If he was reticent9 with regard to the future, Arthur was almost as silent about the past, as far, at least, as it concerned Carrie. Once or twice he did venture to ask her a question about her life during the period in which he had lost sight of her, but she showed such reluctance10 to reply, that he ceased to mention the subject. Indeed, there was very little to learn. Carrie’s experience had been that of the numberless girls in a similar destitute11 condition whom London nightly pillows in her hard corners, the only peculiarity12 being that she had found a way out of her misery13 without having recourse either to the workhouse or the river. Of one thing, however, Arthur felt certain, and it was that this period of wretched vagabondage had done Carrie considerable moral harm. True, he had scarcely spoken to her before the night on which he saved her from death in the streets, but he felt sure that she had previously15 been much gentler, and, to speak plainly, more innocent. Above all, he believed that this fatal habit of drinking had had its source in that prolonged nightmare of homeless agony. Doubtless his own unsuspecting heedlessness had contributed to its development, for he now saw clearly that the woman called Mrs. Pole had exercised a strong influence for evil over Carrie’s mind, an influence that endured even now that he thought he had removed his wife from her reach. One experience which he had now acquired, tortured him ceaselessly; it was that Carrie was by no means to be trusted. She seemed to have no innate17 respect for truth, and had acquired a facility in deception18 which made it all but impossible to arrive at the truth by questioning her. The knowledge of this terrible flaw in her character gave Arthur many sleepless20 nights. How could he tell what ruinous schemes were ripening21 in the brain of the girl who slept so peacefully by his side? And this evil only grew by time, for his suspicions never ceased to be fed with only too substantial evidence. Distrust haunted him like a phantom22. It constantly stood between himself and Carrie, chilling her kiss, and little by little estranging23 her from his embrace. At times he asked himself, with a shudder24, whether he could any longer pretend that he loved her.
For, in spite of her solemn promise, she continued stealthily to gratify her passion for drink, and Arthur knew it but too well. Often he detected it in her breath, and openly charged her with her broken faith, but she denied the charge so boldly, with such shameless persistence25, that he stood aghast before her, and was unable to say another word. He had so strongly insisted upon her keeping accounts, that she was obliged to make a show of it; but Arthur, by inspecting her book, saw clearly that the expenses were constantly falsified. Before long he resorted to the plan of. giving her money every day, barely sufficient for the expenses he knew to be legitimate26; but, nevertheless, he continued to find her upon his return either excited to an unnatural27 gaiety, or plunged28 in dangerous moroseness29, and always with the gleaming eyes which were the infallible index of her wrong-doing. He could not understand how she managed to procure30 liquor; but before long he began to notice the disappearance31 of sundry32 articles from the room, and he had no more wonder on the subject.
They had soon been married six months. The pretence33 of Carrie’s education had long since gone to add another stone to the paving of Hell; no word was ever heard of reading or writing now, and Arthur had even ceased to correct her errors in speaking. All day long he worked with an overburdened heart, and a brow which began to show distinct signs of hopeless trouble. His foot began to lose its lightness, he began to stoop as he walked, never looking about him with the old joyous34, hopeful glance, but with eyes fixed35 upon the ground, ever thinking, thinking. He acquired the habit of talking aloud to himself, and occasionally gesticulated as he walked. He had grown to dread36 his wife’s face. Affectionate expostulation was altogether thrown away upon her, or only met with a return of sickening hypocrisy37; and to angry utterances38 she only replied with passionate40 retorts. Arthur fancied that he could observe her features growing coarser, and he felt convinced that her voice had no longer the clearness of tone which had once marked it. Yet of none of these signs did she herself appear conscious. Not the most impassioned pleading on Arthur’s part had force to awaken her to the unavoidable consequences of her course of life.
One morning, early in July, as Arthur was leaving the house to go to his work, he was stopped by his landlady41, Mrs. Oaks, who requested him to step into her parlour. The good woman had a troubled expression on her face, and was evidently preparing to speak on a subject she found disagreeable.
“I’m afraid, sir,” she began, “that I shall be obliged to ask you to find other lodgings42.”
“For whatever reason, Mrs. Oaks?” asked Arthur, in the utmost surprise.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Golding, the character of my house is being damaged. These girls that come so often to see your wife have such a very — unrespectable appearance, I might say, that the other lodgers44 don’t at all like it. One has given me notice already, an old lady on the first floor who has been with me a year. And then the neighbours are beginning to talk about it, too. I shall have my house empty if it goes on.”
