Arthur brought his wife home in an intoxication5 of joy and hope. Carrie was now his, his to guard, to foster, to cherish; his, moreover, to lead into higher paths than her feet had yet known, to develop, in short, into the ideal woman that his imagination had for years loved to depict6. He resolved that this should henceforth be the main task of his life. In long conversations with William Noble he exposed all his plans and hopes, asking and receiving advice in detail, and always deriving7 encouragement from this clear-headed and warm-hearted friend. From Noble he concealed8 nothing. The assurance of the latter’s sincere friendship was invaluable9 to him, and helped to support him in many an hour of what would otherwise have been despair.
He lost not a day in commencing the plan he had conceived for Carrie’s education. She must first be taught to read, write and speak with correctness. When on the first day of their married life, Arthur drew Carrie to his side, and in a gentle but firm tone of explanation told her of his intention, she listened with a peculiar10 expression of countenance11, partly amused, partly astonished, partly apprehensive12, but wholly incomprehensive. Notwithstanding the seriousness of Arthur’s demeanour she evidently felt convinced that it was some curious joke he was playing on her, but a joke of which she was not quite able to understand the fun.
“For how long did you go to school at home, Carrie?” asked Arthur, holding her upon his knee and caressing14 her long dark hair as he spoke15.
“Two years, I think,” she replied.
“And what did they teach you at school?”
“Why, what do they always teach at schools? Reading and writing, of course.”
“Nothing else?”
“What else is there to be taught?”
“No geography, or history?”
“I don’t know what that is,” she replied, with a somewhat contemptuous smile on her beautiful features. “No, they didn’t teach me that.”
“But I am sure you would like to know all these, and to be a clever woman, wouldn’t you, dearest?”
Carrie shrugged16 her shoulders a little, but made no immediate17 reply. Arthur was about to proceed in his coaxing18 when she interrupted him.
“Do you ever earn more than forty-five shillings a week, Arthur?” she asked, passing her fingers through the hair upon his forehead.
“Oh, never mind that at present,” he said, laughing. “Let us talk a little about your education. Will Carrie promise to do as I wish her and spend a few hours a day in teaching herself to read well and write without mistakes?”
“I shan’t never be able to do that,” she replied, shaking her head and evidently thinking of something widely different.
“Shan’t ever, you mean,” corrected Arthur.
She looked at him in surprise.
“You won’t mind me correcting you when you make mistakes in speaking, will you, dearest?” said Arthur.
“Oh, then we shan’t be able to talk at all,” returned Carrie, rather pettishly19. “You say I make so many mistakes, and I’m sure I shan’t never be no better, however much you trouble.”
Arthur thrust his fingers into his ears and made a wry20 face as though something had hurt him.
“Shan’t ever be any better, you mean,” he said. “Never mind, Carrie; you will get better for all that; I am determined21 you shall. Now, here’s a book. Let me hear you read a little.”
Carrie took the volume and inspected it for a few moments, then, in all probability finding it beyond her powers, gave it back to Arthur.
“Oh, what’s the good of it all?” she asked, impatiently. “It won’t make me cook dinners no better.”
The conversation was long and curious, but, by the exercise of wonderful patience and good-humour, aided, of course, by the deep love he bore her, Arthur succeeded at length in persuading Carrie to let him set her brief and easy tasks, which she faithfully promised she would perform in his absence from home during the following day. There were a few words of which the spelling was to be learnt, half a page to write in a copy-book, and a short piece of poetry to get by heart.
On the following evening Arthur returned home with a glad and hopeful heart. Hoping to give Carrie a pleasant surprise he stole upstairs in the completest silence. The door of his room was closed, but he could perceive that a light burnt within; though he listened he could hear no voice. He knocked, in the manner of a stranger. In a moment Carrie opened the door, and, peering into the darkness, instantly saw who it was, then with a joyful22 cry sprang and threw her arms around his neck. The room was in nice order; the few additional articles of furniture which Arthur had procured23 for Carrie’s special pleasure were neatly24 arranged round the room, and the cloth spread upon the table gave hopeful promise of dinner. But what gave Arthur still more joy was the sight of Carrie’s copy-book lying open on the side-table, as if she had just been occupied at it.
