It still rained, and the February wind swept the streets with cutting severity. Strong emotion had stilled the sense of hunger as effectually as a meal would have done, and although all his clothes were so wet that they clung about him, Arthur did not feel it.
Heedless of what direction he took, he walked at a rapid pace along the main streets of the neighbourhood, seeing nothing that he passed, merely obeying the impulse which led him to quick motion. As he turned the corners the cold rain lashed6 his face, and he felt it soothing7 rather than disagreeable, for his whole body burned violently. The inside of his mouth, moreover, as is usual after moments of strong anger, was terribly parched8; his tongue felt like a piece of leather.
As he passed the coffee-houses, he felt that a cup of coffee would have been a great luxury to him, but he had no money with him. So completely did he place confidence in Carrie, that he always entrusted9 to her the whole of the money for the week, applying to her whenever he needed any, and so few were his private needs, that it was quite usual for him to be without a coin in his pocket. So he was obliged to turn his eyes from the warm interiors of the coffee-houses and to take a long, cold draught10 from the first drinking fountain which he passed. There also he bathed his forehead, and the moisture seemed to refresh him.
When he had so far recovered himself as to be able to reflect, he drew aside from the crowded thoroughfares into narrow and darker streets, and at length, pausing in an entrance above which hung a gas lamp, he drew the torn drawing from his pocket, and, holding the two halves together, once more regarded it.
For a long time it had lain in the very bottom of his box, for he had placed it there purposely, lest by being too near at hand it should tempt11 him to look at it. It was a most unfortunate circumstance that Carrie’s ill-governed curiosity should have led to its discovery to-night, for all through the day Arthur’s thoughts, despite his strongest efforts to turn them in another direction, had been running on Helen Norman. He had thought of the drawing, and had half persuaded himself that there would be no harm in taking the opportunity of some moment when Carrie was absent to gaze upon it once more.
What harm? he had asked himself. Was not Helen Norman as far removed from him now as if she were dead? and what harm could there be in giving himself the pleasure of looking at her picture? Then Arthur’s sterner good sense had come to the rescue, and had urged that the mere5 fact of this being a pleasure proved that the wish should not be indulged. His honour spoke12, and told him that not even in thought should he deviate13 from the undivided attention which he owed his wife.
Upon his return home, had he found the room neat and bright, had Carrie been in her best humour, and received him, as usual, with a kiss, then the victory would have been complete, and Helen Norman would have rested undisturbed in the portfolio14 at the bottom of the box.
In this way he reflected as, piecing the portrait together, he viewed its sweet outlines by the lamp-light. Insensibly he passed on to a comparison between Helen and his wife. Supposing he had married Helen, and she had one day come across a piece of evidence proving indisputably that her husband had once loved another girl, would she have acted as Carrie had done? Would she not rather have made it a subject for merry laughter and jest, have asked questions about the buried love, have sincerely sympathised with any little sadness which the recollection might have aroused, and then, after all, have set a seal upon the real and living affection with tender caresses15? But he felt in his heart that such behaviour was impossible in Carrie; it was vain to expect from her the gentleness, the intelligence, the fine discrimination of such a nature as Helen’s. And thereupon a fierce rush of wild regret swept over his soul, and in a burst of anguish16 he pressed a thousand kisses upon the mutilated face.
Intruders forced him to once more fold up the picture and pass on. But Helen’s countenance17 had stamped itself upon his imagination, and he saw it gleaming in the darkness as he hastened along the narrow bye-ways. Helen and Carrie! 0 God! How could he bear to reflect upon the two together? In these moments every loveable look which he had ever seen on Helen’s face, every tone which he had heard from her lips, every wise, good, tender word she had spoken in his presence, was as real to him as if he had been subject to its influence but a moment ago. What a spirit of sweet and noble intelligence breathed from her whole person. Intelligence — intelligence! That, after all, was what Arthur most worshipped in her; that godlike property in virtue18 of which man becomes “a being of such large discourse19, looking before and after.”
Aye, had she been endowed with the grossest ugliness that ever weighed upon human creature, Arthur, in his present mood, felt that he should have made a goddess of her for her intelligence alone. But poor Carrie — alas20! What was all her outward beauty when she utterly21 lacked all trace of that divine fire, that heaven-aspiring flame which, when it burns upon the altar of the heart, permeates22 and sanctifies it with its glow. Who was this that he had married? What beast’s nature encased in a human form?
In this hour of agony he felt that the struggle had begun; that while he aspired23 to highest regions of pure air, this weight to which he had immutably24 bound himself was dragging him down, down into the foul25 atmosphere of a brutal26 existence.
Wandering on with limbs already stiffening27 under fatigue28, and with a mind well-nigh exhausted29 by the violence of his emotions, he found himself at length in Leicester Square, and mingled30 with the crowd of reeling revellers and painted prostitutes which is always to be found here after nightfall. Such company was dangerous to one in his mood, for how easy is it for the nature weary with struggling after an exalted31 ideal suddenly to fall into the opposite extreme, and find no depth of degradation32 sufficient for its cravings.
