Mrs. Hurtle

Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and Montague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door,-- at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for Mrs Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and then Mrs Hurtle entered the room. Mrs Hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry. 'Paul,' she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, 'Paul, say that that letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgive everything.'