In the meantime he had succeeded in making an agreeable change in his occupation. The night-work to which he was subject in alternate weeks had grown extremely irksome to him, and was producing an evident impression upon his health. Accordingly, he had seized the opportunity of a tempting5 advertisement by a celebrated6 firm of printers, and had been happy enough to obtain an excellent place in their office, where his work would only occupy him in the daytime, and where he would earn more than hitherto. He began to work at the new place only a few days before Carrie was ready to leave the hospital. For the latter event he immediately began to make preparations.
He and his friend Mark had kept their resolutions of relinquishing8 their abode9 in the house of the Pettindunds. At the end of their week’s notice they had taken one large room in Huntley Street, at no great distance from Gower Place, where they for the present lived together, thus affecting a piece of economy very agreeable to both. In the same street Arthur now proceeded to look for a small furnished bedroom. Before long he found one precisely10 to his taste, at a low rent, and this he forthwith bespoke11, saying that its occupant would come and take possession of it in a day or two.
Arthur was now somewhat puzzled how td proceed. He knew that Carrie was in a deplorable condition as regards clothing, and scarcely saw how he could make good the deficiency. He was troubled, moreover, to discover some plan by which he could make an offer of his assistance with suitable delicacy13 and then instal Carrie in her room without fear of endangering her reputation; the latter, especially, being a task which the fearful and wonderful complication of our social delicacies14 and pruderies renders always somewhat difficult. The world is so very slow to believe that connections other than of a certain sort can possibly exist between young people of different sex who see each other in private; it is so easy for corrupt15 imagination to picture situations completely familiar to themselves, so extremely difficult for them to conceive the existence of virtue16 and self-respect. After much reflection Arthur concluded that there was but one easily-practicable course; he must take his landlady17 into his confidence.
Mrs. Oaks was, as far as Arthur had hitherto been able to judge, a kind-hearted and motherly woman, not at all of the lodging18-house-landlady type. She had several children, whose clean and respectable appearance had already struck Arthur as unusual under the circumstances, and as she had been a widow for several years she had no one but herself to consult upon a point of delicacy. She was, moreover, the only woman whom Arthur had at present any relations with. Arriving at a decision after a consideration of these various points, the young man requested an interview with Mrs. Oaks. In plain, straightforward19 terms he explained to her Carrie’s helpless and friendless position — suppressing, of course, all mention of the circumstances which had led to this — and declared his interest in her. He stated that he had already taken a lodging for her, and then went on frankly20 to declare the difficulties in which he found himself, and to request Mrs. Oaks’ assistance, should she be willing to give it. The good woman had listened with some signs of doubt and misgiving21 to the commencement of this narrative22, but, as Arthur progressed in it, his frank, generous expression of face and the hearty23 earnestness of his voice and manner won her over to fully24 believe in his good intentions. Possibly Arthur’s handsome features had not a little to do with the eventual25 conquest. Always agreeable to look upon, they became, especially to a woman, quite irresistible26 when lighted up with emotion.
“What I should ask you to do, then, Mrs. Oaks,” said Arthur, “if you should be willing to help me, would be this. I should like you to go and see Miss Mitchell, to judge from her appearance what clothing will be necessary for her, and then to buy it for her and let her have it. I have no idea of the cost of such things. I can spare five pounds, however; do you think that will be sufficient?”
“Well, sir,” returned Mrs. Oaks, “it’ll, at all events, get her enough to go on with.”
“Very good. Then I understand, Mrs. Oaks, you will not mind undertaking27 this troublesome business for me?”
“Lord, no!” returned the worthy28 woman. “I never grudge29 a little trouble if I see as I can do real good to a body. I’m sorry to say it isn’t so often I have it in my power.”
“I should, of course, wish you to consider the time you employ for me together with the rent at the end of the week,” added Arthur, after some little hesitation30.
“Pooh! no such thing!” cried Mrs. Oaks. “Time’s not so over val’able to me as all that. If I go and see the girl, my eldest31 daughter’ll buy all the clothing, and be glad of the job. She likes shopping, Lizzie does.”
“Then there is one more thing to speak of, Mrs. Oaks, and I have done troubling you. Would it be too much to ask you to let me see Miss Mitchell in your parlour for half an hour before she goes to her own lodging? As I told you, she scarcely knows me, and some sort of explanation will be necessary.”