Before him blazed the lights of the Alhambra, and for the first time in his life he burned with passionate33 eagerness to see the inside of a theatre, a delight he had never yet experienced. But he was without money. Eager to relieve his thoughts from the insufferable oppression to which they had yielded, he turned his attention to the female faces which he saw passing and repassing. How hideous34 were most of them! The eyes encircled with rings of dark red, the drawn35 lips, the cheeks whereon the paint lay in daubs of revolting coarseness, the bodies for the most part puffed36 into unsightly obesity37 — surely there was little to invite in all this. But Arthur’s passions were awakened38, and he found a pleasure in the novel sensation of witnessing such scenes.
At length a young girl passed him, very different in appearance from those other women, yet none the less evidently a fille perdue. Her shape dainty and slim, her walk marked by that delightful40 spring which gives an impression of staginess, and her face unmistakably lovely. Without thinking why he did so, Arthur turned and followed her.
Possibly she heard his step behind her, for suddenly she stopped, turned round with a fascinating smile, and spoke to him in French. Arthur, at once abashed41, turned hastily away, and walked quickly from the square.
It was past ten o’clock, and he felt that it was time to return home. Making his way slowly in the neighbourhood of Soho Square, the quietness of the street was suddenly broken by the sound of a barrel-organ which proceeded from a court close at hand. Music of any kind had always the utmost attraction for Arthur, and for a street organ he entertained the utmost liking42, partly because it was almost the only kind of music he ever heard, partly because it recalled to him many happy hours of his childhood, when his toil43 in Little St. Andrew Street had been lightened by some heaven-sent organ-grinder’s strains.
He now approached the court where the music was, and saw a little band of miserably44 clad children availing themselves of the Italian’s good offices to enjoy a dance on the pavement. Hidden in the shadow of a wall Arthur stood and listened for nearly a quarter of an hour, whilst the organ played through a long string of hackneyed street ditties, the favourites of the day on the lips of errand-boys, the latest melodies of the music halls or the theatre. Be they what they might, to listen to them was soothing for Arthur.
Gradually his thoughts reverted45 to Carrie, and he felt himself able to think of her with more kindness, before long even with pity. What sort of a night had she passed alone? Doubtless she was yearning46 for his return. After all, she certainly loved him; for what was this outburst of absurd jealousy47 due to if not to the very strength of her affection, which could not brook48 the mere suspicion of a rival? Yes, she loved him, and what an ungrateful wretch49 was he to return her love with anger. Had she forced him to marry her? Had it not been by his own free will that he had taken her home as his wife? Was it not his bounden duty to bear with the fullest consequences of his own act — nay50 more, to exert himself to the utmost for the poor girl’s happiness? Aye, poor girl; for was she not worthy51 of the profoundest pity? Was it her fault that she had never been educated, that she had been born with such a small portion of intelligence? Surely not, and he was a brute52, lacking in reason no less than in humane53 sympathy, to think of her as he had done. He would make full reparation; he would bear with her utmost humours. Above all he would never do her the wrong to despair of her elevation54 to a higher stage of culture.
He hurried homewards, now eager to arrive. As he turned into Huntley Street he had to pass a public-house, about the door of which was collected a little crowd. From the midst came the shrill56 voices of two women, high in dispute. Drawn on by curiosity, he caught a glimpse of the wranglers57, and — horror! he saw that Carrie was one of them, the other being her old landlady58, Mrs. Pole. Carrie was hatless, her hair streaming in wildest disorder59, her dress torn in places, her face swollen60 and tear-stained. Even as Arthur stood gazing, struck into momentary61 paralysis62, the other woman rushed at her with the violence of a fury, and the language of a Billingsgate fishwife, and struck her repeatedly about the head. In a moment Arthur had violently forced a passage through the crowd, and, how he knew not, had dragged Carrie from the midst of it into the open street. She seemed incapable64 of walking, and only leaned against him, gasping65 out his name with hysterical66 repetition. Calling to the crowd to keep back the woman, who had begun to pursue, he lifted Carrie bodily into his arms, and, with a strength he could not ordinarily have exerted, bore her rapidly along to their own door. He entered, and supported her up the stairs to their own room.
As soon as he had lit a candle, Arthur saw that the room was just as he had left it, in cheerless disorder. He could not for a moment doubt what had led to the hideous scene he had just been in time to interrupt. Carrie was quite unable to stand, and her breath filled the room with the smell of spirits.
Seating her with difficulty upon the bed, he held both her hands, and gazed into her face with unutterable anguish.
“Carrie! Carrie!” he repeatedly exclaimed, “for Heaven’s sake tell me what this means! What have you been doing? Where have you been?”
