The notes of the “Marseillaise” were occasionally heard in the open streets. Republicanism of an advanced type was loudly advocated on numerous platforms and in open-air assemblies; active associations, such as the Land and Labour League, spread a knowledge of the wrongs of the poor and the tyranny of the ruling classes, far and wide over the country; men who were so crushed beneath the burden of ceaseless, brutal9 toil10, that they had forgotten to raise their eyes from the dull earth, now began to look eagerly around them, to read the signs of the times, and to rejoice that at length their voices would be heard as they clamoured for justice.
The war between France and Germany came to aid, with the impulse of a new excitement, the movement for justice and liberty. With hopes of the downfall of tyranny in France and of the establishment once more of a Republic, the thoughts of the poor in England were naturally turned in the same direction more strongly than ever. One of the ripest outcomes of the time was the London Patriotic11 Society, whose meetings at the tavern12 called the Hole-inthe-Wall, excited the attention of rich as well as poor, and for the suppression of which indirect efforts were before long made by the Government. Great was the excitement awakened13 among all these humble14, but not ignoble15, advocates of freedom when the news of the glorious 4th of September was read in London, when it was known that Paris, the suffering high-priestess of Liberty, had once again shaken off the degrading yoke16 of princes and proclaimed the rule of the people. That evening an extraordinary meeting was held by the club in Crown Street. Everyday business was for once thrown aside, and the members joined hands in mutual17 congratulation, in exalted19 enthusiasm. The speech of the evening was made by Arthur Golding, for William Noble saw that his friend was bursting with eagerness to pour forth20 his emotion in a flood of words, and purposely withheld21 his own eloquence22. After speaking of the event of the day, as it concerned France in particular, Arthur concluded with a glowing rhapsody, wherein was set forth the hopes he entertained for the future of their own country.
“Between England and France,” he said, “roll but some twenty miles of sea. But a few hours’ journey separates us from a country where the gates of the temple of Liberty have once more been thrown wide open, never, let us hope, to be closed again. Is it alone disinterested23 love for our fellow-creatures in France that makes us rejoice at their freedom? Let us hope that we duly feel the claims for a common humanity which links us to the oppressed in all quarters of the globe; but it would be vain to pretend that we had not some yet stronger reason for the delight this news has awakened in us. It means that we shall henceforth have before our eyes, and near at hand, an example of a great people ruled by its own voice alone, of a people that has known but too well all the terrific evils of monopolised authority, and is determined24 to banish25 them from its land for ever. This example will be of inestimable value, of incalculable aid to us in our struggle here in England. For now nearly a hundred years England has possessed26 such an example in the United States of America, but this has been of little effect. In the first place the vast sweep of the Atlantic lies between us and America, and though thousands of our fellow-workmen go forth thither27 yearly, as if to a land of promise, but few ever come to return and bring to us the good tidings. They settle for good and all in the States, exercising in a foreign land and under brighter skies the strength of mind and body which, had they stayed with us, would only have proved their curse. Secondly28, it was only by means of a war with England that America procured29 its freedom, and, though I trust that we here are far above such foolish prejudices, this may perhaps count as one reason why Englishmen have seldom sought for an incitement30 to progress in the example of the enfranchised31 country. But with France it is different. France is a name dear to the present generation of Englishmen. In the last war which called to arms the greatest nations of Europe, France fought by the side of England, and by her side helped to conquer. France is close to our shores, her cliffs can be seen across the strip of sea which divides us. Despite her misfortunes, brought upon her head by the cursed descendant of a cursed house, France always has been, and always will be, a leading state in Europe. Her example will be unspeakably precious in the sight of us strugglers for right.
“She will teach us that the ability to govern is not alone entrusted32 to those whom centuries of wanton luxury have rendered the slaves of selfishness and ignoble pride, to those whose brains have been warped33 and narrowed by the hereditary34 burden of a crown! She will teach us that the meanest beggar in the streets has as indefeasible a claim to justice and right as the pampered35 lord who flung him a curse instead of a coin! She will teach us that men are not beasts, that light, and air, and cleanliness, and raiment, and food are what every man has a claim to, and what is the duty of those whom the people choose to represent their voices to see that every man obtains! And she will teach us that the poor have brains and mental faculties36 as well as the rich, that from the ranks of the poor oft-times rise the geniuses of a nation, that consequently the development of the higher nature of the poor man’s child by a course of enlightened education is as much the duty of the State as the establishment and endowment of schools and colleges for the heirs to wealth.
