CHAPTER LI.

WHICH SHALL IT BE?

Paul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on the

Monday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs. Hurtle. As

he sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished

that he had taken Melmotte's offer and gone to Mexico. He might at

any rate have endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then

have abandoned it if he found the whole thing false. In such case of

course he would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things

were, of what use to him was his love,--of what use to him or to her?

The kind of life of which he dreamed, such a life in England as was

that of Roger Carbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife

whom he loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach. Nobody was like

Roger Carbury! Would it not be well that he should go away, and, as

he went, write to Hetta and bid her marry the best man that ever

lived in the world?

But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had

repudiated the proposition and had quarrelled with Melmotte. It was

necessary that he should immediately take some further step in regard

to Mrs. Hurtle. Twice lately he had gone to Islington determined that

he would see that lady for the last time. Then he had taken her to

Lowestoft, and had been equally firm in his resolution that he would

there put an end to his present bonds. Now he had promised to go

again to Islington;--and was aware that if he failed to keep his

promise, she would come to him. In this way there would never be an

end to it.

He would certainly go again, as he had promised,--if she should still

require it; but he would first try what a letter would do,--a plain

unvarnished tale. Might it still be possible that a plain tale sent

by post should have sufficient efficacy? This was his plain tale as

he now told it.

Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873.

MY DEAR MRS. HURTLE,--

I promised that I would go to you again in Islington, and

so I will, if you still require it. But I think that such

a meeting can be of no service to either of us. What is to

be gained? I do not for a moment mean to justify my own

conduct. It is not to be justified. When I met you on our

journey hither from San Francisco, I was charmed with your

genius, your beauty, and your character. They are now what

I found them to be then. But circumstances have made our

lives and temperaments so far different, that I am certain

that, were we married, we should not make each other

happy. Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to

own that fault, and to take all the blame,--and the evil

consequences, let them be what they may,--

to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in Oregon,--

than to be married with the consciousness that even at

the very moment of the ceremony, such marriage will be

a matter of sorrow and repentance. As soon as my mind

was made up on this I wrote to you. I can not,--I dare

not,--blame you for the step you have since taken. But

I can only adhere to the resolution I then expressed.

The first day I saw you here in London you asked me

whether I was attached to another woman. I could answer

you only by the truth. But I should not of my own accord

have spoken to you of altered affections. It was after I

had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first

knew this girl. It was not because I had come to love her

that I broke it. I have no grounds whatever for hoping

that my love will lead to any results.

I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition

of my mind. If it were possible for me in any way to

compensate the injury I have done you,--or even to undergo

retribution for it,--I would do so. But what compensation

can be given, or what retribution can you exact? I think

that our further meeting can avail nothing. But if, after

this, you wish me to come again, I will come for the last

time,--because I have promised.

Your most sincere friend,

PAUL MONTAGUE.

Mrs. Hurtle, as she read this, was torn in two ways. All that Paul

had written was in accordance with the words written by herself on a

scrap of paper which she still kept in her own pocket. Those words,

fairly transcribed on a sheet of note-paper, would be the most

generous and the fittest answer she could give. And she longed to be

generous. She had all a woman's natural desire to sacrifice herself.

But the sacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have

been of another kind. Had she found him ruined and penniless she

would have delighted to share with him all that she possessed. Had

she found him a cripple, or blind, or miserably struck with some

disease, she would have stayed by him and have nursed him and given

him comfort. Even had he been disgraced she would have fled with him

to some far country and have pardoned all his faults. No sacrifice

would have been too much for her that would have been accompanied by

a feeling that he appreciated all that she was doing for him, and

that she was loved in return. But to sacrifice herself by going away

and never more being heard of, was too much for her! What woman can

endure such sacrifice as that? To give up not only her love, but her

wrath also;--that was too much for her! The idea of being tame was

terrible to her. Her life had not been very prosperous, but she was

what she was because she had dared to protect herself by her own

spirit. Now, at last, should she succumb and be trodden on like a

worm? Should she be weaker even than an English girl? Should she

allow him to have amused himself with her love, to have had "a good

time," and then to roam away like a bee, while she was so dreadfully

scorched, so mutilated and punished! Had not her whole life been

opposed to the theory of such passive endurance? She took out the

scrap of paper and read it; and, in spite of all, she felt that there

was a feminine softness in it that gratified her.