She made no reply, but sobbed67 hysterically68, and floods of tears streamed from her eyes. To his repeated questions she at length muttered some kind of unintelligible69 reply. She evidently had no clear knowledge of her situation. It was vain to endeavour to make her understand or answer.
Arthur passed the night in watching, distracted with remorse70 which almost drove him mad.
Carrie was sleeping just as he had placed her — a heavy drunken sleep, interrupted by struggling sobs71, by starts and cries. As the candle by degrees burned down into the socket72, Arthur extinguished it and lit the lamp. Any thought of rest was impossible, though his limbs ached intolerably, and his whole body was oppressed with a deadly faintness. With the exception of a very slight lunch, he had eaten nothing since breakfast during the day. At length he was compelled to rise, and, going to the cupboard, cut a slice of bread from a loaf which he found there. This and a draught of water somewhat refreshed him, but only to become more sensible to the fearful pictures of his mind. His wife a drunkard, engaging in a low brawl73 before a public-house — surely this was a degradation of which he could not have dreamt. What would this be the prelude74 to? Was it but the commencement of horrors whom he had visited for the purpose of relieving, horror such as he had witnessed in the homes of wretched creature which he had often thought it would drive him mad to suffer in his own home? He durst not turn his eyes to look at Carrie; the disgust and terror which the sight of her awakened were too painful.
He endeavoured to read, but in vain gazed upon the page, not a line could he understand. He went to the window threw it up, and looked out into the night. It still rained a little, but otherwise the night was calm; the only wind was a warm and gentle one from the south-west, doubtless betokening75 more rain. As he stood thus gazing into the darkness, he was startled to hear a deep-toned bell begin to strike the hour with the utmost distinctness. Not till it had struck three or four times could he remember that it must be Big Ben at Westminster, whose tones were borne so plainly to his ear by the wind. The hour was midnight. It seemed as though the deep-mouthed bell would never cease to toll76, and every stroke bore with it echoes which sounded like moanings of woe77. It brought hot tears to Arthur’s eyes, and for many minutes he wept like a child, quite overcome by the anguish of his mind. He turned to look at Carrie, who had just uttered a groan78, and, approaching her, he gazed long at her face, letting his tears drop upon it. Then he arranged the pillow under her head so as to render her more comfortable, and having kissed her forehead, he returned to the window.
In a garret on the opposite side of the street a dull light was burning, and it was now the only light visible in the houses around. Arthur began to find employment for his thoughts in speculating as to the cause of the light. Most likely some one was lying in the garret ill, perhaps dying; or perhaps it was only a husband or a wife sitting in all but hopeless expectation for the loved one to return, even though it were in a condition which it was agony to picture. With such watchers as these Arthur felt that he should henceforth have a keen sympathy. Then, as he thus pictured imaginary scenes, a far-off shriek79, piercing even though so distant, seemed to cut through the night. Here was a fresh horror, a fresh exercise for the thoughts. Was it the mere yell of a drunken woman being dragged through the streets? Was it a scream to awaken39 the neighbourhood to the terrors of fire? Or was it midnight murder? He heard the policeman who had been tramping steadily80 along the street below suddenly pause and listen. But there was no second cry, the policeman continued to tramp on, and Arthur’s thoughts wandered away to other themes.
One and two he heard sounded by the great bell, and after that his frame began to yield to exhaustion81. Carrie still slept; she seemed rather quieter, too, moaning and struggling less. Taking one of the pillows from the bed, Arthur placed it on the floor, spread out by it a few articles of clothing, and, turning the lamp low, lay down to rest. But very few minutes had passed before he sank into a deep sleep.
When he woke it was pitch dark; apparently82 the lamp had burnt itself out. Striking a match he found it was half-past six. Already there were signs of waking life in the streets. Though his head ached so dreadfully that the light in his hand seemed to swell85 his brain to bursting, Arthur had no inclination86 to sleep again. His whole body was shivering with cold, his face and hands felt clammy with a strange perspiration87. Having lit a new candle, he occupied himself in making a fire, and, as soon as the blaze began to shoot up cheerfully in the grate, he made some water warm and washed in it. Feeling revived, though still suffering intensely in his head, he proceeded to make tea. As he completed this, he perceived by motions upon the bed that Carrie was sleeping less soundly. She appeared to be in the agony of a fearful dream; her eyes were wide open, her hands convulsively clenched88. Shaking her, and calling her name, Arthur at length succeeded in partly awaking her. She sat up on the bed and looked round the room with only half-conscious eyes.
“Carrie! Carrie!” said Arthur, sitting beside her, and holding a cup of tea in his hand, “wake, dearest! — try and drink this.”
She took the cup from his hands and drank the contents eagerly.
“More,” she said, holding it out to him again.
He refilled it, and this she also drank off.
“Are you well, dear?” he asked. “Can you go to sleep again?”
“My head, my head!” she moaned, sinking once more upon the pillow. Then, a moment after she asked, “What is the time?”
“Nearly seven o’clock. Do you think I may leave you to go to my work?”
