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<h3>CHAPTER LI. Which Shall It Be?</h3>
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<br/>
<br/>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?
<br/>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.
<br/>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.
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<blockquote>
<i>
Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873.<br/>
<br/>
MY DEAR MRS HURTLE,—<br/>
<br/>
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</i> [to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in
Oregon] <i>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.<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
Your most sincere friend,<br/>
<br/>
PAUL MONTAGUE.<br/>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br/>
<br/>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.
<br/>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:—
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<blockquote>
<i>
PAUL MONTAGUE,—<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
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.<br/>
<br/>
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 so
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.<br/>
<br/>
I have now told you as exactly as I
can the condition of my mind.<br/>
<br/>
WINIFRED HURTLE.<br/>
</i>
</blockquote>
<br/>
<br/>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:—
<br/>"Yes. Come.<br/>
W. H."
<br/>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.
<br/>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.
<br/>"So you have come," she said, without rising from her chair.
<br/>"Of course I came, when you desired it."
<br/>"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.
<br/>"I did think so certainly. What more can I say?"
<br/>"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."
<br/>"I came because I promised."
<br/>"But you did not promise to speak;—did you?"
<br/>"What would you have me say?"
<br/>"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.
<br/>"You might indeed," he replied, not well knowing what to say.
<br/>"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?"
<br/>"I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions."
<br/>"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?"
<br/>"It said, I suppose, all you had to say."
<br/>"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.
<br/>"I am glad you did not send that," he said.
<br/>"I meant it."
<br/>"But you have changed your mind?"
<br/>"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be
unreasonable? Speak out and tell me."
<br/>"I am thinking of you, not of myself."
<br/>"Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the
usage to which I have been subjected does not justify?"
<br/>"You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not
think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip."
<br/>"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.
<br/>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."
<br/>"It hurts me more than the other," he replied.
<br/>"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?"
<br/>"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind."
<br/>"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?"
<br/>"No; indeed no."
<br/>"I hope not,—I hope not that. Well, there;—go. You
shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle." She took the
sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore
it into scraps.
<br/>"And am I to keep the other?" he asked.
<br/>"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.
<br/>"Good-bye, my friend," he said.
<br/>"Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and
let there be no other word spoken." And so he went.
<br/>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.
<br/>"Lord 'a mercy," said Mrs Pipkin, holding up both her hands.
<br/>"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."
<br/>"And why not?—and he such a nice young man,—and quiet too."
<br/>"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."
<br/>"I'm well sure of that, Mrs Hurtle."
<br/>"And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all."
<br/>"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.
<br/>"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back
not together. And there's an end of it."
<br/>"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."
<br/>"There's an end of it, Mrs Pipkin. If you please, we won't
say anything more about it."
<br/>"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!
<br/>"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.
<br/>
<br/>
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