Resolved not to become a pedantic25 bore, Arthur ate his dinner with vast enjoyment26, and then devoted27 half an hour to lover’s-talk with Carrie, before he broached28 the subject of lessons.
“Has the day seemed long, darling?” he asked at length, by way of getting round to the delicate topic.
“Oh, very long,” she replied. “I don’t know what I shall do without you always, Arthur.”
“But I see your copy-book there. That’s a good sign. Come, let me look at what you have done, Carrie.”
“Oh, not to-night,” she answered. “I haven’t done much, and it’s dreadful bad.”
“Never mind, let me see. You are not afraid of me, Carrie?”
At length he persuaded her to bring him the book. Two lines were written, and it was no exaggeration to say they were “dreadful bad.”
“There, I knew you’d only make fun of me,” said Carrie, snatching the book from his hand, as she noticed a slight elevation31 of the eyebrows32 which he could not resist.
“I shouldn’t dream of making fun of you, darling,” he replied earnestly. “It is too grave a matter for joking. Now let me show you how you can do it better next time. Come and sit by me at the table, love, and bring your pen.”
“No, not now,” she persisted impatiently. “I’m tired to death. If you’d had a room to clean up and a dinner to cook, you wouldn’t want to be bothering with reading and writing.”
Arthur was silent for a moment, sitting with downcast eyes. “But I have been hard at work all day, Carrie,” he urged gently, as soon as he could trust his voice. “I think my work is at least as hard as yours; and yet I am anxious to do more now for your sake, dearest. Besides yours has been only work with the hands. You can listen to what I say, and rest at the same time: Come and sit by me, Carrie.”
With some hesitation33 she took a chair at his side. Carrie had a slow, sidling way of walking which was never very agreeable to see, and the ungracious way in which she now obeyed his request gave Arthur acute pain.
“Where are the other books?” he asked, quietly. “Have you learnt the spelling and the poetry?”
She looked away from him and made no answer.
“Weren’t you able to do it, dearest?” he asked, passing his arm affectionately round her. “Did you try, Carrie?”
“Yes, I tried,” she returned. “But the words were too hard, and I couldn’t understand the other stuff a bit.”
“The other stuff” signified the first three verses of the “Ancient Mariner34.” Arthur felt annoyed to hear a favourite poem so designated.
“But it is very simple, dear,” he urged. “Let us read it together, and I’m sure you will understand it.”
“Oh, what’s the use of bothering!” she returned. “I’m tired now. I’ll look at it again tomorrow.”
Then she added, directly, “Arthur, where do you keep the money you save?”
This was agony to him. It is all very well to say that on the second day after his marriage he ought to have been as much in love with his wife as to care for nothing but listening to her heedless talk and to think everything worthy35 of detestation which caused her the least annoyance36. Arthur’s nature being what it was, such love as this was impossible to him. What he intensely loved, he could not but wish intensely to respect. The pity which had originated his love was in itself a species of respect; he had convinced himself by force of emotion that Carrie could not deserve the suffering she endured, and he had almost reverenced37 her as an instance of unmerited misfortune. Then of course her striking personal beauty had forced him to look up to her as something superior. He could not believe that such outward perfection could exist with a common-place and sterile38 nature. When he openly declared to her his affection, the warmth with which she reciprocated39 it had added another link to his chain by convincing him of the strength of her feelings. He felt that an indifferent, passionless woman would have been intolerable to him. But now a vague dread30 began to encroach like an unnatural40 darkness upon his heart, a terrible fear lest he might have deceived himself not only with regard to her intelligence, but also as to the extent of her affection for him. He could not bear the suspicion. At all costs he must throw it off. Possibly it might force itself on him later, gain ground surely and with the pitiless persistency41 of fate, but as yet it was too, too early. Why, he had scarcely tasted the fulness of his joy; should the cup already be dashed from his lips?