“You’re welcome, sir,” returned the landlady, after a moment’s thought. “I have confidence in you.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, Mrs. Oaks,” said Arthur. “I can never sufficiently32 thank you for your kindness; I cannot, indeed! When you see Miss Mitchell in the hospital, please do not mention my name. Say merely that a friend has sent you — a friend that will come td take her away on Saturday.”
“Well, well,” said Mrs. Oaks, laughing quietly. “I’ll do as you wish. You mean to be kind-hearted, Mr. Golding. It isn’t everyone as ‘ud do all this.”
“And it isn’t everyone that would give such kind help to a stranger as you have promised, Mrs. Oaks,” replied Arthur. “Once more, I thank you sincerely.”
Everything went well, and at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon Arthur had a cab waiting before the Middlesex Hospital to take away the convalescent. As he stood in the waiting-room expecting Carrie’s appearance, his heart beat fiercely in his bosom33, he was almost choked with the varied34 emotions which struggled for the ascendancy35 within him. And when at length he saw her coming towards him, tall, graceful36, still deadly pale, her thick hair done up tastefully yet simply, the plain garments which Mrs. Oaks had purchased for her giving her a fresh and neat appearance, her step evidently feeble, her eyes wandering in curious expectation, the rushing flood of deep tenderness and passion all but welled up from his heart into his eyes. He could not speak, but beckoned37 to her to follow him, and led her to the cab.
They drove off towards Huntley Street. Seeing the expression of doubtful recognition with which his companion regarded him, Arthur bent38 forward and asked if she remembered him.
“I — I think so,” she stammered39. “You lived at aunt’s. I think it was you who paid my rent, wasn’t it?”
“And who had a note put under my door when you went away,” said Arthur, smiling.
The recollection of her sufferings, blended with her physical weakness and uncertainty40 of mind, was too much for Carne. She burst into tears.
“Where are we going?” she sobbed41. “Where are you taking me? Not to aunt’s?”
“No, no, we will not go there,” said Arthur, taking one of her hands gently, and chafing43 it like the hand of a suffering child. “Are you afraid of me? Dare you trust me?”
But still she continued to sob42, and made no reply. Arthur feared she would faint, and was glad when the cab at length stopped. There was a cheerful fire burning in the parlour, and Mrs. Oaks was there ready to pour out a cup of tea. After a few kind words to Carrie, the good woman went away and left the two to themselves.
Arthur waited till Carrie had in some degree recovered herself, and then, sitting opposite her on one side of the fireplace, he told his story in a kind, soothing44 voice. He related how he had seen her suffering and had felt his sympathy keenly aroused, how this feeling had become yet stronger when on the evening of Christmas Day he had found her dying in the snow; how he had her taken to the hospital, and how, now that he hoped she would before long be quite restored to health, he desired nothing so much as to be allowed to serve her. He spoke12 not a word directly of his passion; natural delicacy withheld45 him. He merely represented himself as a sincere friend, and in conclusion he begged that she would not hesitate to use the room he had taken for her, and to accept of whatever assistance it was in his power to give.
She listened throughout as though she were in a dream, appearing to only half-understand what was said to her. When Arthur’s voice had been silent for some minutes, she said, at length, with much hesitation —
“But how can I pay you back? I am too weak to work yet, and even when I do work I shall never get money enough to pay you back. I — I don’t know that I understand what you mean?”
A vague look of apprehension46 marked her countenance47. Arthur divined her thought from this and the manner in which she spoke. He hastened to reassure48 her.
“And yet it is very simple,” he said. “I want to be a sincere friend to you, that is the whole of the matter. As to paying me back, I never dreamt of it; that is out of the question. All I beg of you, is that you will let me see you occasionally and ask you whether you are comfortable. That is all.”
“But why do you do this for me?” she continued to ask, looking dazed and still a little apprehensive49. “You know so little of me. Why do you do it?”
“If I promise you that I will answer that question in a month’s time, will that be sufficient?” asked Arthur in return.
The girl looked still more puzzled.
“But you will do what I wish, won’t you?” urged Arthur, scarcely restraining himself from falling before her and declaring that he loved her madly. “You will let me provide for you, for the present? You won’t refuse?”