“France has seized upon her liberty in the midst of cruel anguish37 and misery38. Whether we shall live to see England at the feet of a foreign enemy it is impossible to foresee, we can only stoutly39 hope not. But is such a position the only one in which a change of government is possible? Is it only by the oppression of foreign conquest that a nation is driven to despair, and so wins the courage to cast aside its tyrants40? The end of the last century saw a revolution in France which turned her rivers of water into rivers of blood, and darkened the face of Europe with the smoke of conflagration41. But surely we need not expect a revolution under any such circumstances as these. Is not our position one which will excite the laughter, if not the scorn of future eyes? Here are we working classes, numbering who can say how many times more than the rich who oppress us, stronger in arm, firmer in endurance, more earnest in aim. Is it not indeed worthy42 of scorn that, despite all this, we suffer from day to day and see no way out of our suffering? Suppose every working-man in England got up tomorrow morning, and, instead of going to his work, walked to the great square in the town where he lives and declared that he was sick to death of the life he led and would have things otherwise. You say that the army would be marched against us, and violence would naturally result. Yes, but are not the soldiers themselves working-men, men hired to the despicable toil of making themselves machines in order to be able to slaughter43 their fellow-men with skill? Why should these men be more afraid of striking, of throwing up their wages with the chance of bettering themselves than other labourers are! You can scarcely say that their wages are so excellent they cannot hope to earn more under other masters and at other and better work. Then what is to prevent these soldiers from joining us?
“Friends, the work for the future lies with such clubs as this of ours. Not content with helping44 to keep our fellows alive, we must teach them their power! We know that the lesson has already begun to be learnt, but we must not cease in our effort for all that. We will teach these wretched poverty-stricken crowds their strength, if only they choose to exert it. And henceforth we shall have the example of France to point to, in proof of our assertion that we are not ‘dependent for our existence upon kings and queens. All good wishes, then, to the new Republic. May she grow, may she thrive, may her future be all the more bright and glorious that her birth has been amid scenes of sadness and ignominy!”
This speech ended the meeting, and the members crowded round Arthur to shake hands with him.
“What do you think, Arthur?” asked Mark Challenger, as the two walked home together. “Isn’t this better than being a painter, and living at somebody else’s expense? Don’t you feel that you are more of a man?”
“You are right!” replied Arthur, “I feel utterly45 ashamed of myself when I think of those days. What can have possessed me to think of being an artist? Then I should have spent my days and nights in useless labour, and after all been miserably46 dependent upon the rich and proud. If they had not bought my pictures, I should have starved — and serve me right, too, I think. Now I have the consolation47 of knowing that I work for a useful end. The newspapers I help to print spread knowledge among thousands every day; it makes me work with energy when I think of it. Hurrah48! We shall do something yet!”
Arthur possessed from nature the temperament49 which always accompanies genius. Undoubtedly50 at this period he sincerely believed the sentiments which we have just heard him express to his friend Mark. Except on Sunday he allowed himself scarcely any time for calm reflection; he lived in a perpetual ferment of activity. If he was not at his work, he was engaged heart and soul in exertions51 connected with the club. He became acquainted with the editor of a paper — one of many which were springing up about this time — which had for its object the spread at once of Radicalism and Free-thought, and not unfrequently he wrote a letter or a short article which was printed in its columns. All such circumstances as these were incitements to fresh enthusiasm. At the club he seemed already to take precedence of Will Noble himself, for he certainly excelled the latter in a certain fervid52 eloquence which he himself was surprised to find that he possessed. But in solid force of argument he never equalled the founder of the club. Had either of these two been of an envious53 disposition54, they could not certainly have long continued friends under the circumstances. But envy or jealousy55 were remote from the thoughts of both, their minds were engrossed56 with far other and higher feelings. Every day cemented their friendship more firmly; every act or word of the one only incited57 the other to a generous rivalry58.