“There, never mind the books to-night, Carrie!” he exclaimed gaily42. “Throw away the copy-book! we will think of them again tomorrow. Look cheerful again, darling. Come and sit on my knee and tell me how much you love me.”
Carrie was all radiance at once, and as pretty a lovers’ tattle followed as novelist might wish to chronicle; but — somehow or other I have no taste for it. Perhaps the shadow of coming events falls already upon me and makes me gloomy.
A week elapsed. The first lesson had at length been struggled through, though with little good result as regards Carrie’s temper. In the ensuing week Arthur had calculated that he would be more exacting43. He began by persistent44 correction of his wife’s speech, which was indeed faulty enough. The speedy result was that he brought about an outbreak of temper such as he had never conceived possible.
“Why don’t you let me speak as I’m used to?” cried Carrie, starting up with flashing eyes, one night when Arthur had interrupted her in every sentence for a quarter of an hour. “What’s the good of tormenting45 me in that way. If you wanted to marry a grammar-machine you should have looked somewheres else, and not have taken up with me! You can understand what I mean, well enough, and what more do you want, I’d like to know? I shan’t speak at all, that’s what I shall do, and then maybe you’ll be satisfied.”
And she flung herself into a chair by the fire-side, with her back to Arthur.
Arthur’s temper was severely46 tried. For some minutes he bit his lips to restrain the angry words which all but made their way. His face burned and his throat was so dry and hot that he could scarcely breathe.
“You are unkind and unjust to speak so to me, Carrie,” he began at length. “Do you think I do it to annoy you? Do you think I take a pleasure in it? I assure you I do it as a duty; I force myself to correct you when I would gladly think of other things.”
“Then why do you give yourself the bother?” retorted Carrie, without moving. “No one wants you.”
“But you should want me to,” persisted Arthur, drawing near to her, and speaking in a calm though forcible tone of explanation. “Can’t you see, Carrie, that it is for your own good? Do you like to make mistakes in speaking?”
No answer.
“Do you wish to render my whole life miserable47, Carrie?” he pursued. “It lies in your power either to make me completely happy or completely wretched. Do you prefer to make me wretched?”
It was an important sentence. Had Arthur been cool enough to reflect on the experience he had already acquired of woman’s illogicality, he would never have ventured to speak thus.
“Oh, I make you miserable, do I?” she said, starting up from her chair. “I can precious soon take myself off. Perhaps you’ll be happy then. Let me go past! I’ve earnt my living before now, and I dare say I can do it again. I won’t stay here any longer to make you miserable.”
Arthur was in despair. With trembling fingers Carrie was putting on her hat and jacket, and seemed in earnest in her purpose to depart. He felt that he had not deserved this treatment. A burning sense of injustice48 raged within his heart, and withheld49 him from confessing that he was wrong, and begging for pardon. Doubtless, also, there was something of stubbornness in his disposition50. Though Carrie was a long time in dressing51, much longer than was necessary, he did not stir to prevent her. He stood with his eyes fixed52 upon the floor.
She was dressed, but did not move towards the door. After a few moments of absolute silence, she moved towards him and held out her hand.
“Good-bye, Arthur,” she said. “I don’t want to make you miserable longer than I can help.”
The last word was broken with a sob53. Arthur looked up and saw that the tears were coursing fast down her cheeks. This was too much. In a moment he folded her in his arms, and kissed away the tears with passionate54 warmth.
“Why will you so cruelly misunderstand me, darling?” he whispered, as she leaned her head upon his shoulder. “Do you think I take a pleasure in annoying you? Some day you will see the reason of all I say and do, and you will thank me for taking such pains with you. It’s terrible for me to make you so angry. Promise me, dear Carrie, that you will try to understand me better, that you will try to do as I wish. Indeed, indeed, it is for your good. Will you believe me, darling?”
In this way at length the quarrel was made up, but the same night Arthur, with great difficulty, succeeded in getting permission from Carrie to visit William Noble, and to him he made known all his afflictions. Noble listened attentively55, but with a pained expression on his countenance.