“If I do refuse,” returned Carrie, after a moment’s thought, “I must go back to the workhouse. I have nowhere to go. I have no money.
“Then you accept?” cried Arthur, springing to his feet in delight.
“You are very kind,” said Carrie, looking with a smile through her tears. “I don’t know why you do it all for me. As soon as I am strong I can earn my own living, but till then ——”
“Not another word!” interrupted Arthur. “And you will let me see you sometimes? You will let me meet you somewhere in the evening, and see how you get on?”
“You are very kind to me,” stammered Carrie, as her only reply.
“Then that’s all. Now you shall go to your own lodging. I have arranged with them to wait upon you and buy whatever you want for your meals. You will be able to do that for yourself soon, but not just yet. I have one or two other things to get you, and those I shall send as soon as I can. But however shall you employ yourself? Do you like reading?”
“A — a little,” replied Carrie, with hesitation.
“I must look for a few books then. Mrs. Oaks, that’s my landlady here, is going to walk to the house with you. She’s a kind woman, and you needn’t be afraid of her. She only knows that you are a’ friend of mine. You won’t have to walk, only a few yards. And you will be careful of health, won’t you? Whatever you do, don’t go out if it is cold or wet. I know you will take care; that is one of your ways of paying me back, mind.”
He spoke thus standing50, and with his hand on the door. It was agony to him to maintain such a calm and distant tone when his heart was burning in the desire to discharge itself of endless passion. He opened the door, but instantly closed it again.
“Your window looks into the street,” he said. “If you see me waiting opposite about one o’clock on Monday, will you put your hat on and come to speak to me for a moment. I shall only come if it’s fine.”
“Yes, I will,” she replied. “I will put my hat on so as to be ready, and watch.”
“Only one thing more, then,” said Arthur, taking a small purse from his pocket and handing it to her. “Let me know as soon as that is empty. You will, of course, pay the rent and everything else yourself. And now, good-bye for the present.”
He held out his hand, and Carrie took it timidly. She seemed even yet to be uncertain as to his intention, and her dark eyes viewed him curiously51 and askance. He then opened the door and called Mrs. Oaks. That lady came up with her bonnet52 on, and at once set out with Carrie.
As the door closed behind them, Arthur hastened upstairs to his room, from the window of which he could watch them to the end of their walk. When at length Carrie and her guide completely disappeared, he sank upon a chair with a sigh, half of gladness, half of regret, and relapsed into deep thought.
As yet Mark Challenger knew nothing of all this. Arthur had feared that he would insist upon sharing in the charitable work, and he wished to have the whole delight of it for himself. But, now that it was completed, he saw no reason for further secrecy53, and Mark was accordingly informed of everything the same evening.
“And what is to be the end of all this, Arthur, my boy?” he asked, gravely, as soon as the young man had completed his story.
“Who can tell?” returned Arthur, with a merry laugh.
“Who is to tell, if not yourself?”
“Ah!” sighed Arthur, “if it only depended upon me ——”
Mark regarded his young friend with a shrewd look of inquiry54.
“Well?” he asked.
“Why, cannot you guess?” cried Arthur, laughing. “Carrie would be my wife tomorrow.”
“Your wife?” returned the other, as if relieved. “Well, well, there’s no great harm in that. The world seems to have treated you fairly well, on the whole, Arthur; let’s hope you’ll never be worse off than you are now. I had a wife once, and a daughter. The one starved to death, and the other — well, well, I mustn’t think of all that. It’ll make me like poor John Pether, and I seem to have been getting quieter in my mind of late. I can wish you nothing better than a good wife, Arthur, after all. But don’t be in a hurry, my boy; don’t be in a hurry.”
Arthur laughed, and, humming a merry air, sat down to one of his favourite books.
And where was the memory of Helen Norman — of that sweet ideal which had once allied55 itself with all there was of noblest and most aspiring56 in Arthur Golding’s nature? It had passed away with the use of those noble faculties57 and the aspirations58 towards which they tended; passed away, that is, as far as any active influence was concerned, though it still lingered as a sort of vaguely59 remembered joy — a background of dim and fading gold to the rich, warm image of the reigning60 delight.
