CHAPTER XXVII.
MRS. HURTLE GOES TO THE PLAY.
On the day after the visit just recorded, Paul Montague received thefollowing letter from Mrs. Hurtle:--
MY DEAR PAUL,--
I think that perhaps we hardly made ourselves understood to each other yesterday, and I am sure that you do not understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake. I need only refer you to our journey from San Francisco to London to make you conscious that I really love you. To a woman such love is all important. She cannot throw it from her as a man may do amidst the affairs of the world. Nor, if it has to be thrown from her, can she bear the loss as a man bears it. Her thoughts have dwelt on it with more constancy than his;--and then too her devotion has separated her from other things. My devotion to you has separated me from everything.
But I scorn to come to you as a suppliant. If you choose to say after hearing me that you will put me away from you because you have seen some one fairer than I am, whatever course I may take in my indignation, I shall not throw myself at your feet to tell you of my wrongs. I wish, however, that you should hear me. You say that there is some one you love better than you love me, but that you have not committed yourself to her. Alas, I know too much of the world to be surprised that a man's constancy should not stand out two years in the absence of his mistress. A man cannot wrap himself up and keep himself warm with an absent love as a woman does. But I think that some remembrance of the past must come back upon you now that you have seen me again. I think that you must have owned to yourself that you did love me, and that you could love me again. You sin against me to my utter destruction if you leave me. I have given up every friend I have to follow you. As regards the other--nameless lady, there can be no fault; for, as you tell me, she knows nothing of your passion.
You hinted that there were other reasons,--that we know too little of each other. You meant no doubt that you knew too little of me. Is it not the case that you were content when you knew only what was to be learned in those days of our sweet intimacy, but that you have been made discontented by stories told you by your partners at San Francisco? If this be so, trouble yourself at any rate to find out the truth before you allow yourself to treat a woman as you propose to treat me. I think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman you have loved,--like a soiled glove,--because ill-natured words have been spoken of her by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her life. My late husband, Caradoc Hurtle, was Attorney-General in the State of Kansas when I married him, I being then in possession of a considerable fortune left to me by my mother. There his life was infamously bad. He spent what money he could get of mine, and then left me and the State, and took himself to Texas;--where he drank himself to death. I did not follow him, and in his absence I was divorced from him in accordance with the laws of Kansas State. I then went to San Francisco about property of my mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold to a countryman of ours now resident in Paris,--having forged my name. There I met you, and in that short story I tell you all that there is to be told. It may be that you do not believe me now; but if so, are you not bound to go where you can verify your own doubts or my word?
I try to write dispassionately, but I am in truth overborne by passion. I also have heard in California rumours about myself, and after much delay I received your letter. I resolved to follow you to England as soon as circumstances would permit me. I have been forced to fight a battle about my property, and I have won it. I had two reasons for carrying this through by my personal efforts before I saw you. I had begun it and had determined that I would not be beaten by fraud. And I was also determined that I would not plead to you as a pauper. We have talked too freely together in past days of our mutual money matters for me to feel any delicacy in alluding to them. When a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife there should be no delicacy of that kind. When we came here together we were both embarrassed. We both had some property, but neither of us could enjoy it. Since that I have made my way through my difficulties. From what I have heard at San Francisco I suppose that you have done the same. I at any rate shall be perfectly contented if from this time our affairs can be made one.
And now about myself,--immediately. I have come here all alone. Since I last saw you in New York I have not had altogether a good time. I have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources and have been all alone. Very cruel things have been said of me. You heard cruel things said, but I presume them to have been said to you with reference to my late husband. Since that they have been said to others with reference to you. I have not now come, as my countrymen do generally, backed with a trunk full of introductions and with scores of friends ready to receive me. It was necessary to me that I should see you and hear my fate,--and here I am. I appeal to you to release me in some degree from the misery of my solitude. You know,--no one so well,--that my nature is social and that I am not given to be melancholy. Let us be cheerful together, as we once were, if it be only for a day. Let me see you as I used to see you, and let me be seen as I used to be seen.
Come to me and take me out with you, and let us dine together, and take me to one of your theatres. If you wish it I will promise you not to allude to that revelation you made to me just now, though of course it is nearer to my heart than any other matter. Perhaps some woman's vanity makes me think that if you would only see me again, and talk to me as you used to talk, you would think of me as you used to think.
You need not fear but you will find me at home. I have no whither to go,--and shall hardly stir from the house till you come to me. Send me a line, however, that I may have my hat on if you are minded to do as I ask you.