“This is very soon to begin quarrelling, Golding,” he said, when his friend had done. “Don’t you think you are too peremptory56, too exacting? You must remember the old proverb, that Rome wasn’t built in a day; and I can assure you there is nothing requiring so much tact57, patience and quiet perseverance58 as the education of a grown-up person, especially a woman. You must not expect too much you know.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Arthur, impatiently, “is it possible for a man to entertain more humble59 pretentions than I do? Is it too much to beg and pray her to write and read for half-an-hour a day? Am I too exacting when I rejoice if she learns to spell only one word of two syllables60, or corrects some single outrageous61 error in her pronunciation? Do you think this too much to expect, Noble?”
“It doesn’t appear very exorbitant62, does it?” returned William, smiling. “But there is a great deal in manner, you know. Do you think you are gentle enough? Don’t you lose patience too quickly, and correct her harshly?”
“How can you ask me such questions, Noble? Isn’t she my wife, and haven’t I told you that, spite of all her imperfections, I love her passionately63, and would not retract64 my steps for the world! How is it possible that I could speak harshly to her? I use the gentlest persuasions65. I put it to her in every possible form I know, that she ought to do this for her own sake.”
“How does she employ her days?” asked Noble.
“Oh, women always find enough to do,” replied his friend. “She sews a good deal, she has the meals to prepare, and walks out now and then when it is fine. But all that would leave her plenty of time to do what I ask of her.”
“Has she any kind of society besides your own?”
“Most unfortunately not,” replied Arthur, “and that is one of the sore points. The landlady66 is a very decent woman, and would willingly afford her company now and then, but Carrie has conceived a most inexplicable67 dislike to her. I can’t persuade her from it; in this, as in many other matters, she is terribly self-willed.”
“You must confess, Golding,” said Noble, “that this loneliness is a very bad thing for her. When one spends day after day in solitariness68, one loses energy, and acquires a distaste for everything.”
“True, but how can it be avoided? It isn’t likely I could permit her to return to her old acquaintances of the workrooms, and her relatives she will certainly have nothing to do with. You see, I am such a lonely fellow myself; I cannot boast a female acquaintance except my wife.”
“Well, well, we must hope for better things,” said Noble, encouragingly. “Depend upon it she will find suitable friends before very long. In the meantime, Golding, you must exercise the utmost forbearance. Remember what a tremendous responsibility you have taken upon yourself. I don’t think you are the man for shirking a duty, however disagreeable, Golding. Your way is clear before you, and, so long as you don’t stray from it, I fear you must be content at present with scarcely perceptible progress. Whatever you do, you mustn’t make your wife miserable; better she should be ignorant than unhappy. To make her happy is the first aim of your life, the second is to train her to prefer a higher kind of happiness to that she has always been content with.”
Arthur was silent for some moments, reflecting. Then he rose to depart, and held out his hand, which his friend grasped.
“You are always a true comforter,” he said; “you give encouragement of the highest kind, Noble. I am afraid I make but a poor figure compared with a man of your grand energy. Do you know, I have often felt lately as if I were out of place in the world, as if the work I had before me wasn’t my true work. I don’t know whether you can understand this?”
“Partly, perhaps,” said Noble, with a sigh. “I know the feeling occasionally myself, but I always struggle against it. The true philosophy is to consider whatever work you have to do as the true work, and to do it with all your might. Depend upon it the feeling is not a symptom of health, Golding.”
Arthur was just going, when he again turned.
“Noble,” he said, with some little hesitation, “have you mentioned my marriage to any of your acquaintances?”
“To no one.”
“May I ask you always to be as silent — with everyone?”
“I will be so.”
“Thanks, Noble; you will oblige me. Good-night.”