Both Arthur and Mark kept completely apart from the other residents in Mrs. Pettindund’s house as far as any social intercourse59 is concerned. In the first place they were not much at home, and then the appearance of their fellow-lodgers61 was not such as to excite much interest. To this, however, there was one exception, at least in Arthur’s case. Very shortly after he had taken up his abode62 in Gower Place, his notice was attracted by one of the lodgers on the floor beneath him. This was a young girl, of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, whom he had occasionally passed on the stairs, and once or twice in the street. She was very pretty, if not positively63 handsome, tall, with dark hair which she arranged in a tasteful way, and dressed in black which seemed to indicate mourning. Though her beauty was of a somewhat sensual type, and her features betrayed no special intelligence or good-humour, Arthur felt strangely attracted to her for all that. To a beautiful female face he was always especially susceptible64, and in this case the natural ardour of his years was additionally excited by the occasional and brief glimpses he obtained of her, and by the fact that she resided under the same roof as himself. There was, moreover, a fixed65 paleness upon the girl’s face, and now and then a look of suffering which excited his compassion66. As week after week went by, he noticed that these signs increased. He thought she must be ill, and felt his interest in her grow yet stronger.
He knew that she took her meals with the landlady67’s family in the kitchen, for on several occasions when he had gone down early in the morning to pay his rent he had seen her at breakfast there, and had heard her addressed as “Carrie.” He concluded that she was in some way related to the Pettindunds. He knew also from conversation heard on the same occasion that she went out to work every day with Mrs. Pettindund’s two daughters, as a “mantle-hand.” Before very long he learned her complete name, for, taking a letter out of the letterbox one night just as the postman delivered it, he found it was addressed to Miss Carrie Mitchell; and it was not probable that there was more than one young lady in the house. Arthur would have been glad to know more of her; but scarcely knew how the information could be gained. He was thinking of asking Mark Challenger if he knew anything of her, when another piece of chance threw a very unexpected light upon her history.
Arthur had risen one morning about six o’clock — it was drawing near to the end of October — and was engaged in dressing68, when Mark Challenger’s door, which was next to his, opened, and Mark having called out to know if his friend was up, Arthur opened his door and replied in the affirmative, whereon Mark entered his room.
“Read that,” he said, holding out a sheet of paper which looked like a letter.
Arthur took it, and read this: —
“Dear Carrie, — “My landlady tells me a girl has been calling at my lodgings70 several times lately, asking to see me. I have no doubt this is you, and I wish you to understand at once that you will have to stop bothering me. I have done all I mean to do for you, and now you will have to look out for yourself. You needn’t expect I shall stump71 up anything even if you have a child, as you say you are going to. If you try to force it out of me, it’s the easiest thing in the world for me to prove that you’re nothing but a common girl of the town, and then you have no remedy. Do just take this hint, and leave me alone in future; if you don’t, I shall have to do something I shouldn’t much care to.
“A. W.”
Arthur looked at Mr. Challenger in pained astonishment72.
“Why did you give me this to read?” he asked. “I thought it was something of your own. We have no business to have read this.”
“Why, I’ll tell you,” replied Mark, scratching his head. “You know I came up late to bed last night, and as I passed one of the doors on the floor below I saw a piece of paper lying near it. I picked it up and found it to be this. After all, I don’t think there’s so much harm in our reading it. You see, if I’d given it back to the girl, she would never have believed that I didn’t know all it contained. As it is she will perhaps never know she has lost it, and it’s much better it should come into our hands than into those of someone who would talk about it all over the house.”
“But what a rascal73 this fellow is!” cried Arthur, burning with righteous indignation. “What a cold-blooded villain74! I declare, if there was only an address on it, I would seek the fellow out and tell him what I thought of him. Why, it’s that poor girl underneath75, called Carrie Mitchell, isn’t it?”
“To be sure. I have rather noticed her lately, and I half suspected there was something wrong.”
“But do you think it likely the Pettindunds know of this?”
“Can’t tell; but I don’t think so.”
“Bye-the-by, how is the girl connected with them, do you know?”
“Oh, yes. I had the whole tale from Mrs. Pettindund one day. It seems that Carrie Mitchell is Mrs. Pettindund’s niece. Her father and mother died not long since, and the girl then came here to earn her living. She pays no end of money for her board and lodging69, and she certainly can’t get more than fifteen shillings a week — poor creature.”