Yours with all my heart,
WINIFRID HURTLE.
This letter took her much time to write, though she was very carefulso to write as to make it seem that it had flown easily from her pen.She copied it from the first draught, but she copied it rapidly, withone or two premeditated erasures, so that it should look to havebeen done hurriedly. There had been much art in it. She had at anyrate suppressed any show of anger. In calling him to her she had sowritten as to make him feel that if he would come he need not fearthe claws of an offended lioness:--and yet she was angry as alioness who had lost her cub. She had almost ignored that other ladywhose name she had not yet heard. She had spoken of her lover'sentanglement with that other lady as a light thing which might easilybe put aside. She had said much of her own wrongs, but had not saidmuch of the wickedness of the wrong doer. Invited as she had invitedhim, surely he could not but come to her! And then, in her referenceto money, not descending to the details of dollars and cents, shehad studied how to make him feel that he might marry her withoutimprudence. As she read it over to herself she thought that therewas a tone through it of natural feminine uncautious eagerness. Sheput her letter up in an envelope, stuck a stamp on it and addressedit,--and then threw herself back in her chair to think of herposition.
He should marry her,--or there should be something done which shouldmake the name of Winifrid Hurtle known to the world! She had no planof revenge yet formed. She would not talk of revenge,--she toldherself that she would not even think of revenge,--till she wasquite sure that revenge would be necessary. But she did think of it,and could not keep her thoughts from it for a moment. Could it bepossible that she, with all her intellectual gifts as well as thoseof her outward person, should be thrown over by a man whom wellas she loved him,--and she did love him with all her heart,--sheregarded as greatly inferior to herself! He had promised to marryher; and he should marry her, or the world should hear the story ofhis perjury!
Paul Montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon ashe read the letter. That his heart was all the other way he was quitesure; but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape
from histroubles open to him. There was not a single word in this woman'sletter that he could contradict. He had loved her and had promisedto make her his wife,--and had determined to break his word to herbecause he found that she was enveloped in dangerous mystery. Hehad so resolved before he had ever seen Hetta Carbury, having beenmade to believe by Roger Carbury that a marriage with an unknownAmerican woman,--of whom he only did know that she was handsome andclever,--would be a step to ruin. The woman, as Roger said, was anadventuress,--might never have had a husband,--might at this momenthave two or three,--might be overwhelmed with debt,--might beanything bad, dangerous, and abominable. All that he had heard at SanFrancisco had substantiated Roger's views. "Any scrape is better thanthat scrape," Roger had said to him. Paul had believed his Mentor,and had believed with a double faith as soon as he had seen HettaCarbury.
But what should he do now? It was impossible, after what had passedbetween them, that he should leave Mrs. Hurtle at her lodgings atIslington without any notice. It was clear enough to him that shewould not consent to be so left. Then her present proposal,--thoughit seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical conditionof their present circumstances,--had in it some immediate comfort.To take her out and give her a dinner, and then go with her to sometheatre, would be easy and perhaps pleasant. It would be easier,and certainly much pleasanter, because she had pledged herself toabstain from talking of her grievances. Then he remembered some happyevenings, delicious hours, which he had so passed with her, when theywere first together at New York. There could be no better companionfor such a festival. She could talk,--and she could listen as well astalk. And she could sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the senseof her feminine charms by her simple proximity. He had been veryhappy when so placed. Had it been possible he would have escapedthe danger now, but the reminiscence of past delights in some sortreconciled him to the performance of this perilous duty.
But when the evening should be over, how would he part with her? Whenthe pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought herback to her door, what should he say to her then? He must make somearrangement as to a future meeting. He knew that he was in a greatperil, and he did not know how he might best escape it. He could notnow go to Roger Carbury for advice; for was not Roger Carbury hisrival? It would be for his friend's interest that he should marry thewidow. Roger Carbury, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allowhimself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling,but, still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything toRoger Carbury. He could not say all that he would have to say withoutspeaking of Hetta;--and of his love for Hetta he could not speak tohis rival.