“Oh yes,” she moaned; “leave me, leave me. Why do you ask?”
“I cannot leave you if you are not well.”
“You didn’t mind leaving me last night,” she returned, sobbing89; “why should you now?”
With a thousand self-reproaches, Arthur exerted himself to calm her; he caressed90 her, spoke to her with loving words, only speaking to her of his own fault, not a syllable91 of hers. That must in time be spoken of, but not yet; not now that she was suffering so terribly from its consequences. Neither did she refer to it in the few sentences she uttered. She was still heavy with sleep, and Arthur saw it would be better to let her have quiet rest. Promising92 that he would return at dinnertime, he watched her once more fall asleep, and then, as soon as it was time, set out as usual.
When he returned about mid55 day he found Carrie sitting over the fire, her face resting upon her hands, her long hair falling loosely about her shoulders. All his anger had now left him, and he felt for her nothing but the sincerest pity. When he entered she did not stir, but when he bent93 over her and laid his hand soothingly94 upon her head, she looked up at him for a moment. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her cheeks had lost all their natural colour. She had evidently been crying, but was doing so no longer. To his enquiries as to whether she felt better she replied in the affirmative, but with very few words. Evidently something was upon her mind, and Arthur naturally concluded that she was suffering from remorse. Thinking it best to leave her undisturbed, he swallowed a mouthful of lunch, and again approached her to say good-bye; he had a long distance to go, and not a minute too much time.
“I will be back early, dearest,” he said, bending over her and pressing his cheek to hers. “Don’t trouble to get any dinner ready. I will bring something in with me that will do. Shall I find something nice for Carrie, to surprise her with?”
At other times she had always welcomed such a suggestion with a childish delight. Now she only shook her head and said, “Don’t trouble.”
“Oh, we shall see,” he returned; and he was on the point of going, when she suddenly moved to face him and asked —
“Where is that portrait?”
In the pain of the result all memory of the cause had escaped Arthur’s mind; he started when he heard this sudden question, for he knew the torn drawing was still in his pocket. It smote95 through him, moreover, like a piercing blow, the sudden disclosure of the true cause of Carrie’s depression. It was not sorrow for her fault which weighed upon her, but a brooding jealousy which nothing could dispel96 from her mind. In a second Arthur’s resolution was taken, and he answered firmly —
“I destroyed it last night; I threw it away in the street.”
Something like a smile rose to Carrie’s lips, and she resumed her attitude over the fire. Without further adieu, Arthur left the house.
In the evening, before returning home, he made a hasty call at Noble’s lodgings97. Noble had just arrived from his work.
“I wish to ask a favour of you,” said Arthur.
“Ask a hundred,” returned Noble.
“No, only one. Will you take this little parcel of mine, and guard it for me as if it contained something more precious than gold — guard it till I ask you to give it me again?”
“I will,” replied his friend, with a slight look of surprise.
“But are you willing to do so without knowing what it contains? If I do not wish you to know it, Noble, you may be sure it is a secret which is far better kept by myself alone.”
“I am willing to do so,” replied Noble. “Let us say no more about it. Look; I will lock it in this little drawer, which I do not use for anything. You will find it there when you want it.”
“Many thanks.”
“How is your wife?” asked Noble, as Arthur was on the point of going.
“As usual, thanks,” replied the other; and, waving his hand departed.
Arthur had been at first uncertain whether he should impart to Noble what had happened at home, but at the last moment he found it impossible to do so. The degradation was too great; far better that no one else should be cognisant of it And then if, as he devoutly98 hoped, it was a single case which would never find a repetition, there would be an injustice99 to Carrie in making it known to his friend. Certainly it would be unjust to relate Carrie’s error without at the same time making the cause fully84 known, and this Arthur was not disposed to do. In the parcel he had entrusted to his friend was, of course, the torn portrait. But the perfect confidence he possessed100 in Noble’s honour was a guarantee that the parcel would never be looked into. Otherwise, he could not have given it to Noble to keep; for the thought that the latter should even suspect the secret which the portrait contained was intolerable to Arthur. He felt that his high-minded friend could not but regard him with less respect if he knew this secret, and Noble’s respect was a necessity of his life.
On his way home he fulfilled his promise of purchasing a delicacy101 for Carrie. As he ascended102 the stairs to their room, he wondered what effect his last sentence at dinner-time would have had upon Carrie. Without a doubt she would have ransacked103 his box once more, but she might suspect that he was carrying the picture in his pocket; he resolved to give her an opportunity of seeing that even this was not the case. Perhaps by this means he should restore peace to his home.
He was not surprised, on entering, to find the room once more in tolerable order, and Carrie neatly104 dressed, standing105 to receive him before a cheerful hearth106. She was still pale, but otherwise all traces of her illness seemed to have passed away. He did not speak, but took from his pocket the newly-purchased delicacy and opened it upon the table. A smile lit up Carrie’s face, and, stepping a foot or two towards him, she held her arms open. In a moment he met her embrace.