The responsibilities Arthur had taken upon his shoulders were the reverse of light. He was now compelled to become, in all that concerned his personal expenditure61, an absolute miser2. Luckily, during the last few months, he had saved every penny he could, always in the hope of being one day able to devote them to Carrie’s needs; but these resources were now already drained, and it was only by the exercise of the most pinching economy that he could hope to keep Carrie in those circumstances of comfort which, in his eyes, befitted her.
It was not only her food and lodging which had to be paid for, but he must succeed in saving a little each week towards the purchase of clothing for her. As to her ever returning to the daily drudgery62 of the workroom and earning her own living, that he was determined63 not to suffer. Sooner would he divest64 himself of everything save the extremest necessaries.
Under these circumstances, there was one step he felt bound to take at once. He must relinquish7 his membership of the club. And this caused him the more pain because the club had of late been showing unmistakable signs of decadence65. In fact, whilst no new members had joined it since Arthur, no less than six of the old ones had recently fallen off.
Enthusiasm, strongly sustained by example, can do much; but even Will Noble’s firmness and eloquence66 had failed to keep in their posts all those whom his strong persuasion67 had collected around him. The men were but unenlightened working men after all, and the temptation to find other uses for their money than that of self-denying charity were too strong for their unfortified natures. So it was with some sense of shame that Arthur attended the club meeting on Sunday, knowing that it would be his last.
When it was over, he took Will Noble’s arm and asked the latter to walk a short way with him. Then he related the circumstances which would lead to his defection.
Will listened without any sign of annoyance68.
“If only the other men could know all this, Golding,” he said at length, “you could still stay with us, for you are doing nothing but what it is our aim to do. But that, of course, under the circumstances, wouldn’t be agreeable. Well, I suppose we must lose you, old fellow; but that’s no reason why you and I shouldn’t meet and have our chats as usual, is it?”
“None in the world. I am only afraid lest you should think less of me for having given up useful work for private ends.”
“If the ends were selfish,” replied Noble, “I should certainly think less of you, Golding, I confess. But when I know they are the opposite, I should be a fool if I did so. I value your friendship more than ever for this bit of kindness to that poor girl. I have a plain and downright way of looking at things, and it has always seemed to me that the man who saves one fellow-creature, however poor and miserable69, from a life of degradation70, deserves the utmost respect. We have such a lot of windy clamour now-a-days about doing good, but still so precious little of real individual effort. You talk of making this girl your wife. Well and good. You are the best judge in such a matter; and you ought to know whether she will suit you. Marry her by all means, and make a good, honest woman out of her. If you succeed in doing that, I can tell you, Golding, the thought of it will bring you happiness to the end of your life.”
They walked on for a little distance in silence.
“Bye-the-by, Noble,” said Arthur at length, “I wonder you have never thought of marriage yourself. I know very well you have plenty of use for your money, and that you do as much good as a man in your position possibly could do. But don’t you think of getting a home of your own one of these days?”
Will turned away his head, though the darkness would not allow his features to be observed.
“What if I had thought of it for a long time, Golding?” he said, with a nervous twitch71 of his arm, which Arthur felt.
“Why, I should be glad to hear it,” returned the latter. “I suppose I mustn’t venture to ask if the person is decided72 on?”
“Yes, you may ask,” said Noble, with a laugh. “She has long been decided on; but is not so ready to come to a decision herself.”
“What! Is it possible that a girl can hesitate to accept you, Noble — you, such a fine, generous, handsome fellow?”
“Hush73, hush, hush!” interrupted the other, laughing still. “You make me feel uncomfortable. For all those imaginary qualities your friendship gives me, Lucy doesn’t seem to care much for me. Well, well!”
He sent a sigh from his broad chest which showed that Will had sorrows of his own to occupy him occasionally, in addition to those of other people.
Arthur was silent, wondering curiously who this Lucy could be who played the coquette with such a man as Will Noble. His thoughts were interrupted by the latter’s voice.
“Will you come with me some day, Golding, and see Lucy?” asked Will.
“I should be delighted,” cried Arthur. “Does she live anywhere in this neighbourhood?”
“No, in the East End. We’ll go some Sunday, if you like.”
Very shortly after this they parted, Will taking his way homewards with a gloomier face than he usually wore, Arthur returning to dream all night of Carrie. He did not go home without first walking past the house in which he had established her and looking up at the window. It was quite dark; no doubt she was in bed and sleeping.