Arthur turned deadly pale as he listened. He looked round to see if the door was closed behind him, and then sat down, as if overcome with sudden weakness.
“Aren’t you well, sir?” asked Mrs. Oaks, disturbed at the sight of his countenance45.
He waved his hands to signify that it was nothing.
“I know nothing of these visitors you speak of,” he said. “When do they come? Who are they?”
“They come at all hours of the day, sir; and as for what they are, I don’t exactly know, of course, but I am afraid they’re no good. But didn’t you know they came for Mrs. Golding?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Well,” took up the old lady, “and I asked her only the other day if you knew about it, and she said that you knew well enough, and that there was no call to complain of anything, as they were respectable friends of hers.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Oaks,” said Arthur, solemnly, “I know nothing of them. How many come?”
“Oh, perhaps not more than two or three; but they are here so often, and they dress in such a flashy way, that nobody can help noticing them. They must stop coming here, that’s very certain.”
“So they shall, Mrs. Oaks,” returned Arthur, rising. “I am very much obliged to you for telling me of this. I hope that is your only objection to me remaining your lodger43?”
“Oh, I’ve nothing else in the world to complain of,” said the old lady. “I’m sure I should be very sorry to lose you.”
Arthur went upstairs again forthwith. It would result in his missing half a day’s work — perhaps losing his place — but that he could not help. For him to be absent all day with this weight upon his mind would be intolerable.
“Carrie,” he began sternly, as soon as he reentered the room, “who are these girls that visit you so often in my absence?”
“I don’t know of any girls,” she replied, shaking her head.
“You do!” replied Arthur, with sudden violence, every fibre in him thrilling at the bare-faced lie. “You know very well that you are constantly visited by girls during the day. Tell me who they are at once!”
“Oh,” she replied with an affectation of indifference46, “I suppose you mean Lily Marston, as come to see me once last week.”
“And who is she?”
“One of the girls I used to work with. What harm if she did come? I suppose I’m not to be caged up like a wild beast, am I, and not allowed to see any one?”
“Do you mean to tell me that this girl is the only visitor you have ever had?”
“The only one as I remember. Who told you about her?”
“Never mind who told me. I know perfectly47 well that you have had frequent visitors during the present week. It is useless to try to deceive me.”
“I know who told you,” returned Carrie, her eyes flashing. “It’s that spiteful old cat of a landlady! She’s got a spite against me, she has, because she knows I don’t like her. She threatened to tell you.”
“And she has done so. And she has also told me that the nuisance has become so great we shall be obliged to leave if it continues. Once more, I ask you: Who are these girls who visit you?”
“Is it likely,” returned Carrie, “as I can live day after day without seeing no one? And I’m not going to do it, that’s plain. If I have one or two friends come to see me, they come into my own room and don’t disturb anybody, and the landlady’s a spiteful old cat to say as it isn’t so!”
“Then you own that you have visitors, and without my knowledge? Well, it must cease at once. You understand me? I forbid you to see any one at this house without my consent.”
He paused to see the effect of his words. Carrie turned away, and said nothing.
“Do you mean to obey me?” he asked.
She said nothing, but appeared engaged in covering over something which lay on the dressing-table, something in front of which she had been standing48 since he entered the room. Arthur stepped up quickly to her, and, seizing her hands, disclosed a large jet necklace, a gold brooch, and a silver bracelet49. For some minutes he was unable to speak with surprise.
“How have you obtained all these?” he asked at length, his voice quavering from the conflict of emotions.
“They’re mine!” cried Carrie, passionately50. “Leave them alone!”
“Yours!” he exclaimed. “How have they come into your possession?”
“They’ve always been mine.”
“Always yours! But you have not had them here in this room.”
“I know I haven’t. They’ve been at my aunt’s all the time. I went and fetched them yesterday.”
He looked into her face for some moments, desperately51 endeavouring to determine whether she spoke14 the truth. Possibly she did, but, as Arthur too well knew, it was quite as possible that she did not. Yet how else could she have obtained these ornaments52? He dared not ask himself the question, but forced himself obstinately53 to believe that she had told him the truth.