It would be a tedious and unedifying task to relate the daily life of the new-married couple in persistent detail. The days which I have described are a fair example of every day during the first month. Arthur continued to exert himself to the utmost for Carrie’s education, but always with insignificant69 result. Once or twice he all but made up his mind that the task he had set himself was vain, that it meant nothing but lifelong misery70 to Carrie and himself, and that it would be infinitely71 better to cease to care for these matters, and to preserve domestic quietude at the expense of his wife’s advancement72. But to this he could not reconcile himself; it would have been to relinquish73 too much, to render himself degraded in his own eyes, and immeasurably to lessen74 the love he had for his wife. He asked himself what their marriage would become if he once despaired of raising Carrie to his own level. He would lose all that had rendered it most delightful75 to him, that precious sense of the performance of a lofty task which seemed necessary to his existence. If it were to degenerate76 into a mere77 vulgar connection, subsisting78 mainly upon sensual emotions, he felt that it would hang upon him like a crushing weight, a veritable degrading weight of fetters79. What did it mean then, this love which he still felt convinced of? If he had loved his wife merely for her own sake, surely he would have been happy with her under any circumstances which gave her happiness? But what, he asked himself, trembling at the very thought, what if it were but a false love after all, a passion like that of Ixion for a mere insubstantial fancy? What if he had fallen in love with an ideal, clothing it with Carrie’s outward beauty? If the soul of the ideal vanished, could he love the frame for its own sake; or, if at moments he felt he could, was it not the hot blood of youth which spoke, instead of his sober reason?
He had no reason to think Carrie particularly extravagant80 in the expenditure81 of the money he allowed her weekly for house expenses, but still he could not prevail upon her to keep any kind of accounts. Any mention of the desirability of doing so was sure to awaken82 that acute spirit of suspicion which seemed ever lurking83 in her mind.
“So you can’t trust me!” she suddenly replied one night, when he had brought home a neat little account-book, and begged her to try and make use of it. “Do you think I make waste of the money? If you think so, you’d better not give me so much.”
Remonstrance84 was quite in vain. She appeared hurt at the idea of being asked to keep an account of her expenditures85; so that Arthur was fain to drop all mention of it, and sigh in secret over another defeat.
One morning, as he was walking quickly down Huntley Street in the direction of his work, he was surprised at finding himself suddenly stopped by the landlady of the house in which he had established Carrie previous to their marriage. She was standing13 in the doorway86, and called out, “Eh! eh!” at the same time making signs to him as he went along the opposite side of the street. He crossed over, wondering much what the woman could want with him.
“Could you let me ‘ave ‘alf-a-minute’s talk?” she asked, beckoning87 him to enter the house. Arthur had never much liked her appearance. At present she was slatternly in the extreme, and had the look about the eyes which distinguishes persons who have but lately slept off a debauch88. He noticed that her hands trembled, and that her voice was rather hoarse89. When he had stepped into the passage, she asked —
“Do you know as your wife owes me five shillings?”
“For what?” returned Arthur, in surprise. He had not even been aware that this woman knew him as Carrie’s husband. “I thought all expenses were paid when she left.”
“No, no, they wasn’t,” replied the woman. “Far from it. There was five diff’rent shillin’s owin’ me for brandy.”
“For brandy!” exclaimed Arthur, aghast.
“Yes, for brandy. She used to say as how a drop did her good when she felt weak, an’ so I s’plied her, yer see — five diff’rent shillin’s-worths.”
“But did you ask her for the money?”
“Oh, yes; an’ she said as how she’d pay me soon, for she couldn’t at the time. But I’ve been to see her at your ’ouse three or four times, an’ she always puts me horff. So I thought as how the best plan ‘ud be to arst you for it.”
“Well,” said Arthur, “of course I can’t pay you without making some inquiry90 into the matter. I will speak to my wife about it to-night, and if she admits the debt I will pay you tomorrow. Good-morning.”
And he hurried off, leaving the woman looking after him with a hideous91 grin upon her face. The thought of this affair destroyed Arthur’s peace throughout the day. If this brandy had been in reality procured for medicinal purposes why should Carrie hesitate to tell him of the debt? But if there were no truth in this assertion. That was a supposition upon which he durst not dwell. He remembered, however, the intimacy92 which Carrie had spoken of as existing between herself and that woman, and this, when he considered the latter’s appearance and manner, was anything but an agreeable thought. The moment that the day’s work was over, he hurried anxiously home, resolved to lose no time in solving his doubts.