“But this letter. However can she have got into a scrape with a blackguard such as this? You see he writes a fairly good hand. Some clerk, I suppose. I should like to have my fingers on his throat!”
“What shall we do with the letter, Arthur?”
“Burn it, by all means. As you say, it is impossible to return it. I wish heartily76 we could do something for the poor girl!”
“And yet I don’t see how we can,” returned Mark. “We mustn’t appear to know anything about this affair, of course.”
“Such a beautiful face she has,” said Arthur; “but looks so terribly pale and ill. No wonder! I shouldn’t be .surprised if Mrs. Pettindund turned her out of the house as soon as she finds this out. I have very little faith in her charity.”
“Well, if she does that,” said Mark, “we might be able to help her; but I really don’t see what we can do now.”
“Nor I,” added Arthur, sadly.
Throughout the day his thoughts were busy with this discovery. It did not occur to him for a moment that the girl herself might possibly be to blame. He could feel nothing but tender pity for her, passionate77 indignation against the heartless brute78 who had cast her off when she most needed his help.
For several days he did his best to catch sight of her, after listening at his door for several hours in hope of hearing her come up stairs.
One morning, just as he was returning from work through the night, he had his wish. As he entered the house he saw Carrie ascending79 the stairs with a large can of water, which seemed beyond her strength to lift. He ran forward at once, and begged to be allowed to help her.
As he looked into her face he saw she was crying. Not knowing how to express anxiety or condolence, he pretended not to observe her distress80, and contented81 himself with carrying her can to her door. She thanked him in a low voice, always keeping her face averted82.
Troubled beyond expression by the girl’s sufferings, Arthur, instead of going at once to bed, paced his room for nearly an hour, vainly endeavouring to devise some method of giving her assistance.
Mark Challenger was already gone to business, so that there was no one at hand with whom he could take counsel. Emotions such as he had never felt surged within his heart. The sight of Helen Norman had but a short time ago been sufficient to exalt18 him to regions of enthusiastic rapture83; but his love for Helen, if love it were, had been a pure devotion of the spirit, a sentiment which called into play the highest energies of his intellect, the noblest impulses of his heart to the exclusion84 of all ignobler feeling.
But now it was the senses that had sway over him. His blood coursed hot through his veins85, his pulses throbbed87. One moment he burned with vehement88 anger at the unknown author of the poor girl’s troubles, becoming conscious of a depth of resentful ferocity in his nature, the existence of which he could not have believed; the next, his being seemed to melt with excess of passion, as he thought of Carrie’s beautiful face and form, and dwelt with unutterable tenderness upon the vision of her tear-reddened eyes, her pale cheeks, her feeble step. He suffered physically89; it was as though some force were straining at his heart-strings, making him pant for breath.
Once or twice he was on the point of casting aside all doubts and hesitations90, and of going to speak to her at her own room door and to offer her what help he could — in the shape of money. But a sense of shame and of respect for her feelings retained him. Still he could do nothing but pace the room, now quite unconscious of the weariness which had possessed him when he entered the house, and dreaming of nothing less than of sleep. The contest forced groans91 from his heart; he pressed his hands fiercely together upon his forehead, as if to force himself into calmness.
Just then he fancied he heard a voice speaking on the stairs. Starting to the door he opened it softly, and listened.
He was not mistaken. Someone was knocking loudly at a door below, and calling — “Carrie! Carrie!”
Then there was a pause, during which an answer seemed to come from within, though it was not audible.
“Ain’t you well?” asked the voice again, which Arthur now recognised as that of Mrs. Pettindund’s daughter. “We’re just going. You’ll be late.”
Again no reply seemed to come from within, after which the girl who had spoken ran downstairs.
Still Arthur listened intently. Presently he heard a heavier step ascending the stairs, and, leaning over the banisters, he could perceive Mrs. Pettindund’s portly person. The landlady also stopped before Carrie’s room, and knocked loudly.
The key turned, and the door opened.
Arthur leaned forward still more, and listened with his utmost power of attention. He saw nothing dishonourable in so doing, under the circumstances; or, perhaps, more properly speaking, he merely obeyed an instinct, and did not think about it at all.
“And so you can’t go to work, eh?” asked the woman, in a tone of repulsive92 coarseness.