With many a fervent74 thought stirring in his heart, he sighed and walked slowly away. At all events, he would see her on the morrow.
Monday was frosty and fine. Punctually to his time, Arthur stood on the side of the street opposite to Carrie’s window. For a moment he saw her face there, and a minute afterwards she came out of the front door and walked quickly towards him. He thought she looked stronger already, and flattered himself that the slight glow on her cheeks was due to pleasure at seeing him. They walked side by side out of Huntley Street towards the more quiet neighbourhood of the adjoining squares.
“And how have you occupied yourself since I saw you on Saturday?” asked Arthur, stealing side glances at her face as they walked slowly on. “Has the time seemed long?”
“No, very short,” was the reply.
Arthur had hoped she would have said the opposite. He felt that the time had so crept with himself.
“Indeed? What have you been doing, then?”
“Oh, I have been putting my things in order, and doing some sewing.”
“Sewing? But had you needles and cotton?”
“Oh, yes. I went out on Saturday night and bought them.”
Arthur felt a sudden feeling something like anger rise within him. She had gone out alone on Saturday night? He could not bear the thought. He would have liked to be able to lock her up from all the world, so intense was his passion, and, consequently, so acute his jealousy75.
“Went out!” he cried. “But I begged you never to go out except when the sun was shining. I wonder you didn’t catch your death of cold.”
“Oh, I wasn’t out long. I only went into Oxford76 Street and back.”
“And how do you like your room?”
“It is very nice. I am very comfortable there. And the people are so nice. When I go to work again I’m sure I shall stay there.”
“When do you think you will be able to go to work?” asked Arthur, inwardly irritated at the matter-of-course way in which she spoke.
“Oh, in a week or two. The landlady’s eldest daughter goes to work, and she says she can get me a place with her.”
Arthur fumed77 in his heart. Carrie seemed already quite changed from what she had been on Saturday. She was making friends already, and plans in which he had no part. He had never suffered so acutely in his life.
“Shall you be glad to get to work again?” he asked, with something of pique78 in his voice.
“I shan’t be glad,” replied Carrie, with a slight sigh. “But what else can I do?”
Arthur’s equanimity79 was restored. After all she was dependent upon him. He had it in his power to relieve her from a disagreeable life.
“Well, well; we won’t talk about that just yet,” he replied, gaily80. “What you have to do now is to get well as fast as possible. You are dreadfully pale yet.”
They walked about the squares, talking thus, for nearly an hour. Then Arthur, looking at his watch, found that he had no time to lose. As it was, he had sacrificed his dinner for the sake of this conversation.
“Oh, must you go?” asked Carrie, in a rather sad voice.
“I must indeed. I must be at my work at half-past two. I shall have to run.”
“And when shall I see you again?”
“Perhaps in two or three days,” said Arthur, with a carelessness which he purposely affected81.
“Not before that?” asked his companion, with evident disappointment. “I suppose you are very busy?”
“Well, suppose I said the same time tomorrow, if it is fine?”
“Oh, yes; I will be ready.”
“But mind; if it rains or snows I shall not come. And you will promise me not to go out again today?”
“Yes.”
“Then good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Arthur pressed her hand for a moment in both his own, and then forced himself to walk quickly away. At the first corner he turned. Carrie was still standing where he had left her, looking after him. He waved his hand, and went on with joy in his heart.
The fortnight which succeeded was one of internal perturbation such as paled Arthur’s cheek, and gave his eye a restless, feverish82 look. With one or two exceptions, which he forced himself to make, he saw Carrie every day. Out of fear lest their regular appointments should be noticed from the house, he arranged that they should always meet at a certain spot in Torrington Square. Here he was, day after day, punctual to his hour, though it always cost him a hard walk and the sacrifice of his regular mid-day meal. He accustomed himself to satisfy his hunger with a few biscuits, which he ate as he walked, and often on reaching the square he was ready to faint with exhaustion83. In his scrupulous84 delicacy and care for Carrie’s reputation, he would not meet her after dark, but many a night he paced up and down Huntley Street, looking up at her window. As a rule, her light was burning there, and he imagined her sitting with her book or at her sewing. But once or twice her window was dark all the evening, and he tortured himself with divining all manner of explanations, good and evil. On the following days he endeavoured to discover where she had been, though he never ventured to tell her plainly why he asked. Perhaps she would say that she had been sitting with her landlady, and with this explanation he had to satisfy himself, though jealousy seemed to eat at his very vitals.