Carrie met him as usual with open arms and an affectionate kiss.
“Carrie,” he said, holding her slightly away from him, “how is it you always eat so much peppermint93?”
“Do you notice it?” she returned, colouring very slightly.
“Notice it! I have frequently been overpowered with the smell of peppermint.”
“Oh, I always have some by me,” she cried, gaily. “These are my favourite eating. Look, you shall have some yourself.”
And she fetched a small paper of lozenges from the mantelpiece.
“Taste them,” she said. “They’re the best I ever bought, and only three half-pence an ounce. Take some.”
“Not before dinner, thanks,” replied Arthur, his thoughts too much fixed on one matter to join in his wife’s gaiety. He resolved to say nothing, however, till dinner was over. Carne’s sharp eyes at once discerned that something had occurred to annoy him, and occasionally she watched him through the meal. Had Arthur regarded her in turn he would have noticed that her eyes were unusually bright, but he kept his own fixed upon his plate, and spoke very little. Carrie scarcely ate anything at all; she said she had no appetite.
After long reflection as to how he should broach29 the subject which monopolised his thoughts, Arthur resolved that the best way was to proceed to the point without circumlocution94.
“Carrie,” he said, steadily95 regarding her across the table, “is it true that you owe your old landlady five shillings?”
Carrie returned his look with one of alarmed surprise. But it only lasted a second, as well as the sudden blush which had risen to her cheek.
“Who has been telling you that?” she returned, with an affectation of nonchalance96 which did not sit well on her.
“Never mind who has told me. Is it true that you owe the money?”
“I suppose she has told you herself, has she?” said Carrie.
“Yes, she has.”
“And she told you I owed it her for brandy?”
“She did, as I passed her house this morning,” replied Arthur, regarding her gravely.
“Did you pay it?” asked Carrie, after a brief pause, in which she seemed hurriedly to reflect.
“Certainly not. The demand appeared to me so extraordinary that I couldn’t think of paying it till I had asked you about the matter. Whatever did you want with five shillings worth of brandy?”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pay it,” she replied. “It’s all a lie. I don’t owe her five shillings at all.”
“But what is the foundation of her claim then?”
“I’ll tell you how it is, Arthur. Several times whilst I was there, I was ill and faint, and I asked the landlady to let me have a little brandy. When I was going away I asked her how much I owed her for it, and she said five shillings. Then I told her I wasn’t such a fool as all that, and I didn’t owe not nearly as much, more like one shilling than five. But she wouldn’t take one, so I said I shouldn’t pay at all.”
There was so much of sincerity97 in her tone and manner as she gave this account, that Arthur could not but believe it. It raised a terrible load from his breast, and his face brightened up wonderfully.
“Then,” said he, “I shall go and offer her two shillings tomorrow morning, and if she isn’t content with that she must do without payment.”
“You needn’t trouble to do that,” replied Carrie. “She came here whilst you were away this morning and told me she had asked you for this money: So to save bother I paid her half-a-crown, and she was satisfied.”
Arthur looked surprised.
“She has been here several times lately, hasn’t she?” he asked.
“Once or twice.”
“But why not have told me of it, Carrie? It would have saved a great deal of trouble.”
“Oh, I didn’t like to bother you about it,” she replied, beginning to remove the plates from the table.
She was in a wonderfully good humour all that evening, and delighted Arthur by being the first to propose that she should have her usual reading lesson. She read aloud to him from “Robinson Crusoe” for half an hour, making not more than four or five blunders in each line, and being corrected with the utmost patience. Then she wrote a line or two in her copybook, whilst Arthur sat, pretending to read, but in reality watching her. It needed very little to reexcite hope in his breast, and he felt to-night that he had been foolish to despair so early. The full tide of love once more deluged98 his heart, and he was perfectly99 happy.