“You are sure it is thrown away?” she whispered, as he pressed her in his arms.
“Suppose it were in my box again?” he returned.
“I don’t think it is,” she replied, and Arthur knew that his supposition was confirmed.
“Suppose it were in one of my pockets?” he continued, willing to remove all suspicion from her mind. He asked himself, as he spoke the words, whether she would trust to his word alone, or whether that would be insufficient107.
“Let me look,” was Carrie’s reply; and she instantly began to rummage108 his pockets.
Arthur sighed, but asked himself what right he had to demand that his mere word should suffice; had he not already deceived her?
“You won’t tell me who it was?” asked Carrie, when she had satisfied herself that the odious109 picture was nowhere to be found.
“No one at all,” repeated Arthur, laughing. “I copied it from an old picture, long since.”
Carrie was fain to put up with this answer, though it was clear she did not believe it. She immediately set about preparing dinner, and the meal passed smoothly110 over. When it was finished Arthur made Carrie sit by him, and spoke gravely.
“Now I have satisfied you, Carrie,” he said, “I think it is fair that you should satisfy me. How did you pass the time when I was away last night?”
“I don’t remember anything about it,” replied she, laughing and shaking her head.
“But you mustn’t laugh, dear,” urged Arthur, “I am very serious. You have pained me more than I ever was pained in my life. How was it that I found you with that woman, Mrs. Pole?”
“Oh, I forget all about it,” returned Carrie. “Talk about something else.”
“No, I wish to speak of this. Please to attend, Carrie. Did that woman come to you, or did you go to her?”
“Why, if you go away in a bad temper and leave me,” returned Carrie, rather sharply, “I suppose I must get who I can to talk to. Any one’s better than no one.”
“There you are wrong,” said Arthur, firmly. “Far better to have no one at all to associate with than choose such a woman as that. I had no idea of her character when I took a room for you in her house, or I certainly should have had nothing to do with her. Then you went to her, Carrie?”
“What if I did?”
“Why, this. That I beg you will never do such a thing again as long as you live, on any pretence111; and if she comes here you must refuse to see her. Do you understand, Carrie?”
“I don’t care much for Mrs. Pole,” replied Carrie, a little awed112 by Arthur’s firmness; “but who else have I to talk to?”
“I know quite well that it is disagreeable to live so entirely113 alone as you do,” pursued Arthur; “I would give anything to be able to find you suitable friends. But whether you find such or not, it is clear that you must make no friend of Mrs. Pole. Will you promise me, Carrie, never to speak to her again upon any pretence?”
“Well,” returned Carrie, averting114 her face, “there’s Ann Pole; she isn’t so bad. She doesn’t drink at all.”
“That’s the daughter?”
“Yes; she’s a very nice girl, I’m sure.”
“I know nothing of her,” replied Arthur, “and do not wish to. But if you associate with her, it is impossible to avoid coming in contact with her mother. So I must ask you to have nothing to do with anyone in that house.”
“Who am I to talk to then?” asked the girl.
“Why don’t you make a friend of Mrs. Oaks? She is a very agreeable woman, and her conversation would do you good. You seem to have some unaccountable dislike for her — how is it?”
“Oh, how can I talk to Mrs. Oaks? She’s so stiff, and never has anything to say to me.”
“I have never found her so,” replied Arthur. “She is kind and good-hearted in the extreme, and a far better educated woman than I have ever known in her position. I’m sure it is a foolish prejudice you have against her.”
“I don’t like her,” exclaimed Carrie, “and so it’s no use talking.”
Arthur rose from his chair and paced the room, fearful lest he should be betrayed into angry expressions.
“Whether you like her or not, Carrie,” he said, after a few minutes’ silence, “she is the only woman you know who is at all fit for you to associate with. She has several married daughters, who, I dare say, are very respectable women; and you might get to know them. But, in any case, I must insist upon your having nothing to do with Mrs. Pole. If your own good taste does not keep you from her, you must please to remember that you are my wife, and endeavour to do as I wish. Do you think I have no ambition? Do you think I shall all my life be as poor as I am now, and with as few friends? Some day I hope to be able to introduce you to very different people from those you have yet known, to people in a far higher position in life. And how will you be prepared to associate with such people if you train your tastes to sympathise with none but Mrs. Pole and her like? This is why I so earnestly wish you to occupy your spare time in attending to your education, to do your utmost to become better, to know more, to understand more. Have you no ambition for yourself? Would you be willing to continue absolutely ignorant to the end of your life?”
Carrie had reassumed her position over the fire, and the dull smile upon her face indicated clearly that she understood but little of what Arthur was saying, and sympathised with his eloquence115 not at all.