“What are you going to do with them?” he asked, after standing with his eyes fixed upon the objects for several minutes, almost stunned54 by the weight of trouble that was pressing upon him.
“What should I?” she asked, putting them away into a drawer. “Wear them, of course.”
He stood still, gazing at the place where the things had lain, unable to determine upon a course of action. Suddenly he spoke.
“You didn’t answer my question about the visitors,” he said. “Do you mean to obey me, or must I look for other lodgings?”
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t want to drive you away,” retorted Carrie. “If you’re tired of having me with you, I can look for a room for myself. That’s very easily done.”
It was not the first time that Carrie had expressed herself ready to leave him, and to hear her speak thus was always intensely aggravating56 to Arthur. Regarding his marriage as a solemn bond which nothing but death could break, it was torture to him to hear it spoken of so lightly, as if it were capable of dissolution at will. It may be that in this feeling there was something of the indignation with which an upright mind regards a tempter. So when she spoke, the taunting57 coldness of her words irritated him once more into stern anger.
“What do you mean, when you speak so to me?” he exclaimed. “Do you understand the words you use? Do you mean that you hate me, that you are weary of owning me as your husband? Would it please you if I took you at your word and bade you go and earn your own living?”
“I could force you to support me,” replied Carrie, with a short laugh.
The utter heartlessness of these words checked his further speech. What good was it to exact a promise from her that she would obey him? Neither was her word to be trusted, nor had she the slightest trace of affection for him left. With a glance of burning scorn he walked out of the room. On reaching the ground floor he knocked at Mrs. Oaks’ parlour, and was admitted.
“I am sorry to say that in any case we shall be obliged to leave, Mrs. Oaks,” he said. “I suppose you will not require more than a week’s notice?”
The old lady replied in the negative, surveying Arthur’s pallid58 features with a look of pity. Possibly she divined the trouble from which he suffered. He did not leave her time to make any further remark, but walked at once from the house.
The rest of the morning he spent in wandering aimlessly about the streets, his brain throbbing59 feverishly60, his body oppressed with an intolerable lassitude. He had taken his resolution. At the end of the week he would move to an entirely62 different part of London, where Carrie would be out of the reach of these companions who were leading her to her ruin. Once in a new abode63, he would again attempt the work of reformation. But even as he resolved thus in his mind, he was struggling with the heart-sickness of perpetual disappointment. He could not bear to keep his sorrows any longer to himself. As yet he had not said a word of them to his friend Noble, but now, at length, he felt compelled to make him his confidant, and seek counsel in his dire8 straits.
During the afternoon he worked as usual. His appearance readily lent itself as a proof of his statement that he had been kept away in the morning by sudden illness. When the day came to an end he gladly left the toil64 which was ever becoming more odious65 to him, and set out in the direction of Noble’s lodgings.
These were near the Strand66. In crossing that thoroughfare he had to run before a hansom which was coming along at an unusual speed, and, even in the moment of its passing him, he distinctly saw Carrie seated in it by the side of a tall, finely-dressed young man. Was it possible he had made a mistake? As soon as the thought had flashed through his mind he started and ran at his utmost speed in pursuit of the vehicle. He had it distinctly before him amid the great crowd of traffic, and he gained upon it visibly. Suddenly it drew up to the pavement and stopped. The next moment he was standing by it — only to see a grave old gentleman step out with a carpet bag in his hand. In his agitation67 he had evidently pursued the wrong hansom.
No thought now Of visiting Noble. Arthur was mad, and the very thought of his friend’s calm conversation was insufferable to him. Homewards — homewards! that was the sole idea which filled his brain. It was just possible that he had deceived himself in the hasty glance which the speeding vehicle had allowed him; if so he should find Carrie seated at home as usual. But if he found her absent, then — there would be time enough to decide how to act. As he ran along the swarming68 streets between the Strand and his home he did his best to persuade himself that his eyes had played him false, but all the time he was convinced that they had not. He knew Carrie’s face. and form too well; he felt sure that he had even recognised the gold brooch and the bracelet.
He reached Huntley Street and rushed panting upstairs to his room. He flung the door open. The room was empty.