He had no other friend in whom he could confide. There was no otherhuman being he could trust, unless it was Hetta herself. He thoughtfor a moment that he would write a stern and true letter to thewoman, telling her that as it was impossible that there should everbe marriage between them, he felt himself bound to abstain fromher society. But then he remembered her solitude, her picture ofherself in London without even an acquaintance except himself, and heconvinced himself that it would be impossible that he should leaveher without seeing her. So he wrote to her thus;--
DEAR WINIFRID,
I will come for you to-morrow at half-past five. We will dine together at the Thespian;--and then I will have a box at the Haymarket. The Thespian is a good sort of place, and lots of ladies dine there. You can dine in your bonnet.
Yours affectionately,
P. M.
Some half-formed idea ran through his brain that P. M. was a safersignature than Paul Montague. Then came a long train of thoughts asto the perils of the whole proceeding. She had told him that she hadannounced herself to the keeper of the lodging-house as engaged tohim, and he had in a manner authorised the statement by decliningto contradict it at once. And now, after that announcement, hewas assenting to her proposal that they should go out and amusethemselves together. Hitherto she had always seemed to him tobe open, candid, and free from intrigue. He had known her to beimpulsive, capricious, at times violent, but never deceitful. Perhapshe was unable to read correctly the inner character of a woman whoseexperience of the world had been much wider than his own. His mindmisgave him that it might be so; but still he thought that he knewthat she was not treacherous. And yet did not her present actsjustify him in thinking that she was carrying on a plot against him?The note, however, was sent, and he prepared for the evening of theplay, leaving the dangers of the occasion to adjust themselves. Heordered the dinner and he took the box, and at the hour fixed he wasagain at her lodgings.
The woman of the house with a smile showed him into Mrs. Hurtle'ssitting-room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intendedto welcome him as an accepted lover. It was a smile half ofcongratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself asa woman that another man had been caught by the leg and made fast.Who does not know the smile? What man, who has been caught and madesure, has not felt a certain dissatisfaction at being so treated,understanding that the smile is intended to convey to him a sense ofhis own captivity? It has, however, generally mattered but little tous. If we have felt that something of ridicule was intended, becausewe have been regarded as cocks with their spurs cut away, then wealso have a pride when we have declared to ourselves that upon thewhole we have gained more than we have lost. But with Paul Montagueat the present moment there was no satisfaction, no pride,--onlya feeling of danger which every hour became deeper, and stronger,with less chance of escape. He was almost tempted at this moment todetain the woman, and tell her the truth,--and bear the immediateconsequences. But there would be treason in doing so, and he wouldnot, could not do it.
He was left hardly a moment to think of this. Almost before the womanhad shut the door, Mrs. Hurtle came to him out of her bedroom, withher hat on her head. Nothing could be more simple than her dress, andnothing prettier. It was now June, and the weather was warm, and thelady wore a light gauzy black dress,--there is a fabric which themilliners I think call grenadine,--coming close up round her throat.It was very pretty, and she was prettier even than her dress. And shehad on a hat, black also, small and simple, but very pretty. Thereare times at which a man going to a theatre with a lady wishes her tobe bright in her apparel,--almost gorgeous; in which he will hardlybe contented unless her cloak be scarlet, and her dress white, andher gloves of some bright hue,--unless she wear roses or jewels inher hair. It is thus our girls go to the theatre now, when they gointending that all the world shall know who they are. But there aretimes again in which a man would prefer that his companion should bevery quiet in her dress,--but still pretty; in which he would choosethat she should dress herself for him only. All this Mrs. Hurtle hadunderstood accurately; and Paul Montague, who understood nothing ofit, was gratified. "You told me to have a hat, and here I am,--hatand all." She gave him her hand, and laughed, and looked pleasantlyat him, as though there was no cause of unhappiness between them. Thelodging-house woman saw them enter the cab, and muttered some littleword as they went off. Paul did not hear the word, but was sure thatit bore some indistinct reference to his expected marriage.
