The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XCVII.

  MRS. HURTLE'S FATE.

  Mrs. Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs. Pipkin andJohn Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down toBungay and grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from anylove for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire towitness a phase of English life, as from an irresistible tendernesstowards Paul Montague. She not only longed to see him once again, butshe could with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in whichhe was living. There was no hope for her. She was sure of that. Shehad consented to relinquish him. She had condoned his treachery toher,--and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had takenher place. But still she lingered near him. And then, though, in allher very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met,she never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a returnto her own country. In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhatstupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with therough tempests of her past days. Mrs. Pipkin, she thought, was lessintellectual than any American woman she had ever known; and she wasquite sure that no human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapableof two concurrent ideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in theUnited States;--but, nevertheless, she liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almostloved John Crumb. How different would her life have been could shehave met a man who would have been as true to her as John Crumb wasto his Ruby!

  She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herselffor loving him. How weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable toseize glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruplesand prejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness ofapprehension and readiness of action! But yet she loved him for hisvery faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in hisEnglish 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 andhad broken his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everythingblank before her by his treachery! But then she also had not beenquite true with him. She had not at first meant to deceive;--nor hadhe. They had played a game against each other; and he, with all theinferiority of his intellect to weigh him down, had won,--because hewas a man. She had much time for thinking, and she thought much aboutthese things. He could change his love as often as he pleased, and beas good a lover at the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by hisdefection. He could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seekhis honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets ofwhich she had been rifled. She was not quite sure that such mourningwould not be more bitter to her in California than in Mrs. Pipkin'ssolitary lodgings at Islington.

  "So he was Mr. Montague's partner,--was he now?" asked Mrs. Pipkin aday or two after their return from the Crumb marriage. For Mr. Fiskerhad called on Mrs. Hurtle, and Mrs. Hurtle had told Mrs. Pipkin somuch. "To my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr. Montague." Mrs.Pipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner shemight be anxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that itmight 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 saidthis was very far gone in tenderness.

  "Indeed now!" said Mrs. Pipkin, who did not in the least understandthe meaning of her friend's last remark.

  "Mr. Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I hadnot 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, youknow."

  "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 mostladylike,--most ladylike! You seem to me, Mrs. Hurtle, just as thoughyou had the bank in your pocket." All this the poor woman said, movedby her sorrow to speak the absolute truth.

  "Mr. Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine. But I hearthat he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might aswell join the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefercompany just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the firstof September." As this was said about the middle of August therewas still some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs. Pipkin. A fortnightgained was something; and as Mr. Fisker had come to England onbusiness, and as business is always uncertain, there might possiblybe further delay. Then Mrs. Hurtle made a further communication toMrs. Pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had herhand on the door, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs. Hurtle haddesired to say. "By-the-bye, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague tocall to-morrow at eleven. Just show him up when he comes." She hadfeared that unless some such instructions were given, there might bea little scene at the door when the gentleman came.

  "Mr. Montague;--oh! Of course, Mrs. Hurtle,--of course. I'll see toit myself." Then Mrs. Pipkin went away abashed,--feeling that she hadmade 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 morethan her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usualcare, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk,nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour asthough she expected no special visitor. Of course she did not writea word of the task which she had prescribed to herself. Of courseshe was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herselfabsolute 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 hadseen the girl, and had in some fashion approved of her. Her curiosityhad been satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. Shehad no plan arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did sheat this moment attempt to make a plan. She could tell him that shewas about to return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did notknow that she had anything else to say. Then came the knock at thedoor. Her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great effortto be tranquil. She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the doorwas opened and Mr. Montague was announced by Mrs. Pipkin herself.Mrs. Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude toher lodger, did not once look in through the door, nor did she pausea moment to listen at the keyhole. "I thought you would come and seeme once again before I went," said Mrs. Hurtle, not rising from hersofa, but putting out her hand to greet him. "Sit there opposite, sothat we can look at one another. I hope it has not been a trouble toyou."

  "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 knowthat."

  "I know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrelas to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has sheforgiven your sins?"

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

  "Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tellher 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 wassufficient 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 donot want to tell you fibs at our last meeting. I said nothing goodof you. What could I say of good? But I told her what was quite asserviceable to you as though I had sung your virtues by the hourwithout ceasing. I explained to her how very badly you had behavedto me. I let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you hadthrown me to the winds."

  "It was not so, my friend."

  "What did that matter? One does not scruple a lie for a friend, youknow! I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies.I could not ma
ke her understand during one short and rather agonizinginterview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of yourlove for me by English propriety even before you had seen herbeautiful eyes. There was no reason why I should tell her all mydisgrace,--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 unwillinglyyou had spared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble I had beento you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!"

  "Winifrid, that is untrue."