In the morning Carrie took the opportunity of bright sunshine to propose that she should accompany Arthur for a short distance on the way to his work. Her proposal was joyfully100 accepted, and the two set out together rather earlier than usual. They did not take the nearest way, directly down Huntley Street, but, in accordance with Carrie’s wish, made a circuit by Tottenham Court Road. For this she made some idle excuse, and Arthur, far too happy to spoil her pleasure, yielded without a thought.
When Carrie returned alone, she did not go straight home, but stopped and knocked at the door of her old abode101. The landlady opened to her.
“Oh,” began the latter, “so you re come at last.”
“Yes, I have, Mrs. Pole,” returned Carrie, with an indignant air. “And I’d like to know what call you had to go telling my husband about that money you make out I owe you.”
“Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Pole, closing the door, and leading the way downstairs into the kitchen. “Why, there’s no call to have words over it. I only did what I told you I’d do, and what anyone else i’ my place ‘ud a’ done. It ain’t likely as I could afford to lose five bob, is it now? An’ so you’re come to pay, I s’pose?”
“I haven’t come to pay five shillings, Mrs. Pole,” returned Carrie, “and nothing like it; so you needn’t think I’m such a fool as to do it. I don’t owe you so much, and what’s more you know I don’t.”
“So help me God!” exclaimed the woman, you owe me every penny of five bob, and you know it. There was ‘alf a quartern o’ brandy that day as you come an’ told me you was too lazy to fetch it yourself; there was another ‘alf quartern that day as you got wet and come into this very kitchen to dry your boots before the fire; then there was a ‘ole quartern that night as you went with my Ann to the Hoxford ——”
“Oh! How can you say so!” broke in Carrie. “In the first place that wasn’t brandy at all. It was gin hot, and there wasn’t even half a quartern of it, so don’t tell lies whatever you do, Mrs. Pole.”
Mrs. Pole recriminated, and the conversation — if conversation it can be called — endured nearly an hour and a half. The end of it was that Carrie paid three and sixpence, and received a receipt for it.
“Well, we’re not goin’ to part hunfriendly, I’m sewer,” said Mrs. Pole, when the business was thus satisfactorily arranged. “You’ve drove me ‘ard, but I don’t mind standin’ somethink for all that. What’s it to be? A drop o’ brandy?”
“No, no,” replied Carrie, laughing. “No more brandy. If it must be something, say a drop of whiskey hot.”
“Well, I likes whiskey myself, for a change,” said Mrs. Pole, and forthwith dispatched a girl to fetch the required amount. The consumption of this beverage102 took up another hour, after which Carrie hurried home.
One evening, shortly after this episode, Arthur returned home at the usual time, and, as usual, very hungry. Carrie had been growing somewhat careless of late in the preparation of meals, frequently being nearly half an hour behindhand with the dinner. To-night was a case in point. When Arthur entered, the table still exhibited the remains103 of that morning’s breakfast, and a fire almost out gave little promise of the speedy provision of a meal. It had been a dark, miserable, rainy day. Arthur was wet through and weary, and had been looking forward all the way home to a bright fire to warm and cheer him.
“Really, this is too bad, Carrie!” he exclaimed on entering. “What ever have you been doing all day? Have you been out?”
She was apparently104 occupied in regarding something which lay on the side table, and for the moment made no reply.
“Carrie!” he repeated, with more emphasis, “why do I come home and find the room in this state?”
“Well, there’s nothing to make a noise about,” she replied, slowly turning towards him. “You can’t always expect to have everything ready the minute you want it.”
Arthur knew not how to speak. These little scenes had become so frequent of late, starting in every imaginable petty case, that he dreaded105 to do anything to provoke one. The constant recurrence106 of such annoyances107 operated upon his nervous nature with terrible effect; he would have undergone almost any privation rather than have suffered all the agonies of these vexatious quarrels which were so often forced upon him. At present, therefore, he made no reply, but began to take off his wet things, watching in silence for Carrie to prepare the meal. But she was still regarding the same object on the side-table, and showed no sign of leaving it.
