The Way We Live Now (65 page)

‘Well – rather. How often before I consented?'

‘It matters little; at any rate, till you did consent. I have since satisfied myself that such a marriage would be miserable for both of us.'

‘You have.'

‘I have. Of course, you can speak of me as you please and think of me as you please. I can hardly defend myself.'

‘Hardly, I think.'

‘But, with whatever result, I know that I shall now be acting for the best in declaring that I will not become – your husband.'

‘You will not?' She was still standing, and stretched out her right hand as though again to grasp something.

He also now rose from his chair. ‘If I speak with abruptness it is only to avoid a show of indecision. I will not.'

‘Oh, God! what have I done that it should be my lot to meet man after man false and cruel as this! You tell me to my face that I am to bear it! Who is the jade that has done it? Has she money? – or rank? Or is it that you are afraid to have by your side a woman who can speak for herself – and even act for herself if some action be necessary? Perhaps you think that I am – old.' He was looking at her intently as she spoke, and it did seem to him that many years had been added to her face. It was full of lines round the mouth, and the light play of drollery was gone, and the colour was fixed — and her eyes seemed to be deep in her head. ‘Speak man – is it that you want a younger wife?'

‘You know it is not.'

‘Know! How should any one know anything from a liar? From what you tell me I know nothing. I have to gather what I can from your character. I see that you are a coward. It is that man that came to you, and who is your master, that has forced you to this. Between me and him you tremble, and are a thing to be pitied. As for knowing what you would be at, from anything that you would say – that is impossible. Once again I have come across a mean wretch. Oh, fool! – that men should be so vile, and think themselves masters of the world! My last word to you is, that you are – a liar. Now for the present you can go.
Ten minutes since had I had a weapon in my hand I should have shot another man.'

Paul Montague, as he looked round the room for his hat, could not but think that perhaps Mr Hurtle might have had some excuse. It seemed at any rate to be her custom to have a pistol with her – though luckily, for his comfort, she had left it in her bedroom on the present occasion. ‘I will say good-bye to you,' he said, when he had found his hat.

‘Say no such thing. Tell me that you have triumphed and got rid of me, pluck up your spirits, if you have any, and show me your joy. Tell me that an Englishman has dared to ill-treat an American woman. You would – were you not afraid to indulge yourself.' He was now standing in the doorway, and before he escaped she gave him an imperative command. ‘I shall not stay here now,' she said – ‘I shall return on Monday. I must think of what you have said, and must resolve what I myself will do. I shall not bear this without seeking a means of punishing you for your treachery. I shall expect you to come to me on Monday.'

He closed the door as he answered her. ‘I do not see that it will serve any purpose.'

‘It is for me, sir, to judge of that. I suppose you are not so much a coward that you are afraid to come to me. If so, I shall come to you; and you may be assured that I shall not be too timid to show myself and to tell my story.' He ended by saying that if she desired it he would wait upon her, but that he would not at present fix a day. On his return to town he would write to her.

When he was gone she went to the door and listened a while. Then she closed it, and turning the lock, stood with her back against the door and with her hands clasped. After a few moments she ran forward, and falling on her knees, buried her face in her hands upon the table. Then she gave way to a flood of tears, and at last lay rolling upon the floor.

Was this to be the end of it? Should she never know rest – never have one draught of cold water between her lips? Was there to be no end to the storms and turmoils and misery of her life? In almost all that she had said she had spoken the truth, though doubtless not all the truth – as which among us would in giving the story of his life? She had endured violence, and had been violent. She had been schemed against, and had schemed. She had fitted herself to the life which had befallen her. But in regard to money, she had been honest, and she had been loving of heart. With her heart of hearts she had loved this young Englishman – and
now, after all her scheming, all her daring, with all her charms, this was to be the end of it! Oh, what a journey would this be which she must now make back to her own country, all alone!

But the strongest feeling which raged within her bosom was that of disappointed love. Full as had been the vials of wrath which she had poured forth over Montague's head, violent as had been the storm of abuse with which she had assailed him, there had been after all something counterfeited in her indignation. But her love was no counterfeit. At any moment if he would have returned to her and taken her in his arms, she would not only have forgiven him but have blessed him also for his kindness. She was in truth sick at heart of violence and rough living and unfeminine words. When driven by wrongs the old habit came back upon her. But if she could only escape the wrongs, if she could find some niche in the world which would be bearable to her, in which, free from harsh treatment, she could pour forth all the genuine kindness of her woman's nature – then, she thought, she could put away violence and be gentle as a young girl. When she first met this Englishman and found that he took delight in being near her, she had ventured to hope that a haven would at last be open to her. But the reek of the gunpowder from that first pistol shot still clung to her, and she now told herself again, as she had often told herself before, that it would have been better for her to have turned the muzzle against her own bosom.

After receiving his letter she had run over on what she had told herself was a vain chance. Though angry enough when that letter first reached her, she had, with that force of character which marked her, declared to herself that such a resolution on his part was natural. In marrying her he must give up all his old allies, all his old haunts. The whole world must be changed to him. She knew enough of herself, and enough of English women, to be sure that when her past life should be known, as it would be known, she would be avoided in England. With all the little ridicule she was wont to exercise in speaking of the old country, there was ever mixed, as is so often the case in the minds of American men and women, an almost envious admiration of English excellence. To have been allowed to forget the past and to live the life of an English lady would have been heaven to her. But she, who was sometimes scorned and sometimes feared in the eastern cities of her own country, whose name had become almost a proverb for violence in the far West – how could she dare to hope that her lot should be so changed for her?

