CHAPTER XXXVIII.
PAUL MONTAGUE'S TROUBLES.
Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble ofthe Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he hadtaken Mrs. Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgingsat Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day,when he was allowed to come and go without any special reference totheir engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when themeeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weepinghad stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, andhad dared him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he hadpromised to marry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she hadnow been in London, a repetition of that promise? And then again shebecame soft, and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might havegiven way. At that moment he had felt that any fate in life would bebetter than a marriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings,nevertheless, touched him very nearly. He had promised her mostdistinctly. He had loved her and had won her love. And she waslovely. The very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet.She would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible todrive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he couldnot but embrace her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tearsand she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but hedid know that he had promised to be with her again before two daysshould have passed.
On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, whichwas at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, toLiverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return.And he explained that the business on which he was called wasconnected with the great American railway, and, being important,demanded his attention. In words this was true. He had beencorresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had becomeacquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become apartner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man hetrusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, Mr. Ramsbottom by name,had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone,and his conduct at the Board had been the result of the advice whichhe had received; but it may be doubted whether some dread of thecoming interview with Mrs. Hurtle had not added strength to Mr.Ramsbottom's invitation.
In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though it canhardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The ladyafter landing from an American steamer had been at Mr. Ramsbottom'soffice, inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr. Ramsbottom had thoughtthat the inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. Hetherefore had spoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs. Hurtle, and thefellow-traveller had opined that Mrs. Hurtle was "a queer card." "Onboard ship we all gave it up to her that she was about the handsomestwoman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of thewild cat in her breeding." Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether thelady was a widow. "There was a man on board from Kansas," said thefellow-traveller, "who knew a man named Hurtle at Leavenworth, whowas separated from his wife and is still alive. There was, accordingto him, a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duelwith pistols, and then having separated." This Mr. Ramsbottom, who inan earlier stage of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs.Hurtle together, managed to communicate to the young man. His adviceabout the railway company was very clear and general, and such asan honest man would certainly give; but it might have been conveyedby letter. The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs. Hurtle,could only be given viva voce, and perhaps the invitation toLiverpool had originated in Mr. Ramsbottom's appreciation of thisfact. "As she was asking after you here, perhaps it is as well thatyou should know," his friend said to him. Paul had only thankedhim, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his owndifficulties.
In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had alsobeen some comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had beensubject to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to hisadherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off hisengagement. When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of hispromise and his former devotion to her; when she assured him thatshe had given up everything in life for him, and threw her armsround him, looking into his eyes;--then he would almost yield. Butwhen, what the traveller called the breeding of the wild cat, showeditself;--and when, having escaped from her, he thought of HettaCarbury and of her breeding,--he was fully determined that, let hisfate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband ofMrs. Hurtle. That he was in a mass of troubles from which it would bevery difficult for him to extricate himself he was well aware;--butif it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might helphim. She certainly had declared him to be,--not separated, or evendivorced,--but dead. And if it were true also that she had fought aduel with one husband, that also ought to be a reason why a gentlemanshould object to become her second husband. These facts would at anyrate justify himself to himself, and would enable himself to breakfrom his engagement without thinking himself to be a false traitor.
But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must bemade to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally onthe score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt verystrongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That hewould have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawingwhich might perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. Having donewhat he had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage.He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with herpast life, and that therefore he would not marry her. Of course hemight write to her;--but when summoned to her presence he would beunable to excuse himself, even to himself, for not going. It was hismisfortune,--and also his fault,--that he had submitted to be lovedby a wild cat.
But it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold ofinformation that might have the appearance of real evidence. Hereturned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday onwhich the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than hedid of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr. Melmotte. Ifhe could come across that traveller he might learn something. Thehusband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If Caradoc CarsonHurtle had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last twoyears, that certainly would be sufficient evidence. As to the duel hefelt that it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, itmight be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his partto withdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumour also, thoughnot corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she hadshot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story?If they were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself.
But this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After havinghad the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries asthese? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her inhis arms again while he was making them,--unless indeed he made themwith her knowledge. Was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everythingto herself? To speak to her thus;--"I am told that your life withyour last husband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that youeven fought a duel with him. I could not marry a woman who had foughta duel,--certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband.I am told also that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may wellbe that the gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is somethingin the deed so repulsive to me,--no doubt irrationally,--that, onthat score also, I must decline to marry you. I am told also thatMr. Hurtle has been seen alive quite lately. I had understood fromyou that he is dead. No doubt you may have been deceived. But as Ishould not have engaged myself to you had I known the truth, so nowI consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagementwhich was based on a misconception." It would no doubt be difficultto get through all these details; but it might be accomplishedgradually,--unless in the process of doing so he should incur thefate of the gentleman in Oregon. At any rate he would declare toher as well as he could the ground on which he claimed a right toconsider himself free, and would bear the consequences
. Such was theresolve which he made on his journey up from Liverpool, and thattrouble was also on his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmottesingle-handed at the Board.
