The Way We Live Now Part 66

Paul Montague did not like it. The punishment to be endured was being commenced. "Of course you can say bitter things," he replied.

"Is it my nature to say bitter things? Have I usually said bitter things to you? When I have hung round your neck and have sworn that you should be my G.o.d upon earth, was that bitter? I am alone and I have to fight my own battles. A woman's weapon is her tongue. Say but one word to me, Paul, as you know how to say it, and there will be soon an end to that bitterness. What shall I care for Mr. Carbury, except to make him the cause of some innocent joke, if you will speak but that one word? And think what it is I am asking. Do you remember how urgent were once your own prayers to me;--how you swore that your happiness could only be secured by one word of mine? Though I loved you, I doubted. There were considerations of money, which have now vanished. But I spoke it,--because I loved you, and because I believed you. Give me that which you swore you had given before I made my gift to you."

"I cannot say that word."

"Do you mean that, after all, I am to be thrown off like an old glove? I have had many dealings with men and have found them to be false, cruel, unworthy, and selfish. But I have met nothing like that. No man has ever dared to treat me like that. No man shall dare."

"I wrote to you."

"Wrote to me;--yes! And I was to take that as sufficient! No. I think but little of my life and have but little for which to live. But while I do live I will travel over the world's surface to face injustice and to expose it, before I will put up with it. You wrote to me! Heaven and earth;--I can hardly control myself when I hear such impudence!" She clenched her fist upon the knife that lay on the table as she looked at him, and raising it, dropped it again at a further distance. "Wrote to me! Could any mere letter of your writing break the bond by which we were bound together? Had not the distance between us seemed to have made you safe would you have dared to write that letter? The letter must be unwritten. It has already been contradicted by your conduct to me since I have been in this country."

"I am sorry to hear you say that."

"Am I not justified in saying it?"

"I hope not. When I first saw you I told you everything. If I have been wrong in attending to your wishes since, I regret it."

"This comes from your seeing your master for two minutes on the beach. You are acting now under his orders. No doubt he came with the purpose. Had you told him you were to be here?"

"His coming was an accident."

"It was very opportune at any rate. Well;--what have you to say to me? Or am I to understand that you suppose yourself to have said all that is required of you? Perhaps you would prefer that I should argue the matter out with your--friend, Mr. Carbury."

"What has to be said, I believe I can say myself."

"Say it then. Or are you so ashamed of it that the words stick in your throat?"

"There is some truth in that. I am ashamed of it. I must say that which will be painful, and which would not have been to be said, had I been fairly careful."

Then he paused. "Don't spare me," she said. "I know what it all is as well as though it were already told. I know the lies with which they have crammed you at San Francisco. You have heard that up in Oregon--I shot a man. That is no lie. I did. I brought him down dead at my feet." Then she paused, and rose from her chair, and looked at him. "Do you wonder that that is a story that a woman should hesitate to tell? But not from shame. Do you suppose that the sight of that dying wretch does not haunt me? that I do not daily hear his drunken screech, and see him bound from the earth, and then fall in a heap just below my hand? But did they tell you also that it was thus alone that I could save myself,--and that had I spared him, I must afterwards have destroyed myself? If I were wrong, why did they not try me for his murder? Why did the women flock around me and kiss the very hems of my garments? In this soft civilization of yours you know nothing of such necessity. A woman here is protected,--unless it be from lies."

"It was not that only," he whispered.

"No; they told you other things," she continued, still standing over him. "They told you of quarrels with my husband. I know the lies, and who made them, and why. Did I conceal from you the character of my former husband? Did I not tell you that he was a drunkard and a scoundrel? How should I not quarrel with such a one? Ah, Paul; you can hardly know what my life has been."

"They told me that--you fought him."

"Psha;--fought him! Yes;--I was always fighting him. What are you to do but to fight cruelty, and fight falsehood, and fight fraud and treachery,--when they come upon you and would overwhelm you but for fighting? You have not been fool enough to believe that fable about a duel? I did stand once, armed, and guarded my bedroom door from him, and told him that he should only enter it over my body. He went away to the tavern and I did not see him for a week afterwards. That was the duel. And they have told you that he is not dead."

"Yes;--they have told me that."

"Who has seen him alive? I never said to you that I had seen him dead. How should I?"

"There would be a certificate."

"Certificate;--in the back of Texas;--five hundred miles from Galveston! And what would it matter to you? I was divorced from him according to the law of the State of Kansas. Does not the law make a woman free here to marry again,--and why not with us? I sued for a divorce on the score of cruelty and drunkenness. He made no appearance, and the Court granted it me. Am I disgraced by that?"

"I heard nothing of the divorce."

"I do not remember. When we were talking of these old days before, you did not care how short I was in telling my story. You wanted to hear little or nothing then of Caradoc Hurtle. Now you have become more particular. I told you that he was dead,--as I believed myself, and do believe. Whether the other story was told or not I do not know."

"It was not told."

"Then it was your own fault,--because you would not listen. And they have made you believe I suppose that I have failed in getting back my property?"

"I have heard nothing about your property but what you yourself have said unasked. I have asked no question about your property."

"You are welcome. At last I have made it again my own. And now, sir, what else is there? I think I have been open with you. Is it because I protected myself from drunken violence that I am to be rejected? Am I to be cast aside because I saved my life while in the hands of a reprobate husband, and escaped from him by means provided by law;--or because by my own energy I have secured my own property? If I am not to be condemned for these things, then say why am I condemned."

She had at any rate saved him the trouble of telling the story, but in doing so had left him without a word to say. She had owned to shooting the man. Well; it certainly may be necessary that a woman should shoot a man--especially in Oregon. As to the duel with her husband,--she had half denied and half confessed it. He presumed that she had been armed with a pistol when she refused Mr. Hurtle admittance into the nuptial chamber. As to the question of Hurtle's death,--she had confessed that perhaps he was not dead. But then,--as she had asked,--why should not a divorce for the purpose in hand be considered as good as a death? He could not say that she had not washed herself clean;--and yet, from the story as told by herself, what man would wish to marry her? She had seen so much of drunkenness, had become so handy with pistols, and had done so much of a man's work, that any ordinary man might well hesitate before he a.s.sumed to be her master. "I do not condemn you," he replied.

"At any rate, Paul, do not lie," she answered. "If you tell me that you will not be my husband, you do condemn me. Is it not so?"

"I will not lie if I can help it. I did ask you to be my wife--"

"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, G.o.d! 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 Mrs. 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 punis.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sured 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 awhile. 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.