She had reminded Paul that she had required to be asked often before
she had consented to be his wife; but she did not tell him that that hesitation had arisen from her own conviction of her own unfitness. But it had been so. Circumstances had made her what she was. Circumstances had been cruel to her. But she could not now alter them. Then gradually, as she came to believe in his love, as she lost herself in love for him, she told herself that she would be changed. She had, however, almost known that it could not be so. But this man had relatives, had business, had property in her own country. Though she could not be made happy in England, might not a prosperous life be opened for him in the far West? Then had risen the offer of that journey to Mexico with much probability that work of no ordinary kind might detain him there for years. With what joy would she have accompanied him as his wife! For that at any rate she would have been fit.

She was conscious – perhaps too conscious – of her own beauty. That at any rate, she felt, had not deserted her. She was hardly aware that time was touching it. And she knew herself to be clever, capable of causing happiness, and mirth, and comfort. She had the qualities of a good comrade – which are so much in a woman. She knew all this of herself. If he and she could be together in some country in which those stories of her past life would be matter of indifference, could she not make him happy? But what was she that a man should give up everything and go away and spend his days in some half-barbarous country for her alone? She knew it all, and was hardly angry with him in that he had decided against her. But treated as she had been, she must play her game with such weapons as she possessed. It was consonant with her old character, it was consonant with her present plans, that she should at any rate seem to be angry.

Sitting there alone late into the night she made many plans, but the plan that seemed best to suit the present frame of her mind, was the writing of a letter to Paul bidding him adieu, sending him her fondest love, and telling him that he was right. She did write the letter, but wrote it with a conviction that she would not have the strength to send it to him. The reader may judge with what feeling she wrote the following words: –

‘DEAR PAUL
–

‘You are right and I am wrong. Our marriage would not have been fitting. I do not blame you. I attracted you when we were together; but you have learned, and have learned truly, that you should not
give up your life for such attractions. If I have been violent with you, forgive me. You will acknowledge that I have suffered.

‘Always know that there is one woman who will love you better than any one else. I think too that you will love me even when some other woman is by your side. God bless you, and make you happy. Write me the shortest, shortest word of adieu. Not to do so would make you think yourself heartless. But do not come to me.

‘For ever,

‘W. H.
'

This she wrote on a small slip of paper, and then having read it twice, she put it into her pocket-book. She told herself that she ought to send it; but told herself as plainly that she could not bring herself to do so. It was early in the morning before she went to bed, but she had admitted no one into the room after Montague had left her.

Paul, when he escaped from her presence, roamed out on to the seashore, and then took himself to bed, having ordered a conveyance to take him to Carbury Manor early in the morning. At breakfast he presented himself to the squire. ‘I have come earlier than you expected,' he said.

‘Yes, indeed – much earlier. Are you going back to Lowestoffe?'

Then he told the whole story. Roger expressed his satisfaction, recalling however the pledge which he had given as to his return. ‘Let her follow you, and bear it,' he said. ‘Of course you must suffer the effects of your own imprudence.' On that evening Paul Montague returned to London by the mail train, being sure that he would thus avoid a meeting with Mrs Hurtle in the railway carriage.

Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the music-hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. But when reflection came with the morning her misery was stronger than her wrath. What would life be to her now without her lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly had not intended
to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, and the hard life, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight. A dance with Felix at the music-hall, though it were three days distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash and dress all the children without complaint. Mrs Pipkin was forced to own to herself that Ruby did earn her bread. But when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different with her. And perhaps she had been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not of course like to be told about marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he would speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And so she wrote him a letter.

Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him. She underscored the expression of her regret if she had vexed him. She did not want to hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the music-hall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the music-hall on the Tuesday. As at this time he proposed to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles.

Mrs Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. It is certainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall send and receive letters without inspection. But since Roger Carbury's visit Mrs Pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing in a broken perambulator, nearly as far as Holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups and saucers as though her mind was intent upon them. But Mrs Pipkin's mind was intent on obeying Mr Carbury's behests. She had already hinted something as to which Ruby had made no answer. It was her purpose to tell her and to swear to her most solemnly – should she find her preparing herself to leave the house after six in the evening – that she should be kept out the whole night, having a purpose equally clear in her own mind that she would break her oath should she be unsuccessful in her effort to keep Ruby at home. But on the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, a bright idea as to a better precaution struck Mrs Pipkin's mind. Ruby had been careless – had left her lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out with the children, and Mrs Pipkin knew all about it. It was nine o'clock when Ruby went up-stairs – and then
Mrs Pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs Hurtle had come home on the previous day. ‘You won't be wanting to go out to-night – will you, Mrs Hurtle?' said Mrs Pipkin, knocking at her lodger's door. Mrs Hurtle declared her purpose of remaining at home all the evening. ‘If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am.'