But no;--she could not send it. She could not even copy the words.

And so she gave play to all her strongest feelings on the other

side,--being in truth torn in two directions. Then she sat herself

down to her desk, and with rapid words, and flashing thoughts, wrote

as follows:--

PAUL MONTAGUE,--

I have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this

is the worst and most unpardonable,--and the most unmanly.

Surely there never was such a coward, never so false a

liar. The poor wretch that I destroyed was mad with liquor

and was only acting after his kind. Even Caradoc Hurtle

never premeditated such wrong as this. What;--you are to

bind yourself to me by the most solemn obligation that can

join a man and a woman together, and then tell me,--when

they have affected my whole life,--that they are to go for

nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? On

thinking over it, you find that an American wife would

not make you so comfortable as some English girl;--and

therefore it is all to go for nothing! I have no brother,

no man near me;--or you would not dare to do this. You can

not but be a coward.

You talk of compensation! Do you mean money? You do not

dare to say so, but you must mean it. It is an insult

the more. But as to retribution; yes. You shall suffer

retribution. I desire you to come to me,--according to

your promise,--and you will find me with a horsewhip in my

hand. I will whip you till I have not a breath in my body.

And then I will see what you will dare to do;--whether you

will drag me into a court of law for the assault.

Yes; come. You shall come. And now you know the welcome

you shall find. I will buy the whip while this is reaching

you, and you shall find that I know how to choose such a

weapon. I call upon you to come. But should you be afraid

and break your promise, I will come to you. I will make

London too hot to hold you;--and if I do not find you I

will go with my story to every friend you have.

I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of

my mind.

WINIFRID HURTLE.

Having written this she again read the short note, and again gave

way to violent tears. But on that day she sent no letter. On the

following morning she wrote a third, and sent that. This was the

third letter:--

Yes. Come.

W. H.

This letter duly reached Paul Montague at his lodgings. He started

immediately for Islington. He had now no desire to delay the meeting.

He had at any rate taught her that his gentleness towards her,

his going to the play with her, and drinking tea with her at Mrs.

Pipkin's, and his journey with her to the sea, were not to be taken

as evidence that he was gradually being conquered. He had declared

his purpose plainly enough at Lowestoft,--and plainly enough in his

last letter. She had told him down at the hotel, that had she by

chance have been armed at the moment, she would have shot him. She

could arm herself now if she pleased;--but his real fear had not lain

in that direction. The pang consisted in having to assure her that he

was resolved to do her wrong. The worst of that was now over.

The door was opened for him by Ruby, who by no means greeted him with

a happy countenance. It was the second morning after the night of her

imprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. At this

very moment her lover should have been in Liverpool, but he was, in

fact, abed in Welbeck Street. "Yes, sir; she's at home," said Ruby,

with a baby in her arms and a little child hanging on to her dress.

"Don't pull so, Sally. Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?"

Ruby had written to Sir Felix the very night of her imprisonment, but

had not as yet received any reply. Paul, whose mind was altogether

intent on his own troubles, declared that at present he knew nothing

about Sir Felix, and was then shown into Mrs. Hurtle's room.

[Illustration: The door was opened for him by Ruby.]

"So you have come," she said, without rising from her chair.

"Of course I came, when you desired it."

"I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you

much. Will you sit down there," she said, pointing to a seat at some

distance from herself. "So you think it would be best that you and I

should never see each other again?" She was very calm; but it seemed

to him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it

might be converted into violence. He thought that there was that in

her eye which seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.

"I did think so certainly. What more can I say?"