A reply was made in so low a voice that it was inaudible.
“And d’ye think I didn’t know all about it long since?” returned Mrs. Pettindund, who seemed to be standing93 half in, half out of the room. “Well, all I’ve got to say is you’ve made yer bed and you must lay in it. How d’ye think ye’re goin’ to live if you don’t go to work, eh?”
Arthur could hear a sob94 for the only reply.
“Yer don’t think I’m sich a fool as to keep yer, eh?” pursued the kindly-hearted landlady. “An’ lose the good name o’ th’ouse an’ all? If you do, you’re mistaken, that’s all as I’ve got to say t’yer.”
The listener’s straining ears could just catch the answer.
“You won’t turn me out of doors, aunt?” pleaded the girl’s sobbing95 voice. “Won’t you let me stay till it’s over, and then work and pay you all back?”
“A likely joke that, too! You pay me back! Catch yer doin’ of it! I tell you, you leave this ’ouse today, an’ there’s no two ways about that. D’ye ‘ear?”
“But you’ve always been kind to me, aunt!” sobbed96 Carrie “Won’t you have some pity? If I’ve done wrong, I’m sorry for it; and I shall have to suffer for it all my life. You’ve been kind to me till now, aunt; don’t be so cruel as to turn me out. I’ve no home to go to.”
“What I ‘ave been, an’ what I’m goin’ to be now, is two very different things,” returned Mrs. Pettindund, in her coarse, gin-thickened, over-fed voice, and always with that inimitable ferocity of the true London lodging-house keeper. “I’ll trouble yer to pay me twelve-an’-sixpence, too, as soon as you get it; so you’d best go to work today, if it’s only for the money. I’ll have no —— i’ my ’ouse, an’ so you ‘ave it straight.”
Mrs. Pettindund, exercising her discretionary powers in the matter of English orthoepy, pronounced the last word “stright.” And, having delivered herself thus, she slammed the door to, and turned to go down stairs.
Guided by the irresistible97 impulse of the moment, Arthur darted98 down the stairs. As soon as Mrs. Pettindund saw him he beckoned99 to her to follow him.
With a look of surprise upon her pursy and somewhat bloated face, she ascended100 to his room, and entered it after him. Arthur closed the door.
“I have been listening to you for the last few minutes, Mrs. Pettindund,” he said, with as much of contemptuous anger in his voice as it was capable of expressing.
“An’ ye’re goin’ to give notice?” returned the landlady. “Just what I expected!”
“No, that’s not my intention,” pursued Arthur. “At all events, not just yet. I only want to ask you whether you really mean to turn that unfortunate girl into the streets in her present state?”
“Why not? Of course I mean it,” returned the woman, with a look of the utmost surprise.
“You mean to do so, knowing that she has not a friend in London, perhaps not in the world — you, who are a mother, and living in comfort? You really mean that?”
“And why not, I say? I s’pose I can do as I like in my own ’ouse? Eh?”
Arthur surveyed her for a moment with a gaze of the most extreme disgust and detestation.
“You say — why not?” he said, at length. “But I should like to know, why? Whatever can be your reason for acting101 so cruelly — so mercilessly?”
“I don’t see as I’m bound to give you a reason for all I do, Mr. Golding,” answered the woman, with a snarl102. “But if yer want to know so much, I’ll just ask yer if it’s reasonable I should keep a girl in the ’ouse, who can’t pay no rent or money for her food, and isn’t likely to do for Lord knows how long to come?”
She had modified the impertinence which at first rose to her tongue, probably remembering that Arthur was very regular in his payments, and gave no trouble.
“And that is your sole reason? For the sake of a few shillings a week you will turn your relative out of doors when most she needs tenderness and care — turn her into the streets to beg, and starve, and very likely die?”
“I’ve nothing to do with all that. That’s her own look out. If she hadn’t done what she oughtn’t there’d a’ been no trouble come to her. She’s made her own bed, and she must lay in it.”
Not a sign of womanly pity, of human feeling even, could Arthur discern in Mrs. Pettindund’s face.
He saw that to appeal to her feelings was totally vain. It only remained to appeal to her avarice103.
“How much has she been paying weekly for board and lodging?” he asked.