“Look at me, Carrie,” he continued, approaching her and laying his hand upon her head. “My youngest years were far more uncared for than yours. I was a wretched, ragged63, half-starved child, playing in the gutter116. When I was quite a little boy I had to begin to earn my living, and earn it by downright hard work. But I soon felt that I could not bear always to be such an ignorant creature as I was growing up; with desperate efforts I succeeded in going to an evening school once or twice a week, and I occupied every spare moment in learning to read and write. Then by chance I got a place as shop-boy under a most excellent master, a man whom I have to thank for nearly all the knowledge I possess, without whom I might still have been a mere ignorant, rude-speaking workman. Now, Carrie, what he did for me, it is my earnest wish to do for you. I am not as clever as he was, I do not know anything like as much, but still I am able to teach you much, very much that you do not know, and that you will be better for. To train your mind in this way, to give you a hand and help you up to a higher kind of life, and to devote my whole existence to making you better in every way — that has been my ambition since I knew you, Carne! Will you do your part in the work? Will you not make just the few efforts I require of you? Will you promise to do so in future, dearest? I am sure you will.”
There was silence for several minutes, and when Carrie replied it was in a manner which showed that the appeal had been altogether lost on her.
“It’s all very well to ask me to do more,” she said. “If you only knew how much house-work I have to do every day whilst you are away, you wouldn’t ask me to find time for a lot of other things.”
“But half an hour, Carrie. Surely you can find half an hour in a day?”
“Well, well, I’ll think about it,” replied the girl. “Don’t talk no more about it now. You make my head ache with talking so much. I don’t feel very well as it is.”
Arthur sighed deeply. He saw that further conversation would only lead to another scene, and that he dreaded117 too much voluntarily to excite. So he took a volume from among Mr. Tollady’s old books, and endeavoured to read.
When he had lived together with Mark Challenger in this room, he had been accustomed to spend several hours in serious study every day; but since his marriage he had scarcely opened a book. This was but one of many circumstances tending towards his unhappiness. Another was the constant longing118 which he experienced to take up a pencil and see whether he had lost his old skill in drawing. Though he had succeeded in lulling119 the voice of this internal monitor by force of numerous occupations, he could never completely silence it.
Only by years of neglect and oppression is it possible utterly to stifle120 those inborn121 impulses which we personify as genius, if, indeed, it be possible at all to do so, and Arthur, though he had accustomed himself to regard his artistic122 yearnings as something which it was his duty to suppress, had never been able completely to quell123 them. They came upon him at times with dreadful force, operating like an inward pain, a gnawing124 at his very vitals which would not let him rest.
The incident of Helen’s picture had awakened them to their utmost energy, and to-night, as he sat endeavouring to read, he looked upon his daily life as a dreary125 waste, a perpetual, arid126 desert, to which he was condemned127, though his eyes never lost sight of a delicious country, fair as the land of Beulah, so near to him that it seemed he could attain128 it by a stride.
Now, too, he began to think more frequently of the approaching day when he should be able to claim Mr. Norman’s legacy129. Hitherto this thought had been crushed down with the others, as something which was in any case of little consequence to him. For he had resolved that the possession of comparative wealth should make no difference in his daily life.
In the society which he had frequented of late, that of men such as William Noble — strong, earnest minds so terribly convinced of the curse of wealth that they advocated a system of society in which no man should live upon money which was not the exact representation of his own labour — among men such as these Arthur had grown to the determination never to abandon his daily toil, however easy it might be for him to live independently of it. Daily labour was one of the fundamental principles of the gospel he had adopted, and had himself earnestly sought to spread, at the club and elsewhere.
Holding such views, he had long since resolved that, when he became possessed of his money, every farthing of it should be employed in the cause of the poor, in direct charity, and in aid of movements which he approved. No single coin of it should go towards his own support; rather than that he would toil unceasingly for the sufficiencies of life.
But since his marriage Arthur’s feelings had undergone a considerable change. He thought of Carrie, and he would have been less than human could he have long resisted the temptation to raise above a life of sordid130 cares the woman whom he loved, or at all events whom he had bound to himself as his wife, the possible mother of his children.
And then came the perpetual whisper within him, bidding him contemplate131 a life spent in devotion to art. What was to prevent his entering upon such a life when the time came? Nothing — except principle, except that the voice which whispered that it would be shame to desert the cause he had embraced, to afford to his companions one more example of wealth corrupting132 a generous nature.
But the time had not come for reasoning on these matters. As yet there was only a question of vague impulses, which, on account of their very sweetness, must surely be wrong and on no account to be followed. For all that they sufficed to render Arthur’s life even more unhappy, by degrees to darken the brightness of his eyes, and to impart an aspect of enduring trouble to his countenance.
For some days Carrie was in unvariable good humour, and Arthur was too glad of the change to ever touch upon one of the subjects likely to disturb the peace of his home. He said to himself that Carrie’s education was not a matter to be completed in a day; he must commence by degrees, humouring her idleness at first, and not insisting upon a sudden correction of all her faults. So he again occupied himself chiefly with her pronunciation, and Carrie was good enough to receive his corrections with equanimity133. Hope once more dawned upon Arthur.