He sat down to think. Was the fact of Carrie’s absence a proof of his having seen her in the hansom? By no means, for she had of late frequently been absent when he returned in the evening, employed he knew but too well how. But were the ornaments still here? He stepped to the chest of drawers. All the drawers were open, and in none were the ornaments to be found. There was no, other place in the room where she could have put them away. He went to the cupboard in which she was in the habit of hanging her dresses. It was empty, with the exception of one cast-off garment and the hat she generally wore. Her best hat was gone. He turned to examine other parts of the room, and, in doing so, his eye fell upon half a sheet of note-paper which lay on the table amidst the remnants of the morning’s breakfast. He took it up with a trembling hand, and read, written in Carrie’s well-known scrawl69 and with all her favourite errors of spelling, this: —
“Don’t expect me back. I’ve gone for good. I shan’t trouble you any more, though I am your wife.”
When he took up the paper it had shaken in his fingers like a leaf in the wind, but, having read it, he put it down with perfect steadiness. The certainty of what he feared seemed to have cured him of his feverish61 anxiety. For a moment he felt cold in every part of his body, but, after that, he was calm. He began to pace the room, repeating to himself in a low voice the trenchant70 sentences of the note: “Don’t expect me back.” “I’ve gone for good.” Several times he stopped in his slow walk and looked out of the window. He faced the west, and could see the sky over the houses opposite still glowing with the rich colours of sunset. From one chimney ascended71 a thin stream of smoke, and very beautiful it looked as its transparency was permeated72 with a tinge73 of the hues74 behind it. Arthur’s thoughts wandered off to a translation of the Odyssey75 which he had once read aloud to Mr. Tollady, and he could not help connecting the vari-coloured smoke before him with his imagination of the smoke rising from a Greek altar in some sea-girdled isle76 made beautiful under an Ionian sunset. There was calmness in this hour. The streets seemed unusually quiet, and an organ being played in the distance sounded like delicious music. He found himself wandering off into day-dreams, and had the greatest difficulty in forcing his thoughts back to the present hour. To do so, he still kept repeating the note half aloud. What was this feeling so strongly resembling pleasure which crept further into his heart at each repetition? How was it that he unconsciously drew himself more upright, as if some great burden had suddenly ‘been taken from his shoulders?
So Carrie was gone. Well, nothing more natural than that she should go. Was it not rather wonderful that she had stopped so long? He had not been mistaken; it was really Carrie whom he had seen in the hansom. And who could the elegant-looking young man be who was with her? How had she made his acquaintance? Might it not even be the “A.W.” upon whose identity he had so often reflected?
He found himself thinking of Carrie’s future lot as if she had been someone with whom he was slightly acquainted, and no more. Would her new friend trouble himself about her grammatical faults, her errors of pronunciation? Most probably not. How foolish he himself had been to trouble, either. Of what consequence was an h omitted or foisted77 in where it had no business, what mattered a few violations78 of the rules of syntax in this most irregular of worlds? Certainly there was passing annoyance79 caused by the neglect of such little conventions; but then there were other girls quite as beautiful as Carrie who spoke quite grammatically and had no trouble with their h’s. Would it not be possible to find such?
The scene of unwonted freedom quite perplexed80 Arthur. Carrie was gone, and, as she herself said, “for good.” This would necessitate81 some little change in daily habits, probably. Well, that could be thought of tomorrow; how was the present evening to be spent? Should he go out and entertain himself with the comedies and tragedies of the streets. Why not? It no longer mattered if he returned home a little late; there was no one to blame him. Or should he sit at home and read — aye, read in the delicious stillness of this July evening? It was long since he had read anything; there had been no leisure for that of late. Yes, certainly he would stay at home and read. It was nearly nine o’clock, and dusk was beginning to deepen into gloom, so that he must have a light to read by. Accordingly he drew a table close up to the open window, through which was blowing a warm, delicious breeze, then he lit the lamp and placed it upon the table. Now what should, he read? There was but one book in which at that moment his soul delighted. He would read Vasari. Why should one deny oneself any procurable82 pleasure in this most uncertain of worlds?