“Twelve-an’-six, an’ little enough, too. That’s only because she’s a sister’s child.”
“If I pay you this twelve-and-six each week,” said the young man, after a moment’s reflection, “will you allow her to remain in the house till she is able to earn her own living again?”
Mrs. Pettindund fell back several paces, in her amazement104.
“Then it’s you, after all, Mr. Golding,” she said, “as ‘as been an’ got Carrie into this scrape? I couldn’t have believed it of yer!”
“Keep your insults to yourself, woman!” exclaimed Arthur, with sudden passion, exasperated105 beyond endurance at having a crime attributed to him which he so much detested106.
“And you keep yourn to yourself, Mr. Golding,” retorted the other. “Woman, indeed! And why else, I should like to know, should you offer to keep the girl?”
“Never mind my reasons,” returned Arthur, abruptly107. “I make an offer — will you accept it?”
“D’yer mean what yer say, Mr. Golding?”
“Of course, I do. Be quick and reply. If you are not willing I dare say I can find another lodging for her.”
Mrs. Pettindund looked alarmed.
“Well, I don’t mind,” she answered. “But I must always have it in advance, you know.”
“So I suppose. When is Miss Mitchell’s rent-day?”
“To-day, Friday.”
“Then I shall pay you the next week’s money at once. Sit down there and write me a receipt.”
Mrs. Pettindund scrawled108 on a piece of paper, which Arthur gave her, for several minutes. Then she handed it to him.
“Received one week’s rent for first flore back for C. Mitchell from Mr. Golding. Also for one week’s bord. In advance. 12s. 6d.
“Oct.26.
“Very well,” said Arthur, smiling at the form. “Then, you understand, she is to live here just as she has been doing.”
“I understand,” said the woman. “Is that all, Mr. Golding?”
“Not quite. You are to promise me that you will not let Miss Mitchell know that I am doing this. You understand? If I find that she knows, I shall cease to pay, and offer to find another lodging for her.”
“But what shall I say to her about her rent?”
“Say that you will allow her to repay you when she is able. Anything except the truth.”
The idea of representing herself to a lodger60 in such a very benevolent109 light, was so completely new to Mrs. Pettindund, that she held her fat sides and laughed heartily.
“Well, well, I’ll do as yer wish, Mr. Golding,” she puffed110. “Is that all?”
“That’s all at present.”
The landlady left the room and hurried downstairs. That same night she related to all her family that Carrie Mitchell had been led astray by Mr. Golding, that the girl was only about a month off her confinement111, and that Mr. Golding had undertaken to pay all her expenses henceforth. But at the same time she strictly112 exacted that this latter piece of news should be kept secret from Carrie herself. For she had no doubt whatever that intimate relations existed between the girl and her protector, and that the latter would at once know if his conditions had been broken. Why he should have made such conditions she was wholly incapable113 of understanding. In truth Mrs. Pettindund’s philosophy contained the key to very few problems save those of arithmetic in as far as was required for the calculation of her weekly income.
This matter settled, Arthur flung himself on the bed for a few hours’ rest, his whole frame aglow114 with tremulous delight. To be able to have served that poor, pale-faced, yet beautiful girl, and to have done so, moreover, at the cost of some sacrifice, was a joy of almost fierce intensity115. At this time he was earning thirty-five shillings weekly. Out of this he paid four shillings rent, and the remaining thirty-one he had hitherto distributed thus: ten-and-sixpence for food (being eighteen-pence a day), five shillings his weekly subscription116 at the club, half-a-crown for minor117 personal expenses; the remaining thirteen shillings were always put aside to form a fund for clothing and unexpected requirements. They just covered Carrie Mitchell’s rent, and for the present his clothing would have to look after itself. In the midst of all manner of delightful118 fancies, in which he saw the future open before him, rich with he knew not what vague joys and blessings119, Arthur fell asleep.
His light slumber120 was broken by Mark Challenger, who had come home during the dinner hour. He heard Mark pause at his door, listening for any indication of his being awake, and he called to him to enter. Nothing was at this moment more foreign to Arthur’s mind than the faintest vanity as regarded his act, but for all that he could not help instantly revealing it to his companion at once. The words overflowed121, as it were, from his heart. The secret would not be held down. He felt bound to seek for some associate in his joy.