“What are you doing there?” Arthur asked, with sudden impatience108, moving towards her.
She caught up a sheet of paper from the table and held it behind her back.
“What have you got?” he repeated. “Why don’t you speak?”
There was a peculiar look upon her countenance such as Arthur had never seen there before, and which he did not in the least understand. Suddenly she drew the paper from behind her back and held it out for him to look at. With surprise and pain he saw that it was his memory-portrait of Helen Norman.
“Who is that?” she asked, a light gleaming in her eyes which Arthur now recognised as that of jealousy109. He replied to her with another question.
“How did you find it?”
“I found it in your box.”
“And what were you looking for there?” Arthur asked, angry to think of all the dear remembrances of his past life being turned over by one who could neither understand the drawings themselves nor the feelings which they represented. “I thought I left it locked.”
“So you did, but I have a key that fits it.”
“Then I ask you, what were you looking for there?”
“Can’t I look over your things if I choose?” returned Carrie. “It’s a nice thing if one can’t be trusted by one’s own husband! It doesn’t look a very good sign when things are hidden away out of sight and kept secret. Who is this?”
It was impossible for Arthur to reply to this question; not merely because he was angry and indisposed to yield a point, but because he felt that to have mentioned her name under such circumstances would have been profanation110.
“It is an imaginary face,” he answered. “Are you satisfied?”
“A what face?”
“An imaginary face — a face drawn111 from my own fancy. Give it me at once!”
This was altogether beyond Carrie’s understanding. To her mind every picture must be a likeness112; how else could it have come into existence? She smiled with angry scorn, but on meeting Arthur’s eye, in which real anger was now beginning to burn, she hesitated before proceeding113 in her taunts114.
“Give it me at once!” repeated Arthur, in a sterner voice than he had ever yet used to his wife. It was torture to him to see her sneering115 at the picture; it was desecration116 for it to remain in her hands.
“If I give it you will you tear it up?” asked Carrie, holding the drawing close to her.
“Certainly not!” replied Arthur. “Why should I destroy it?”
“That shows; that shows!” cried Carrie, tauntingly117. “I knew it was somebody. It was put away carefully by itself. I know very well it’s someone!”
“And even if it were,” said Arthur, angrily, “what does it matter?”
“There, I knew!” cried Carrie. “You shan’t keep it; I’ll tear it first!”
Pale with rage he felt compelled to suppress, Arthur suddenly stepped towards her and seized the drawing from her grasp. In a moment she sprang forward, and, even as he held it, rent it fiercely in two. Without speaking a word, Arthur gathered up the remnants, folded them carefully, and with them in his hand walked from the house.
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1
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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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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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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8
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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9
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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10
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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11
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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12
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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13
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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14
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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15
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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16
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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17
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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18
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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19
pettishly
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20
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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21
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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22
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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23
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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24
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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25
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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26
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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27
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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28
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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29
broach
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| v.开瓶，提出(题目) | |
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30
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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31
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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32
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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33
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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34
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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35
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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36
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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37
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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38
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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39
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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40
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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41
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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42
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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43
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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44
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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45
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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46
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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47
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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48
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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49
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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50
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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51
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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52
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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53
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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54
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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55
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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56
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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57
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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58
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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59
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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60
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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61
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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62
exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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63
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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64
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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65
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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66
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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67
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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68
solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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69
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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72
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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73
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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74
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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75
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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76
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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77
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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78
subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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79
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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81
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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82
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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83
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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84
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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85
expenditures
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| n.花费( expenditure的名词复数 )；使用；（尤指金钱的）支出额；（精力、时间、材料等的）耗费 | |
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86
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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87
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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88
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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89
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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90
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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91
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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92
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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93
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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94
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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95
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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96
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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97
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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98
deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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99
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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100
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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101
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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102
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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103
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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104
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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105
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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106
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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107
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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108
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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109
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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110
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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111
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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112
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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113
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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114
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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115
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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116
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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117
tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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