"Oh, nothing; clearly nothing." Her voice was very low. "Why should a

gentleman trouble himself to say any more,--than that he has changed

his mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's

life, or a woman's heart?" Then she paused. "And having come, in

consequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to

hold your peace."

"I came because I promised."

"But you did not promise to speak;--did you?"

"What would you have me say?"

"Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have

you say? Suppose you were to say, 'I am a gentleman, and a man of my

word, and I repent me of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you

might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I

should reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might

go after it;--that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not

want me?" As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half

lifted herself in her seat, stretching herself towards him.

"You might indeed," he replied, not well knowing what to say.

"But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you,

Paul,--still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you

to me by my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards

you,--none to that woman who is I suppose younger than I, and

gentler, and a maid." She still looked as though she expected a

reply, but there was nothing to be said in answer to this. "Now that

you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me,

as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world

for you. I have no home. Mrs. Pipkin's room here is more my home than

any other spot on the earth. I have all the world to choose from, but

no reason whatever for a choice. I have my property. What shall I do

with it, Paul? If I could die and be no more heard of, you should

be welcome to it." There was no answer possible to all this. The

questions were asked because there was no answer possible. "You might

at any rate advise me. Paul, you are in some degree responsible,--are

you not,--for my loneliness?"

"I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions."

"You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my future

life. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any

rate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke

of leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I

shall be desolate in this." Then she paused, and there was absolute

silence for a minute. "You thought my letter very short; did you

not?"

"It said, I suppose, all you had to say."

"No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter

I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to

choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier

written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had

many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may

see them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was

writing it, I was determined that that should go." Then she handed

him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.

"I am glad you did not send that," he said.

"I meant it."

"But you have changed your mind?"

"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak

out and tell me."

"I am thinking of you, not of myself."

"Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to

which I have been subjected does not justify?"

"You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that

under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip."

"It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse

themselves,--that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word,

I don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to

fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men.

But when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything

without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed

alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin?

What is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? Have you asked

yourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a

woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness,

shall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not

fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;--it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul,

had thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself

to my mind in a soft moment,--and then I wrote this other letter. You

may as well see them all." And so she handed him the scrap which had

been written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.

He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his

eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and

threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. "I have not sent it,

you know," she said. "I only show it you that you may see how my mind

has been at work."

"It hurts me more than the other," he replied.

"Nay, I would not hurt you,--not at this moment. Sometimes I feel

that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment,

so ungovernable my rage! Why,--why should I be such a victim? Why

should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before

you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?"

"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind."

"But it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me

at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in

San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man

should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon." But though she

spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his

hair, and looked into his face. "I wonder whether that other woman

loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better

go." She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. "Tell me one

thing. When you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?"

"No; indeed no."

"I hope not;--I hope not that. Well, there;--go. You shall be

troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." She took the sheet of paper

which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.

"And am I to keep the other?" he asked.

"No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That

also shall be destroyed." But she took it and restored it to her

pocket-book.

"Good-bye, my friend," he said.

"Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no

other word spoken." And so he went.

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and

begged Ruby to ask Mrs. Pipkin to come to her. "Mrs. Pipkin," she

said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; "everything is over

between me and Mr. Montague." She was standing upright in the middle

of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.

"Lord a' mercy," said Mrs. Pipkin, holding up both her hands.

"As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right

now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him."

"And why not?--and he such a nice young man,--and quiet too."

"As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about

that. But it is so. I was engaged to him."

"I'm well sure of that, Mrs. Hurtle."

"And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all."

"Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all." Mrs.

Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such

an interesting story.

"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back,--not

together. And there's an end of it."

"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage is to be,

and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault."

"There's an end of it, Mrs. Pipkin. If you please, we won't say

anything more about it."

"And are you going to leave, ma'am?" said Mrs. Pipkin, prepared to

have her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she

get such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle,--a lady who not only did

not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the

children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had

never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!

"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin." Then Mrs. Pipkin

gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it

almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger

another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.