Mark, who was a man of some fifty years old, smiled curiously122 as he listened to his young friend’s narrative123. But at the end of it he looked rather concerned.
“But,” he said, “I was just going to propose to you that the club should do this. I fancy we could muster124 enough weekly. We haven’t many calls on us at present. You’ll rob yourself. You won’t have enough to live on.”
“Trust me, Mr. Challenger,” answered Arthur, with a boyish gaiety seldom seen in his manner. “I shall take no harm. I wouldn’t have allowed the club to do this for anything. And what’s more, I beg you won’t say a word of it to any one.”
“I’ll do as you like, Arthur,” returned Mark, with some reluctance125. “But it isn’t really right that you should have the burden all on your own shoulders. Come, let me pay half. I can afford it easily.”
“Not a penny! So we won’t talk about it any more.”
Shortly after, Mark went to his dinner, looking rather puzzled and grave. Arthur, however, finding it impossible to rest longer, took down one of Mr. Tollady’s books and applied126 himself to study. A piece of bread, cut from a loaf which he kept in his cupboard, was quite sufficient for his dinner. He felt just now as if he should never be hungry again.
The rest of October, and half a dreary127 November slid rapidly away. Whenever he was at home, Arthur listened at his door for signs of Carrie, but he neither heard nor saw her. At length he was almost tempted128 to believe that Mrs. Pettindund had in reality fulfilled her threat of sending the girl away, and was now taking his money under false pretences129. He accordingly called the woman into his room one day to make enquiries. He learned that Carrie kept herself closely shut up, and would not even come out to eat; all her meals had to be taken to her. This was the truth, as he found the same evening; for on going into the back yard purposely to look up at her window and discover if her room was lighted up, he saw her form leaning out over the window-sill. On hearing his step she instantly withdrew, and closed the window.
It might have been nearly a week after this, that, as he was lying awake in bed one night, his thoughts wandering he knew not whither, but always returning to the pale, beautiful face of Carrie Mitchell, he suddenly thought he heard a noise, just as if something had been slipped under his door. It was past midnight, and the house had long been in perfect silence. Listening intently he heard another noise, this time in the house below, which he knew to be the slamming of the front door. The absolute darkness of his room would not allow him to see whether anything had really been pushed into his room. He concluded it must have been fancy; perhaps the scratching of a mouse. Yet the slamming of the door had been unmistakable; and who could be going out at this time of night? On the other hand, it might have been somebody entering, one of the Pettindunds, or a lodger out late. These suppositions, however, did not quiet his mind. He was sleepless130 and uneasy, and an indefinite fear was beginning to oppress his mind, a fear bred, perhaps, of the silence and gloom. From thinking of the noises his thoughts again took their own way, and suddenly conducted him back to Adam and Eve Court in Whitecross Street. He saw himself sleeping alone in the desolate131 room where his father had died, and, strangely enough, he almost convinced himself that he could hear children’s voices, singing,
L>DD>There is a happy land, far, far away!
He listened till the very silence seemed to throb86 around him, till he heard the beating of his heart. Then once more his thoughts reverted132 to Carrie Mitchell, and again came the vague fear. This was intolerable. He jumped out of bed and struck a light, thinking that he would read till he wearied himself out. With the first gleam of the candle something glittered close to the door; it was a piece of paper. For a moment he stood almost terrified; why, he knew not; but his nerves were so excited that the least thing proved too much for his fortitude133. Then he picked up the paper with trembling fingers. He saw that it was written upon, and the writing was this: —
“I have heard that you have been paying my rent. My aunt is always telling me of my fault, and she has told me of this at last. I can’t thank you enough for your great, great kindness; but I can’t stay any longer. My aunt and my cousin are too cruel to me; they are always telling me of my fault. I couldn’t go without thanking you; I don’t know why you did the kindness for me; no one else has any pity. Please excuse my writing. I never had enough schooling134 to learn to spell properly.
Carrie Mitchell. “
The hand-writing was extremely bad, so bad in places as to be almost undecipherable, and the orthographical135 errors were very abundant. I have chosen to correct the latter fault, lest the letter should excite amusement. It excited a far different feeling in Arthur Golding, as he read it by the candle-light. A dead weight seemed suddenly to fall upon his heart and press the very life out of it. He turned deadly cold, and trembled excessively.