He sat down by the table, just where the soft night air could fan his cheeks and awaken his so long-sleeping fancy, and, leaning one volume of his author against the rest, began to read. Oh, joy! It was like a draught83 of cool spring-water to one panting in the desert; like a fresh breeze upon the sea-cliffs to one whose energies have wasted in the hateful gloom of a manufacturing town; like the first ray of fertilising sunshine to one who long yearned84 in the wilderness85 of winter for the sweet, flowery days of spring; like the first kiss of returning health to one who has travelled even within sight of the very valley of the shadow of death. Ten, eleven, twelve boomed upon the south-west wind from the great bell at Westminster, but this evening Arthur did not hear; one and two sounded with greater distinctness through the silence of midnight, but still he was feeding his soul upon stories of the world-artists, those grand workers of old to whose unpolluted sight was revealed Heaven and all its glories. And so Arthur read on, till at length sleep overcame him, and his head sank upon the book.
He woke out of a troubled dream. He had been enacting86 over again the horrible events of that night on which he first became aware of Carrie’s fatal passion for drink. He was on the point of rebuking87 Carrie in bitter anger when he suddenly woke.
It was morning, and the sun had just risen. Rising as quickly as his stiffened88 limbs would permit him, he endeavoured to recall the events of last night. There was moisture in his eyes, and he still trembled from the overwhelming passion which had disturbed him in his dream. The first object his eyes fell upon was the half-sheet of note-paper containing Carrie’s farewell. He took it up, read it, looked hurriedly round the room, and immediately burst into tears. He wept passionately, the great sobs89 bursting from him as though they would have burst his heart. Till this moment he had not realised the fact that Carrie was gone, and now he thought her absence would kill him. He wrung90 his hands together, giving utterance39 to his agony the while in terrible cries and moans. He uttered wild prayers, he knew not for what or to whom; and then he ceased his exclamations91 to whisper in scarcely audible tones every endearing epithet92 he could imagine, coupling all with Carrie’s name. He reproached himself in the bitterest terms for every stern word he had ever addressed to her, he blamed himself, himself only, for this terrible misfortune. Why had he not been patient? Nay93, why had he not exercised ordinary kindness to his wife? It was his cruelty, his base heartlessness that had driven her away, and driven her — Oh, God! — to what?
Exhausted94 with his anguish95 he fell back upon the bed, and lay there with the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. Never till this moment did he know how he had loved Carrie. He would have given years of his life to see her once more enter the door, to have thrown himself upon the ground at her feet and begged her to forgive him. What were all her faults, seen through this haze96 of bitter, maddening regret and remorse97? They were not faults, mere98 mistakes, venal99 and needing only the gentleness of a loving voice, the tender pressure of a loving hand, to banish100 them for ever. These means he persuaded himself he had never tried; no, he had endeavoured to exert a brutal101 authority, nothing else, and — fool that he was! — had been rightly punished. Oh, how differently would he act if only Carrie once more returned to him!
But, no; that he must not expect. She had found someone who would love her better than he had ever done, whose affection she could return with less fear of being slighted. And hereupon the fire of a consuming jealousy102 broke out fiercely within him, and drove him mad with torture. Forgetful of what he had just thought, he raved103 against Carrie’s ingratitude104, her base forgetfulness of all he had done for her, of all he fain would have done if she had permitted him. But she would regret him, she would reproach herself bitterly for having thus deserted105 him, and that before long. This well-dressed fop whom she had preferred to him would amuse himself with her as long as the fancy lasted, and then would fling her aside without pity. And then perhaps she would return. Oh, with what an overflowing106 heart would he welcome her again! But, no, she had said she would not return, and there was little hope that she would not keep her word. And then he pictured to himself her future career; how her passions, now set free from every restraint, would scourge107 her on from degradation108 to degradation, till she met her end in some abyss of unspeakable horror. If it was fated to be so, might the end come soon!
Arthur did not leave the room during the whole day. What was daily work that he should heed16 it under the weight of an affliction such as this? And, thinking of his work, he suddenly rose and went to the box in which he kept his few valuables, the same box in which Carrie had discovered Helen Norman’s picture. Unlocking this, he took out a cash-box, which, on examination, he found to be untouched. He was glad that Carrie had not taken any of his money, for it showed some lingering self-respect, perhaps some regard for him still holding a place in her heart. After this he ate a few mouthfuls to still the feeling of faintness from which he had begun to suffer; then, unable to occupy himself in any way, once more lay upon the bed. At intervals109 he continued to weep, but for the most part he’ lay with dry, red eyes, looking fixedly110 up at the ceiling, only the constant clenching111 of his hands giving outward evidence of the anguish within.
