr. Montague is a gentleman."

"I always did say that of him, Mrs. Hurtle."

"And Mr. Fisker is--an American citizen." Mrs. Hurtle when she said

this was very far gone in tenderness.

"Indeed now!" said Mrs. Pipkin, who did not in the least understand

the meaning of her friend's last remark.

"Mr. Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had

not heard before, and has offered to take me back with him." Mrs.

Pipkin's apron was immediately at her eyes. "I must go some day, you

know."

"I suppose you must. I couldn't hope as you'd stay here always.

I wish I could. I never shall forget the comfort it's been.

There hasn't been a week without everything settled; and most

ladylike,--most ladylike! You seem to me, Mrs. Hurtle, just as though

you had the bank in your pocket." All this the poor woman said, moved

by her sorrow to speak the absolute truth.

"Mr. Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine. But I hear

that he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as

well join the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefer

company just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the first

of September." As this was said about the middle of August there

was still some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs. Pipkin. A fortnight

gained was something; and as Mr. Fisker had come to England on

business, and as business is always uncertain, there might possibly

be further delay. Then Mrs. Hurtle made a further communication to

Mrs. Pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her

hand on the door, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs. Hurtle had

desired to say. "By-the-bye, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague to

call to-morrow at eleven. Just show him up when he comes." She had

feared that unless some such instructions were given, there might be

a little scene at the door when the gentleman came.

"Mr. Montague;--oh! Of course, Mrs. Hurtle,--of course. I'll see to

it myself." Then Mrs. Pipkin went away abashed,--feeling that she had

made a great mistake in preferring any other man to Mr. Montague, if,

after all, recent difficulties were to be adjusted.

On the following morning Mrs. Hurtle dressed herself with almost more

than her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usual

care, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk,

nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour as

though she expected no special visitor. Of course she did not write

a word of the task which she had prescribed to herself. Of course

she was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself

absolute quiescence.

She almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him.

She had forgiven him, and what more was there to be said? She had

seen the girl, and had in some fashion approved of her. Her curiosity

had been satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. She

had no plan arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she

at this moment attempt to make a plan. She could tell him that she

was about to return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not

know that she had anything else to say. Then came the knock at the

door. Her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great effort

to be tranquil. She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door

was opened and Mr. Montague was announced by Mrs. Pipkin herself.

Mrs. Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to

her lodger, did not once look in through the door, nor did she pause

a moment to listen at the keyhole. "I thought you would come and see

me once again before I went," said Mrs. Hurtle, not rising from her

sofa, but putting out her hand to greet him. "Sit there opposite, so

that we can look at one another. I hope it has not been a trouble to

you."

"Of course I came when you left word for me to do so."

"I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own."

"I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me. You know

that."

"I know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrel

as to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has she

forgiven your sins?"

"We are friends,--if you mean that."

"Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tell

her that somebody had maligned you. It mattered not much who it was.

She was ready to believe any one who would say a good word for you.

Perhaps I wasn't just the person to do it, but I believe even I was

sufficient to serve the turn."

"Did you say a good word for me?"

"Well; no;" replied Mrs. Hurtle. "I will not boast that I did. I do

not want to tell you fibs at our last meeting. I said nothing good

of you. What could I say of good? But I told her what was quite as

serviceable to you as though I had sung your virtues by the hour

without ceasing. I explained to her how very badly you had behaved

to me. I let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you had

thrown me to the winds."

"It was not so, my friend."

"What did that matter? One does not scruple a lie for a friend, you

know! I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies.

I could not make her understand during one short and rather agonizing

interview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your

love for me by English propriety even before you had seen her

beautiful eyes. There was no reason why I should tell her all my

disgrace,--anxious as I was to be of service. Besides, as I put it,

she was sure to be better pleased. But I did tell her how unwillingly

you had spared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble I had been

to you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!"

"Winifrid, that is untrue."

"That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime. Mr. Roger

Carbury, who I own is poison to me--"

"You do not know him."

"Knowing him or not I choose to have my own opinion, sir. I say that

he is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind with

the flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of our

having lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful fact

that we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that had

become the one stumbling block on your path to happiness."

"He never said a word to her of our being there."

"Who did then? But what matters? She knew it;--and, as the only

means of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel and

how heartless you had been to me. I did explain how the return of

friendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harder

than Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr. Carbury on the sands.

Perhaps I went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been

arranged as affording you the easiest means of escape from me."

"You do not believe that."

"You see I had your welfare to look after; and the baser your conduct

had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. Do I not deserve some

thanks for what I did? Surely you would not have had me tell her that

your conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. I

confessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as a

woman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed

to avenge herself. I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate

and hopeless she would be triumphant and contented. I told her on

your behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariot

wheels. And now you have not a word of thanks to give me!"

"Every word you say is a dagger."

"You know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as I

make. Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushed

bones? Daggers, indeed! Do you not suppose that in thinking of you

I have often thought of daggers? Why have I not thrust one into

your heart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny,

spiritless English girl?" All this time she was still seated, looking

at him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow.