Neither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor during theperformance at the theatre, did she say a word in allusion to herengagement. It was with them, as in former days it had been at NewYork. She whispered pleasant words to him, touching his arm now andagain with her finger as she spoke, seeming ever better inclinedto listen than to speak. Now and again she referred, after someslightest fashion, to little circumstances that had occurred betweenthem, to some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight; butit was done as one man might do it to another,--if any man could havedone it so pleasantly. There was a scent which he had once approved,and now she bore it on her handkerchief. There was a ring which hehad once given her, and she wore it on the finger with which shetouched his sleeve. With his own hands he had once adjusted hercurls, and each curl was as he had placed it. She had a way ofshaking her head, that was very pretty,--a way t
hat might, one wouldthink, have been dangerous at her age, as likely to betray thosefirst grey hairs which will come to disturb the last days of youth.He had once told her in sport to be more careful. She now shook herhead again, and, as he smiled, she told him that she could still dareto be careless. There are a thousand little silly softnesses whichare pretty and endearing between acknowledged lovers, with whichno woman would like to dispense, to which even men who are in lovesubmit sometimes with delight; but which in other circumstances wouldbe vulgar,--and to the woman distasteful. There are closenesses andsweet approaches, smiles and nods and pleasant winkings, whispers,innuendoes and hints, little mutual admirations and assurances thatthere are things known to those two happy ones of which the worldbeyond is altogether ignorant. Much of this comes of nature, butsomething of it sometimes comes by art. Of such art as there maybe in it Mrs. Hurtle was a perfect master. No allusion was made totheir engagement,--not an unpleasant word was spoken; but the art waspractised with all its pleasant adjuncts. Paul was flattered to thetop of his bent; and, though the sword was hanging over his head,though he knew that the sword must fall,--must partly fall that verynight,--still he enjoyed it.
There are men who, of their natures, do not like women, even thoughthey may have wives and legions of daughters, and be surrounded bythings feminine in all the affairs of their lives. Others again havetheir strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and are rarelyaltogether happy when removed from their influence. Paul Montague wasof the latter sort. At this time he was thoroughly in love with HettaCarbury, and was not in love with Mrs. Hurtle. He would have givenmuch of his golden prospects in the American railway to have had Mrs.Hurtle reconveyed suddenly to San Francisco. And yet he had a delightin her presence. "The acting isn't very good," he said when the piecewas nearly over.
"What does it signify? What we enjoy or what we suffer depends uponthe humour. The acting is not first-rate, but I have listened andlaughed and cried, because I have been happy."
He was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening, andwas bound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint. "It hasbeen very jolly," he said.
"And one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it. I wonderwhether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lovertalked to another woman. What I find fault with is that the writersand actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them every day.It's all right that she should cry, but she shouldn't cry there." Theposition described was so nearly her own, that he could say nothingto this. She had so spoken on purpose,--fighting her own battle afterher own fashion, knowing well that her words would confuse him. "Awoman hides such tears. She may be found crying because she is unableto hide them;--but she does not willingly let the other woman seethem. Does she?"
"I suppose not."
"Medea did not weep when she was introduced to Creusa."
"Women are not all Medeas," he replied.
"There's a dash of the savage princess about most of them. I am quiteready if you like. I never want to see the curtain fall. And I havehad no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to throw on to the stage. Areyou going to see me home?"
"Certainly."
"You need not. I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by myself." Butof course he accompanied her to Islington. He owed her at any rate asmuch as that. She continued to talk during the whole journey. What awonderful place London was,--so immense, but so dirty! New York ofcourse was not so big, but was, she thought, pleasanter. But Pariswas the gem of gems among towns. She did not like Frenchmen, and sheliked Englishmen even better than Americans; but she fancied that shecould never like English women. "I do so hate all kinds of buckram. Ilike good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced downone's throat; but I hate what your women call propriety. I supposewhat we have been doing to-night is very improper; but I am quitesure that it has not been in the least wicked."
"I don't think it has," said Paul Montague very tamely.
It is a long way from the Haymarket to Islington, but at last thecab reached the lodging-house door. "Yes, this is it," she said."Even about the houses there is an air of stiff-necked proprietywhich frightens me." She was getting out as she spoke, and he hadalready knocked at the door. "Come in for one moment," she saidas he paid the cabman. The woman the while was standing with thedoor in her hand. It was near midnight,--but, when people areengaged, hours do not matter. The woman of the house, who wasrespectability herself,--a nice kind widow, with five children, namedPipkin,--understood that and smiled again as he followed the ladyinto the sitting-room. She had already taken off her hat and wasflinging it on to the sofa as he entered. "Shut the door for onemoment," she said; and he shut it. Then she threw herself into hisarms, not kissing him but looking up into his face. "Oh Paul," sheexclaimed, "my darling! Oh Paul, my love! I will not bear to beseparated from you. No, no;--never. I swear it, and you may believeme. There is nothing I cannot do for love of you,--but to lose you."Then she pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping herhands together. "But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you to-night.It was to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hardschool-time, and I will not destroy it at its close. You will see meagain soon,--will you not?" He nodded assent, then took her in hisarms and kissed her, and left her without a word.
The Way We Live Now Page 29