When the Board was over, he also went down to the Beargarden.Perhaps, with reference to the Board, the feeling which hurt him mostwas the conviction that he was spending money which he would neverhave had to spend had there been no Board. He had been twitted withthis at the Board-meeting, and had justified himself by referring tothe money which had been invested in the Company of Fisker, Montague,and Montague, which money was now supposed to have been made overto the railway. But the money which he was spending had come tohim after a loose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for anaccount, he could hardly make out one which would be square andintelligible to all parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his timeat the Beargarden, dining there when no engagement carried himelsewhere. On this evening he joined his table with Nidderdale's,at the young lord's instigation. "What made you so savage at oldMelmotte to-day?" said the young lord.
"I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselvesDirectors we ought to know something about it."
"I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I'vebeen thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me aDirector."
"Because you're a lord," said Paul bluntly.
"I suppose there's something in that. But what good can I do them?Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm inParliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote.Everybody knows that I'm hard up. I can't understand it. The Governorsaid that I was to do it, and so I've done it."
"They say, you know,--there's something between you and Melmotte'sdaughter."
"But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? Andwhy should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should oldGrendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pick outthe two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would beold Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal aboutit, and I can't make it out."
"I have been thinking about it too," said Paul.
"I suppose old Melmotte is all right?" asked Nidderdale. This was aquestion which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he bejustified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be atany rate one of the competitors for Marie Melmotte's hand? "You canspeak out to me, you know," said Nidderdale, nodding his head.
"I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richestman alive."
"He lives as though he were."
"I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knowsvery much about him." When his companion had left him, Nidderdale satdown, thinking of it all. It occurred to him that he would "be cominga cropper rather," were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for hermoney, and then find that she had got none.
A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to thecard-room. "Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are therewaiting," he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troublesfor play. "Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that," saidNidderdale.
"Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me," said Montague.
"Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know thatas well as any body. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down inLeicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that'sa shame."
"You'll pay him some day."
"I suppose I shall,--if I don't die first. But I should have gone onwith the horses just the same if there had never been anything tocome;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'mconcerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got moneyor not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But thenI like to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty thingsabout poor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. Ifhe were to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a L10 note. But becausehe has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself. You'dbetter come up."
But Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left theclub, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till hefound himself in Welbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there,and certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury when he leftthe Beargarden. His mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle. As long as she waspresent in London,--as long at any rate as he was unable to tellhimself that he had finally broken away from her,--he knew himselfto be an unfit companion for Henrietta Carbury. And, indeed, hewas still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, not that hewould avoid Hetta's company, but that for a certain period, as yetunexpired, he would not ask her to be his wife. It had been a foolishpromise, made and then repented without much attention to words;--butstill it was existing, and Paul knew well that Roger trusted that itwould be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Streetand almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No;--Lady Carbury wasnot at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury. Up to thatmoment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader mayremember that he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carburywas at home, the page went on to say. Would Mr. Montague go up andsee Miss Carbury? Without much consideration Mr. Montague said thathe would go up and see Miss Carbury. "Mamma is out with Roger," saidHetta endeavouring to save herself from confusion. "There is a soireeof learned people somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. Theticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore I could notgo."
"I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met."
"Hardly since the Melmottes' ball," said Hetta.
"Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has broughtRoger up to town?"
"I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is amystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix.I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague."
"I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board."
"But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham,"--Paul could notkeep himself from blushing as he heard this,--"and that Felix shouldnot be there. And then there is something going on about that horridman's daughter."
"She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think."
"Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it isfor her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel withthem."
"What man, Miss Carbury?"
"Mr. Melmotte himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end."
"But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatestfriends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmotte he bolted himself into aninner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have donethat if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thoughtthat he had consented to the marriage."
"Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmotte."
"I know he has," said Paul.
"And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don'tyou think so, Mr. Montague?" Paul did think so, and was by no meansdisposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged tohim; but still he found the subject difficult. "Of course I willnever go against mamma," continued Hetta, "but I always feel that myCousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever hesaid one would never get wrong. I never found any one else that Ithought that of, but I do think it of him."
"No one has more reason to praise him than I have."
"I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him.And I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything hesays it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think.If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got itto spend; but other people are not like that."
"You're thinking of Melmotte."
"I'm thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague;--of everybody exceptRoger."
"Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seemeven to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friendthat any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do."
"I didn't s
ay he was the only person;--or I didn't mean to say so.But of all my friends--"
"Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?"
"Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are afriend,--because you are his friend."
"Look here, Hetta," he said. "It is no good going on like this. Ilove Roger Carbury,--as well as one man can love another. He is allthat you say,--and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, andhow he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round andevery inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. Ibelieve he does love his neighbour as himself."
"Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that."
"I love him better than any man,--as well as a man can love a man. Ifyou will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--Iwill leave England at once, and never return to it."
"There's mamma," said Henrietta;--for at that moment there was adouble knock at the door.
The Way We Live Now Page 40