Notwithstanding his frequent requests that she would not leave the house at night, she several times showed in conversation that she had done so. But as she became more accustomed to his character, Carrie grew more careful, and, even if she had transgressed86 his rule, took care not to let him know it. Arthur pressed his injunctions upon her ostensibly on account of her health, but in reality because it was agony to him to think of her walking about the streets without his company and protection. This occasional disregard of his wishes was unutterable pain to Arthur. He said to himself that she ought to do as he desired, if from mere gratitude87 alone. But these momentary88 irritations89 would rapidly pass away, and be succeeded by a long conversation, in which each strove to give the other pleasure, and succeeded. It was a dreadfully transparent90 business, this affectation of mere friendship between the two. But Arthur had resolved that, till the month was up, he would not transgress85 these bounds, hard as it was to keep within them. He argued with himself that it was only fair to let Carrie become well acquainted with him before he asked her to become his wife. To present himself as a lover so soon would have appeared too like taking advantage of the gratitude she owed him. He was resolved that he would treat this friendless girl with as much consideration as if she had been the child of wealthy parents. In what else, he asked himself, does the character of a gentleman consist but in this according of courtesy to such as are not able to exact it?
The commencement of the third week was marked by a painful incident. On Saturday night Arthur had walked past Carrie’s window as usual, and had been troubled to see no light there. She had told him that she occasionally sat with the landlady and her daughter, and possibly she might be with them now. But an evil genius seemed to whisper suspicions in the lover’s ear. He resolved to watch the house for a time, and see whether she entered her room. It was now seven o’clock, and a raw, disagreeable evening, but weather was nothing to him. The fire that ceaselessly burned within him forbade his suffering from the inclement91 air. For several hours he walked perpetually up and down the street, and round the adjacent streets, never daring to be out of sight of the window long, lest she should, during that time, enter her room and go to bed. As the evening went on, his anxiety increased. He worked himself up to fever-heat. Several times he had almost resolved to knock at the house-door, and ask to see her, but this his delicacy prevented. Was it possible she had gone to bed without a light? That supposition could not satisfy him. Eleven o’clock came, and, with a heart overwhelmed with bitterness, he was on the point of going away and demanding an explanation on the morrow, when he saw two female figures emerging from the darkness, and walking in the direction of that one of these was Carrie. He recognised her tall figure the house he was watching. From the first sight he felt sure and her walk, though it was impossible to discern features. The two were laughing and talking together also, and he persuaded himself that, as they drew near, he recognised her voice. Drawing back against the houses to escape notice, he saw them stop before Carrie’s house and enter. He had not been mistaken.
He went home and crept shivering into bed, but closed not an eye all night. Should he kill himself at once? — that was the question that rang unceasingly through his brain. Better to do so than suffer the internal torture that must be his lot if incidents such as this were frequent. Where could Carrie possibly have passed the whole evening? Once or twice during that night of agony, he determined that he would continue to assist her till she could support herself, and then say good-bye to her for ever. A resolution likely of fulfilment! Between three and four, whilst Mark Challenger was sleeping peacefully in his bed, which stood at the other end of the room, Arthur rose and dressed; then paced the room till day-break in perfect silence. He felt that another such night would either kill him or make him raving92 mad.
He was to meet Carrie at ten o’clock on the following morning, and, if the weather proved fine, they were to take a walk. But the dawn which broke on Arthur’s eyes, as he sat in the cheerless room looking impatiently through the window for the first trace of daylight, was anything but promising93. Thick, low, leaden-hued clouds kept back the morning till a late hour, and when first the street began to be visible, it was through a mist of hopeless, heart-breaking rain. The roofs opposite reflected the earliest rays of dawn in the dull, distorting mirror of dripping slates94; the smoke which here and there began to show itself at the tops of the chimneys, faltered95 and sunk in a lifeless waver towards the ground; the feet of the passers-by on the pavement below, and the wheels of the occasional vehicles, went splash, splash, splash, revealing to the ear a waste of melancholy96 pools and snow of old deposit trodden and rained into sump; the cries of the milkmen seemed to come from afar off through deadening layers of fog.