It was nearly a week after the dreadful night that Arthur, on returning home, once more noticed the strong odour of peppermint134 in the room. He said nothing about it; but, in spite of himself, strange thoughts were awakened by it in his mind. So engrossing135 were these thoughts that they kept him very silent during the evening. Carrie, on the other hand, was quite unusually talkative.
He observed her closely, and thought he perceived an unnatural136 glow in her eyes which he had at times noticed there before, and that also on occasions when she had been eating peppermint. He was distressed137 by an uneasy fear, a dread83 of an uncertain kind, which made him turn sick at heart.
About nine o’clock Carrie went out to buy something for supper. Another time Arthur would not have let her go alone. To-night he had a special purpose in doing so.
As soon as she was gone, he went to the cupboard in which she kept all her crockery and other articles of household use, and rapidly examined its contents. After some little search he discovered an empty corked139 bottle, of the use of which he had no idea. Taking out the cork138, he smelt140 it, and sickened as though the odour had been deadly poison, for he clearly recognised that the bottle had contained spirits.
The dreadful suspicions he had entertained with regard to the peppermint were fully confirmed. For a moment he hesitated as to how he should act. It was clear that the shortest course was the best. He had to do with a disease which required the most decisive of measures, and any weakness on his part would be culpable141.
Placing the bottle in the middle of the table, he sat down and awaited Carrie’s return with an anxiety so intense that it rendered him physically142 feeble.
She entered at length, with a heightened colour, laughing gaily143, and immediately went to the paper of peppermints144 on the mantel-piece and put one in her mouth. She then began to lay the cloth for supper, and, in doing so, had of course to move the bottle. She started at the sight of it, and paused for a moment, as if endeavouring to remember whether she could have left it there by mistake or not. She turned her eyes cautiously in Arthur’s direction, and saw at once that he was watching her closely.
“No,” said the latter, divining her thoughts, “it was not there when you went out, Carrie. I found it myself in your absence and put it there.”
She muttered something and was putting the bottle into the cupboard again, when Arthur stopped her.
“What do you use that bottle for, Carrie?” he asked.
“Oh, for all sorts of things,” she replied, readily, though her face had gone pale. “I used it to fetch some brandy in today. I felt very faint, and was obliged to have it.”
“In that case,” said Arthur, persistently145 gazing into her face, “why didn’t you tell me of it?”
“Oh, it was nothing,” said Carrie, trying to turn away. “It wasn’t worth bothering you about.”
But Arthur held her hand, and would not let her go.
“Was that all, Carrie?” he asked. “Why then, do you trouble to eat peppermints, that I mayn’t smell the spirits when you kiss me?”
She reddened again for a moment, then laughed, still struggling to free herself.
“What an idea! I’m sure I don’t do it for any such reason! I eat peppermints because I like them, that’s all. If you grudge146 me them you’ve only to say so. They don’t cost so much as all that.”
“No, you are getting angry without a cause, Carrie,” returned Arthur, “and that is a bad sign. Tell me this: Have you ever had spirits before today because you felt faint?”
“No, never.”
“Never?” he repeated, with the utmost gravity.
“And what if I had?” cried Carrie, suddenly breaking away from him, and speaking angrily. “I suppose you’d rather come home and find me dead than allow me to spend a little money when I want it.”
“You have no right to speak so to me, Carrie,” returned Arthur, severely147. “When have I shown disregard of your health, or grudged148 you anything I could afford that would give you pleasure? You are angry because I have found that bottle. I tell you plainly, it is not true that you got the brandy because you felt faint! If that had been the reason you would have told me of it. And why should you feel so faint as to require such a restorative? You are quite well, you are not overburdened with hard work, you have nothing to make you faint. A cup of tea would have refreshed you much better, if you had been in need of more refreshment149. You have not told me the truth.”
“Very well,” retorted the girl, with terrible passion in her eyes, “tell me I have been a liar150 at once!”
Arthur turned away with a suppressed expression of disgust. There was no doubt that Carrie had been drinking again. Her features denoted it clearly, and the fierce passion with which she spoke could only have been excited by drink.
Taking both her arms firmly in his hands, Arthur forced her to stand facing him before he spoke again.
“Can you understand what I am going to say to you?” he asked, in a low, firm voice. “Have you still enough of your senses left to listen to me and heed4 what I say?”
She persisted in turning away her head, and made no reply. In spite of her struggles to free herself, he held her with unshaken firmness.
“It is evident,” he went on, “that I allow you too much money. You have more than what you need for our every day expenses, and instead of saving, you spend the superfluous151 money in poison which will soon render you worse than brutal. Mark what I say, Carrie, for I am determined152 to save you, whether you will or not; at all events, I am determined to do my utmost before it is too late. From this day I shall give you much less money to spend, and of that money you will have to keep a strict account. Every penny you pay away you will set down in the book I have given you. You have shown me that it is impossible to have absolute confidence in you; I trust you will not force me to believe that you are not to be confided153 in at all. Do you understand me?”