"But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, not

because they will hurt you, but because I know I may take that

comfort, such as it is, without hurting you. You are uneasy for a

moment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinking

that you cannot answer me. But you will go from me to her, and then

will you not be happy? When you are sitting with your arm round her

waist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of

my words interfere with your joy then? Ask yourself whether the prick

will last longer than the moment. But where am I to go for happiness

and joy? Can you understand what it is to have to live only on

retrospects?"

"I wish I could say a word to comfort you."

"You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all that

you have said since I have been in England. I never expect comfort

again. But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end. I will tell you all

that I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justify

your treatment of me. He is not dead."

"You mean Mr. Hurtle."

"Whom else should I mean? And he himself says that the divorce which

was declared between us was no divorce. Mr. Fisker came here to me

with tidings. Though he is not a man whom I specially love,--though I

know that he has been my enemy with you,--I shall return with him to

San Francisco."

"I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte's

daughter."

"So I understand. They are adventurers,--as I am, and I do not see

why we should not suit each other."

"They say also that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte."

"Why should I object to that? I shall not be jealous of Mr. Fisker's

attentions to the young lady. But it will suit me to have some one to

whom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California. I

may have a job of work to do there which will require the backing of

some friends. I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before I

have travelled half across the ocean with them."

"I hope they will be kind to you," said Paul.

"No;--but I will be kind to them. I have conquered others by being

kind, but I have never had much kindness myself. Did I not conquer

you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? Ah, how kind I was to

that poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, I

used to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things

that should be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that should

smell of lavender instead of wild garlic. I would dream of fair,

feminine women,--of women who would be scared by seeing what I saw,

who would die rather than do what I did. And then I met you, Paul,

and I said that my dreams should come true. I ought to have known

that it could not be so. I did not dare quite to tell you all the

truth. I know I was wrong, and now the punishment has come upon me.

Well;--I suppose you had better say good-bye to me. What is the good

of putting it off?" Then she rose from her chair and stood before him

with her arms hanging listlessly by her side.

"God bless you, Winifrid!" he said, putting out his hand to her.

"But he won't. Why should he,--if we are right in supposing that they

who do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil

cursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myself

now not to wish that you would return to me. If you would come I

should care nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at least

nothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Look

here;--will you have this back?" As she asked this she took from out

her bosom a small miniature portrait of himself which he had given

her in New York, and held it towards him.

"If you wish it I will,--of course," he said.

"I would not part with it for all the gold in California. Nothing

on earth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry another

man,--as I may do,--he must take me and this together. While I live

it shall be next my heart. As you know, I have but little respect for

the proprieties of life. I do not see why I am to abandon the picture

of the man I love because he becomes the husband of another woman.

Having once said that I love you I shall not contradict myself

because you have deserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do love

you,--oh, with my very heart of hearts." So speaking she threw

herself into his arms and covered his face with kisses. "For one

moment you shall not banish me. For one short minute I will be here.

Oh, Paul, my love;--my love!"

All this to him was simply agony,--though as she had truly said it

was an agony he would soon forget. But to be told by a woman of her

love,--without being able even to promise love in return,--to be so

told while you are in the very act of acknowledging your love for

another woman,--carries with it but little of the joy of triumph. He

did not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought

might be his fate; but he would have preferred the continuance of

moderate resentment to this flood of tenderness. Of course he stood

with his arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses;

but he did it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how

chill they were. "There," she said, smiling through her bitter

tears,--"there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall

ever be laid upon you again. If I have annoyed you, at this our last

meeting, you must forgive me."

"No;--but you cut me to the heart."

"That we can hardly help;--can we? When two persons have made fools

of themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment.

Yours will never be heavy after I am gone. I do not start till the

first of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr.

Fisker, and I shall remain here till then because my presence is

convenient to Mrs. Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me

again. Indeed it will be better that you should not. Good-bye."

He took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, while

she smiled and gently nodded her head at him. Then he essayed to pull

her towards him as though he would again kiss her. But she repulsed

him, still smiling the while. "No, sir; no; not again; never again,

never,--never,--never again." By that time she had recovered her hand

and stood apart from him. "Good-bye, Paul;--and now go." Then he

turned round and left the room without uttering a word.

She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his step

down the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. Then

hiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtain

she watched him as he went along the street. When he had turned the

corner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a moment

with her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell prone

upon the floor. She had spoken the very truth when she said that she

had loved him with all her heart.

[Illlustration: Mrs. Hurtle at the window.]

But that evening she bade Mrs. Pipkin drink tea with her and was more

gracious to the poor woman than ever. When the obsequious but still

curious landlady asked some question about Mr. Montague, Mrs. Hurtle

seemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover,--and to

speak without any great pain. They had put their heads together, she

said, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. Each of

them preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part.

On that evening Mrs. Hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant,

having the children up into her room, and giving them jam and

bread-and-butter. During the whole of the next fortnight she seemed

to take a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs. Pipkin and her

family. She gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed upon

Mrs. Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then Mr. Fisker came

and took her away with him to America; and Mrs. Pipkin was left,--a

desolate but grateful woman.

"They do tell bad things about them Americans," she said to a friend

in the street, "and I don't pretend to know. But for a lodger, I only

wish Providence would send me another just like the one I have lost.

She had that good nature about her she liked to see the bairns eating

pudding just as if they was her own."

I think Mrs. Pipkin was right, and that Mrs. Hurtle, with all her

faults, was a good-natured woman.