The first thought was to dress hastily and run into the street after the fugitive136. He remembered the slamming of the door, which he now saw must have announced her departure. But that had been at least half an hour ago; it would be vain to pursue her now. His anguish was unspeakable; only in this moment did he fully137 realise the powerful hold upon him which his passion had gained. He pressed the letter to his lips and kissed it madly. He read it over and over a hundred times, dwelling138 upon the words of gratitude139 to himself with a mixture of delight and pain, which amounted almost to frenzy140. “I knew it!” he exclaimed aloud, forced to give utterance141 to his anguish in sounds. “I knew that she was good as well as beautiful. Curses on the villain that wronged her, and the base wretches142 who have driven her from house and home!” The tears rushed irresistibly143 to his eyes as he noticed the bad writing and spelling. The pathos144 of the last sentence touched him deeply; he read it over and over again, sobbing as he did so. He flung himself upon the bed, still holding the note in his hand, and buried his face in the pillow. Never before had he suffered from grief so intense.
The candle burned down to the socket145, and the room was once more left in darkness. Arthur had sunk into an uneasy sleep, and this, with the intervals146 of half-consciousness, lasted till six o’clock. At that time it was Mark’s habit to call him, and he accordingly came and knocked at the door. At the sound Arthur at once started to his feet.
“Why, you are up!” exclaimed Mark, entering with a candle. “But, good Heavens! What’s the matter with you, Arthur? Are you ill?”
Arthur held out the letter, but did not speak. Mark read it, and looked at the young man with curious pity.
“Damn them all,” he exclaimed, alluding147 to Mrs. Pettindund and her daughters. “Whatever will become of the poor thing? But you mustn’t take on so terribly, Arthur. Is she so much to you as all that?”
“Oh, can’t you see? Don’t you know?” cried Arthur. “Couldn’t you guess how much she was to me? It will kill me if I do not find her again!”
Mark, with a look of concern on his wrinkled features, did his utmost to calm the young man by assurances of their being able to discover Carrie, assurances in which, however, he had not himself much faith.
“At all events,” he concluded, “we won’t stay another day with these abominable148 brutes149. I’ll lose a morning’s work and go and find rooms for both of us.”
“No, no,” returned Arthur. “We must stay here, in any case. She may return; most likely she will return. She can have no money at all. Whatever will she do?”
“Yes, yes,” returned Mark, “I think she is pretty sure to come back. But don’t put yourself out so terribly, Arthur. I can’t bear to see you so. Have you been up all night?”
“No,” groaned150 Arthur, throwing himself upon a chair, and covering his face with his hands. “I think I have slept — I don’t know — I can’t remember anything.”
“Now don’t, don’t, there’s a good fellow,” said Mark. “Wash your face and come out with me. It’s a fine morning for November. Come, that’s right. We’ll go and have some breakfast presently, and in the meantime we’ll talk the matter over.
After some persuasion151 Mark induced his friend to dress and accompany him out. It was just becoming light as they issued into the street; but the air was bitterly cold.
“I think we shall have snow,” said Mark, looking up to the sky, where stars were still dimly glistening152 here and there.
Arthur shuddered153. He thought of Carrie out in this terrible season, with no one to look to for shelter or a crust of bread.
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收听单词发音
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1
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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14
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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15
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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18
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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31
enfranchised
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| v.给予选举权( enfranchise的过去式和过去分词 )；（从奴隶制中）解放 | |
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32
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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37
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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38
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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41
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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42
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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43
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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44
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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45
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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48
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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49
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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50
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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51
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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52
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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53
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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54
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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55
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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57
incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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59
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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60
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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61
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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62
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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63
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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64
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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66
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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67
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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68
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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69
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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70
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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71
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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72
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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73
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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74
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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75
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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76
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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77
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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79
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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80
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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81
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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82
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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83
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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84
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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85
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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86
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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87
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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88
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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90
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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91
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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92
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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93
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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94
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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95
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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96
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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97
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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98
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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99
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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102
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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103
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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104
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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105
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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106
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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108
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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111
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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112
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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113
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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119
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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133
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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134
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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orthographical
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| adj.正字法的，拼字正确的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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151
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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152
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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