She only replied by a wild effort to free herself, and, succeeding in her object, darted154 to the other end of the room. There she stood, looking at him with her unnaturally155 bright eyes, but saying nothing.
“Have you no regard for me left, Carrie?” Arthur pursued. “Must I look upon you as an enemy in my home, instead of a wife who returns my love? Are you determined to make me wretched, to leave me no moment’s peace, day or night? What peace can I have if I know that, in my absence, you are taking the surest means, day by day, to degrade yourself and render yourself altogether unworthy of my affection. In Heaven’s name, what has driven you to this fearful vice156? Is your home miserable157? Do you want for anything? Am I habitually158 unkind to you? Carrie, Carrie!” he cried, in a voice of agony, again drawing near to her, “open your eyes, and see what a hideous path you are entering on! Surely it is ignorance which allows you to act in this way, you cannot know what fearful dangers you are encountering. Promise me that you will never drink spirits from this day. Promise me that, Carrie — will you?”
“There’s no call for me to make any such promise, as I see,” replied the girl. “I don’t drink them only when it’s necessary. I don’t know what right you have to call me all those names.”
“As long as you are well and strong, it is never necessary, returned Arthur. “You don’t understand me, Carrie. You seem to think I am doing something for my own selfish interest in forbidding you to drink; you cannot see that I have your own happiness, and nothing but your own happiness, at heart. How shall I make you understand what I mean? Will you come for a walk with me?”
Carrie looked up in surprise at the apparent inconsequence of the request, but on Arthur continuing to urge that she should go out with him, curiosity persuaded her to consent It was Saturday night, and already the hour was late. Leading her through the crowded streets of the neighbourhood, Arthur took his way towards the meanest quarters he knew of, into courts and alleys159 swarming160 with the riotous161 life of the last night in the week. He made her pause near the beggars on the edge of the pavement, pointing to their foul rags, their hideously-distorted features, their bodies tortured with nameless diseases. He made her stand by the entrance to pawnshops, and watch the men, women and children who entered and came out, made her watch the mother pawning162 her infant’s very rags, after already robbing herself of more than decency163 could dispense164 with, the dissipated boys running with frightened faces to turn stolen articles into money, the tottering165 old men and women pawning the few remains166 of miserable clothing which they should have kept to make shrouds167. He led her to the doors of the most crowded gin-palaces, showed her hundreds of women in appearance too ghastly for description, made her listen to language which should have rotted the tongues which uttered it, stood by with her whilst human creatures, mad with liquor, tore each other with their claws like wild beasts. No sight, no sound, no most terrible experience which Saturday night could afford did he spare her, and at every fresh horror he made her observe that drink was, ten to one, at the bottom of it. And at length, when the church clocks were striking one, he led her back home, wearied and sobbing, and before she sought rest, he made her solemnly promise that she would drink nothing that could harm her from that day. She promised, with tears; after which, Arthur kissed her, and she fell asleep like a child.
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1
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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2
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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3
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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5
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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6
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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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
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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14
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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15
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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16
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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17
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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18
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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20
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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21
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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22
permeates
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| 弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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23
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immutably
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| adv.不变地，永恒地 | |
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25
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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26
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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27
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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28
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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30
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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31
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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32
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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33
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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34
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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37
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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38
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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40
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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41
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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43
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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44
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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45
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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46
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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47
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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48
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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49
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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50
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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51
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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52
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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53
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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54
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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55
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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56
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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57
wranglers
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| n.争执人( wrangler的名词复数 )；在争吵的人；（尤指放马的）牧人；牛仔 | |
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58
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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59
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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60
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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61
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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62
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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63
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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64
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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65
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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66
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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67
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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68
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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69
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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70
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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71
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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72
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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73
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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74
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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75
betokening
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的现在分词 ) | |
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76
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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77
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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78
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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79
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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80
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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81
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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82
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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83
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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84
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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85
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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86
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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87
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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88
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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90
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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92
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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93
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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94
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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95
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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96
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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97
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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98
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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99
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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100
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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101
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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102
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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104
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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105
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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106
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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107
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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108
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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109
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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110
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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111
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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112
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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114
averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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115
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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116
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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117
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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118
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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119
lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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120
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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121
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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122
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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123
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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124
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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125
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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126
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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127
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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128
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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129
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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130
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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131
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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132
corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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133
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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134
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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135
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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136
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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137
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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138
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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139
corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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140
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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141
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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142
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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143
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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144
peppermints
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| n.薄荷( peppermint的名词复数 )；薄荷糖 | |
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145
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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146
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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147
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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148
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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149
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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150
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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151
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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152
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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153
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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154
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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155
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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156
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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157
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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158
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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159
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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160
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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161
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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162
pawning
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的现在分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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163
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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164
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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165
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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166
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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167
shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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