It must have been nearly seven o’clock in the evening when he was startled by a knock at the door. He had risen from the bed some time since, and, after eating a little dry bread and drinking a glass of water, was bathing his face, in the endeavour to remove the startling signs of his suffering. Hastily arranging his dress, he went to the door and opened it. Mark Challenger stood outside.
“Are you alone?” asked Mark, then added a moment after, “what on earth is the matter, Arthur? What have you been doing?”
“Nothing at, all,” replied Arthur. “I have had a little headache, that’s all, and have been sleeping it off.”
“I should think you have had a considerable headache,” replied Mark, “judging from your appearance. Is your wife out?”
“Yes, she is away for the day,” returned Arthur, after a scarcely perceptible hesitation112.
“Will she be back to-night?”
“Not till tomorrow morning. Why do you ask?”
“Why, I was going to ask you to go somewhere with me — but you look so horribly ill.”
“It is nothing,” said the other hurriedly, “nothing! I shall be glad to go with you. It will make me think of other things, and so cure me. Where are you going to?”
“I was going to ask you to come with me to see poor John Pether. I’m afraid it’s near the end with him.”
“You mean that he is dying.”
“I fear as much. I’ve had a doctor to see him these last few days, and he makes light of it. But I know John better than the doctor does. He has been lying still on his bed since yesterday morning, and hasn’t spoken. I lost a day’s work today to stay with him. You see, poor John has no one else in the world to look after him, and I’m afraid he won’t trouble us long.”
“I’ll come at once,” exclaimed Arthur, glad of any distraction113. “If it seems necessary I will stay with him all night. You don’t look very well yourself, Mr. Challenger.”
“Why, to tell you the truth, Arthur, I was up all night with him, too, and I should take it very kind of you if you could sit with him a few hours whilst I get a nap.”
They set out at once, and soon reached Charlotte Place. The umbrella-mender’s shop was shut up, and, as usual under such circumstances, looked gloomy enough. Mark opened the door with a key which he drew from his pocket, and the two passed through the shop into the parlour behind.
John Pether lay in bed, his gaunt face and scanty114 black hair strongly relieved by the whiteness of the pillow. His features had altered so since Arthur had last seen him as scarcely to be recognisable. Their expression was ghastly; the jaw-bones seemed almost to pierce through the skin; the lips were shrivelled and somewhat drawn115 back over the clenched116 teeth. He lay looking straight upwards117, if indeed he could be said to look with eyes which were but half open, and showed no sign of intelligence. Only his right arm lay outside the clothes, and the hand was clenched so firmly that the tips of the knuckles118 were pure white compared with the colour of the skin elsewhere. By the side of his bed was a great heap of newspapers, those at the top lying open as though they had been lately read, those underneath119 carefully folded up.
“He has been reading since I left,” whispered Mark as they entered. “The last thing I did was to fold up all the newspapers.”
“Why does he keep such a heap by his side?” whispered Arthur in turn.
“They are papers with accounts of the Communist rebellion in Paris. He has done scarcely anything but read them for several months.”
Arthur shuddered120 involuntarily as he pictured to himself the sick man’s thoughts, how they must teem121 with dreadful images of slaughter122. Doubtless these reports realised to John Pether the dreams of the coming revolution on which he had for years persistently123 dwelt.
“Is he asleep?” asked Arthur, regarding the half-open eyes with something of awe55.
“I think not,” whispered Mark back, “but I don’t know whether he sees us. I’ll speak to him.”
Accordingly he approached and said some words in a low voice, to which the sick man paid no heed. He lay as though in a trance.
“Has he eaten anything today?” asked Arthur.
Mark shook his head.
“He ought to take a dose of the medicine on the table there about ten to-night. But I don’t know whether he can be made to do it.”
They exchanged a few more whispered sentences, and then Arthur urged upon Mark to go home for a little rest, whilst he himself sat and watched. This Mark consented to do, promising124, however, to return shortly after midnight and relieve his friend, who, as he said, seemed also to have much need of sleep. After a few directions with regard to the treatment of Pether, Mark left the house, and Arthur locked the shop door behind him.