As soon as he saw Mark Challenger beginning to stir and wake, Arthur, despite the weather, quickly put on his hat and hastened out. To have been spoken to, questioned, sympathised with, would have been intolerable. He was in no mood for any company but his own. He walked past Carrie’s house. The blind was down at her window, as at every other window, and the sight of it roused within him so fierce, yet so unreasoning an excess of bitterness, that he wrung97 his hands together, and could scarcely hold his voice from crying aloud. He hurried on, walking he knew not whither, unconscious of everything save the slow progress of time. He had eaten nothing since noon on the preceding day, but if he at all felt the pangs98 of hunger, he did not recognise them. By degrees it grew lighter99, but still the thin, hopeless rain came down from the leaden sky. Already it was nine o’clock. It was impossible for it to clear up that morning.
Ten o’clock came, and Arthur was at the place of meeting, feeling sure that Carrie would not come, and yet unable to return home. He had waited half-an-hour, and was on the point of moving slowly away, when he saw, at the further end of the square, a female form under an umbrella coming towards him. In a moment he saw that it was Carrie, and he ran to meet her.
“I suppose you didn’t expect me?” she asked; then added, without waiting for an answer, “How queer you look in the face! Aren’t you well?”
“I have had a bad night,” returned Arthur, every limb trembling from physical weakness and the force of his emotions.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You shouldn’t have troubled to come a dreadful morning like this.”
“I always keep my promises, however difficult it may be,” replied Arthur, with a steady gaze into her face. “But you don’t look well. Did the landlady keep you up late again last night?”
“Oh, no,” replied Carrie, carelessly.
“Did you pass the evening alone?” asked Arthur, affecting a like carelessness, though his eyes never moved from the girl’ face.
“Yes. It was dreadfully lonely. I was sewing as usual.”
“In your own room?”
“Of course. The people were all out somewhere last night.”
Arthur stood aghast. Though he had already once or twice been tortured with a vague suspicion that Carrie was not always truthful100 to him, he had never caught her in so direct an untruth.
“Then you never went out of the house?” he asked, still endeavouring, though with poor result, to hide the interest he had in the matter.
“Why should I?” returned Carrie, biting her lower lip, and slightly averting101 her head. “You know you told me not to go out after dark.”
Arthur could restrain himself no longer. For a moment a fierce combat raged within him, then he spoke in a low, trembling voice.
“In that case, Miss Mitchell, how was it that I saw you enter the house with one of the landlady’s daughters at nearly midnight?”
Carrie blushed involuntarily, but only for a moment. Then her eyes met Arthur’s full gaze. She stammered, but made no articulate reply.
“Where were you last night?” pursued Arthur, still holding her with his eye. Her colour went and came, and suddenly she spoke with angry emphasis.
“Well, I was at the Oxford Music Hall, Mr. Golding, if you must know. And what harm? Am I never to move out of my own room? I wish you had to live all alone as I do, you’d soon be glad of a little amusement!”
Arthur’s passion caught fire at the spark. He replied with trembling lips, cheeks deadly pale, and a tongue that stammered from anger.
“What harm? A great deal of harm that you should go where I do not wish you, where I will not have you go — at least, as long as you accept my help!”
He could have bitten off his tongue the next moment for speaking such words. But they were beyond recall. Whilst yet they were ringing in his ears, he saw Carrie turn passionately102 from him, and walk hastily away.
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1
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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5
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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7
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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8
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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9
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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10
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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11
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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12
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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13
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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14
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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15
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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16
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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17
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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18
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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19
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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20
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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21
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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22
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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23
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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24
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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25
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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26
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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27
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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29
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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30
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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31
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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32
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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33
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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34
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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35
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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36
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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37
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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38
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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39
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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41
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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42
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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43
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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44
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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45
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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46
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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49
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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50
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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51
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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52
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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53
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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54
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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55
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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56
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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57
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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58
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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59
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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60
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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61
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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62
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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63
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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64
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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66
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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67
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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69
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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71
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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72
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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73
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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74
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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75
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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76
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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77
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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78
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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79
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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80
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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81
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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82
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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83
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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84
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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85
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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86
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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87
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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88
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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89
irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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90
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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91
inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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92
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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93
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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94
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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95
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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96
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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97
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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98
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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99
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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100
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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101
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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102
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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