  "That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime. Mr. RogerCarbury, 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 thathe is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind withthe flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of ourhaving lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful factthat we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that hadbecome 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 onlymeans of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel andhow heartless you had been to me. I did explain how the return offriendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harderthan Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr. Carbury on the sands.Perhaps I went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had beenarranged 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 conducthad been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. Do I not deserve somethanks for what I did? Surely you would not have had me tell her thatyour conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. Iconfessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as awoman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failedto avenge herself. I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrateand hopeless she would be triumphant and contented. I told her onyour behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariotwheels. 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 Imake. Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushedbones? Daggers, indeed! Do you not suppose that in thinking of youI have often thought of daggers? Why have I not thrust one intoyour heart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny,spiritless English girl?" All this time she was still seated, lookingat him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow."But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, notbecause they will hurt you, but because I know I may take thatcomfort, such as it is, without hurting you. You are uneasy for amoment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinkingthat you cannot answer me. But you will go from me to her, and thenwill you not be happy? When you are sitting with your arm round herwaist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory ofmy words interfere with your joy then? Ask yourself whether the prickwill last longer than the moment. But where am I to go for happinessand joy? Can you understand what it is to have to live only onretrospects?"

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

  "You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all thatyou have said since I have been in England. I never expect comfortagain. But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end. I will tell you allthat I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justifyyour treatment of me. He is not dead."

  "You mean Mr. Hurtle."

  "Whom else should I mean? And he himself says that the divorce whichwas declared between us was no divorce. Mr. Fisker came here to mewith tidings. Though he is not a man whom I specially love,--though Iknow that he has been my enemy with you,--I shall return with him toSan Francisco."

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

  "So I understand. They are adventurers,--as I am, and I do not seewhy 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'sattentions to the young lady. But it will suit me to have some one towhom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California. Imay have a job of work to do there which will require the backing ofsome friends. I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before Ihave 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 beingkind, but I have never had much kindness myself. Did I not conqueryou, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? Ah, how kind I was tothat poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, Iused to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of thingsthat should be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that shouldsmell 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 knownthat it could not be so. I did not dare quite to tell you all thetruth. 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 goodof putting it off?" Then she rose from her chair and stood before himwith 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 theywho do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evilcursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myselfnow not to wish that you would return to me. If you would come Ishould care nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at leastnothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Lookhere;--will you have this back?" As she asked this she took from outher bosom a small miniature portrait of himself which he had givenher 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. Nothingon earth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry anotherman,--as I may do,--he must take me and this together. While I liveit shall be next my heart. As you know, I have but little respect forthe proprieties of life. I do not see why I am to abandon the pictureof the man I love because he becomes the husband of another woman.Having once said that I love you I shall not contradict myselfbecause you have deserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do loveyou,--oh, with my very heart of hearts." So speaking she threwherself into his arms and covered his face with kisses. "For onemoment 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 itwas an agony he would soon forget. But to be told by a woman of herlove,--without being able even to promise love in return,--to be sotold while you are in the very act of acknowledging your love foranother woman,--carries with it but little of the joy of triumph. Hedid not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thoughtmight be his fate; but he would have preferred the continuance ofmoderate resentment to this flood of tenderness. Of course he stoodwith 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 howchill they were. "There," she said, smiling through her bittertears,--"there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shallever be laid upon you again. If I have annoyed you, at this our lastmeeting, you must forgive me."

  "No;--but you cut me to the heart."

  "That we can hardly help;--can we? When two persons have made foolsof 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 thefirst of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr.Fisker, and I shall remain here till then because my presence isconvenient to Mrs. Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to meagai
n. 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, whileshe smiled and gently nodded her head at him. Then he essayed to pullher towards him as though he would again kiss her. But she repulsedhim, still smiling the while. "No, sir; no; not again; never again,never,--never,--never again." By that time she had recovered her handand stood apart from him. "Good-bye, Paul;--and now go." Then heturned round and left the room without uttering a word.

  She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his stepdown the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. Thenhiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtainshe watched him as he went along the street. When he had turned thecorner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a momentwith her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell proneupon the floor. She had spoken the very truth when she said that shehad 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 moregracious to the poor woman than ever. When the obsequious but stillcurious landlady asked some question about Mr. Montague, Mrs. Hurtleseemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover,--and tospeak without any great pain. They had put their heads together, shesaid, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. Each ofthem 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 andbread-and-butter. During the whole of the next fortnight she seemedto take a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs. Pipkin and herfamily. She gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed uponMrs. Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then Mr. Fisker cameand took her away with him to America; and Mrs. Pipkin was left,--adesolate but grateful woman.

  "They do tell bad things about them Americans," she said to a friendin the street, "and I don't pretend to know. But for a lodger, I onlywish 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 eatingpudding just as if they was her own."

  I think Mrs. Pipkin was right, and that Mrs. Hurtle, with all herfaults, was a good-natured woman.