Returning to the parlour, he sat down at some distance from the bed and again resigned himself to his misery. But he felt that his thoughts were more endurable even in company such as this than they would have been had he remained alone all night. Before long his mind began to occupy itself with the past history of John Pether. What glimpses he had had of this were so terrible that his imagination could scarcely err19 in imparting the gloomiest colours to those long years of whose events he knew nothing. What a life had been this man’s even during the uneventful period in which Arthur had known him. What terrible brooding over a hideous125 past, what fierce internal maledictions on that society to which his miseries126 were mostly due, what maddening visions of a revenge he would live to enjoy had filled up the monotonous127 days spent in the work of the gloomy little shop. He tried to recollect128 John Pether as he had first seen him, and he was conscious of how great a change had come over that strongly-marked countenance during the past nine or ten years. Most rapid, however, had been the change since Mr. Tollady’s death. The latter had been a true friend to John Pether, as he was to every one whom he knew to be suffering and in need of help, either in word or deed, and his friendship had kept the lonely man’s mind from sinking into that hopeless abyss and madness in which it had since been overwhelmed.
He stirred slightly once or twice, showing Arthur that he was, still alive, of which there might otherwise have been doubts, for the colour of his skin was like that of a dead man’s, and his breathing could not be heard. Arthur would gladly have taken up one of the papers near the bed, to while away the dreary129 moments, but he had a fear lest his doing so should offend the sick man. So he was forced back upon his thoughts, and these were anything but enviable companions, as at length twilight130 deepened into gloom. The window of the chamber131 looked out upon a wretched little yard, in which at this moment newly-washed clothes were hanging, and these waved hither and thither132 in the gathering133 darkness with a ghostly motion. Scarcely a sound from the street could be heard, except that dull, unbroken rumble134 which seldom quits the ear of one sitting in a London house. Unable to bear the stillness, Arthur at length rose, stepped past the bed and lit a small lamp which stood on the mantel-piece, making a noise as he did so, in the hope of rousing Pether’s attention He was not successful in this effort, so, after leaning across the bed to draw the one dingy135 curtain which darkened the window, he laid his hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke to him. A look of recognition seemed to rise to Pether’s face, and he spoke in a low whisper.
“Put the light nearer. It is almost time. I must look again to see how they began.”
Arthur put the light on a chair by the bed, and Pether, taking up the first newspaper which came to his hand, began to read, muttering passages half aloud. The way in which he did this sent a chill through Arthur’s veins136. He knew that it was mere delirium137 and not healthy consciousness which stimulated138 Pether.
He reassumed his chair, and his thoughts once more flowed irresistibly139 back into the gloomy channel of his own griefs. But this time thought seemed to bring with it so great a weariness that before long the lids of his eyes sank as under weights. His slumber140 of the previous night had been brief and disturbed, and strong emotions had worn out every nerve. In vain he made great efforts to keep himself awake, walking up and down at one time, as well as the small chamber would permit, and trying to fix his thoughts on Pether, who had ceased to read and lay holding a paper in his lank141 hands. Spite of all, his utter weariness was not to be resisted. He fell asleep.
It appeared to him to be hours after, but was in reality little more than ten minutes, when he was awakened142 by a fearful cry which sent all his blood rushing back upon his heart and left him marble with terror. A heavy hand was upon his shoulder, under the pressure of which he in vain tried to rise. Staring straight before him with such consciousness as he had left, he saw that it was John Pether whose hand he felt. The latter was standing in front of him, dressed only in a long white shirt, in his left hand the little lamp, and with his face so close to Arthur’s as almost to touch it. All his features seemed red and swollen143 with a sudden access of blood, and his dark eyes flashed with a fearful fiery144 radiance in the lamp-light. His breath, hot and quick, came full upon the young man’s forehead, and from his lips proceeded a stream of wild and fierce eloquence145, delivered in a voice which at times all but yelled.
“Wake!” he cried. “Wake! Can you sleep whilst the drums are beating and the bells are ringing so loud? Wake, and join yon whilst you have time! We are fifty thousand strong, and already half London is in our hands. Everyone who is ragged146 or hungry or oppressed, everyone who knows the bitterness of long and hopeless waiting for justice, everyone whom wrong has driven into crime, everyone whom tyranny has made mad — all are with us! Hark! Now the drums have ceased, and the firing has begun. They will fight desperately, these rich men, for their bags of gold and their palaces overflowing with luxury. But what can they do against the millions of us slaves who have cast away our fetters147, and know our strength? Cannon148, too; not a house shall be left standing, not the latest-born of our tyrants149 shall live another hour!”
He raised his heavy hand from Arthur’s shoulders and held it up, in an attitude as if of listening. At the same moment Arthur started to his feet. He would have fled, but he had not the strength.
“Here! Here!” yelled the maniac150, a minute after. “This way! Follow me! I have a right to lead, for none have suffered more than I have. Fire these houses, and kill every living creature that flees from them! It grows dark, but the fires will light us to our work. No pity! No mercy! Aye, the women and children, too! Kill, kill, kill!”
Uttering terrific cries, he waved the lamp wildly above his head, then flung it with violence upon the floor. In the same instant he sprang forward like a wild-beast and seized Arthur around the throat. For a moment the two struggled in the dark, but for a moment only. Then the oil from the lamp suddenly igniting flamed up to the very ceiling. Instantly the great heap of newspapers had taken fire, and the conflagration151 spread thence, quick as thought, to the bedclothes. Arthur was conscious of the fierce glare, the terrific heat, and, very shortly, of blinding smoke; but terror had deprived him of the power of reasoning, and he knew no guide save the blind impulse to struggle for his life. It could not have been but a few minutes that he writhed152 beneath the madman’s terrific grasp, but it seemed to him that he struggled with fury for at least an hour. He could no longer see anything but a blood-red glare swimming before his eyes, his brain seemed bursting with agony — in a moment he would have lost consciousness; but before that happened the grasp upon his throat suddenly relaxed, and he found himself free. The same instant found him wrapped in an immense cloud of stifling153 smoke, whilst he became aware for the first time that his clothes had caught fire. Rushing wildly in the direction of the shop, he succeeded in finding the door, and, forgetting that it opened inwards, threw himself with all his force against it repeatedly. Whilst he was doing so, the door was suddenly thrust open from without, and he found himself rushing into the open street, among a crowd of people who were shouting “Fire!”
Still speeding onwards, he suddenly found himself seized and clung to, whilst the voice of Mark Challenger sounded in his ears.
“Good God!” cried the latter. “Stop! Where is John Pether? How did it happen, Arthur?”
For some minutes Arthur was unable to speak, then he gave in a few hurried words an account of all that had happened. Even as he spoke the cries of “Fire!” continued to ring through the street; and a great crowd forced the two quite away from the spot whither they were struggling. The narrow court was already filled with volumes of smoke. Mark, leaving his companion, struggled with difficulty towards the shop, and was rushing in through the open door when a policeman seized and detained him. It would have been impossible by this time to penetrate154 to the inner room, and Mark was compelled to stand back amid the throng155, and wait the result. Before long the firemen arrived, and within an hour the fire was got sufficiently156 under to permit of the shop being entered. Two firemen essayed the task in company, and at the end of five minutes returned, bearing between them an unrecognisable corpse157.
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1
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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3
exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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8
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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9
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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10
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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11
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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12
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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13
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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14
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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15
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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16
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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17
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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18
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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19
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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20
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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21
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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23
estranging
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| v.使疏远（尤指家庭成员之间）( estrange的现在分词 ) | |
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24
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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25
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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26
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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27
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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28
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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29
moroseness
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30
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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31
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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32
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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33
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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34
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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35
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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36
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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37
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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38
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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39
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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40
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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41
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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42
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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43
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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44
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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45
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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46
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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47
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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48
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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49
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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50
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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51
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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52
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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54
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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55
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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56
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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57
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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58
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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59
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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60
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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61
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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62
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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63
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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64
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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65
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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66
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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67
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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68
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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69
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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70
trenchant
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| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
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71
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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73
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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74
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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75
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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76
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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77
foisted
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| 强迫接受，把…强加于( foist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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79
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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80
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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81
necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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82
procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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83
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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84
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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86
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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87
rebuking
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的现在分词 ) | |
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88
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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89
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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90
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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91
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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92
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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93
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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94
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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95
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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96
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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97
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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98
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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99
venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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100
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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101
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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102
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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103
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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104
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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105
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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106
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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107
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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108
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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109
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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110
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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111
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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112
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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113
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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114
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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115
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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116
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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117
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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118
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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119
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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120
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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121
teem
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| vi.(with)充满，多产 | |
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122
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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123
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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124
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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125
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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126
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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127
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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128
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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129
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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130
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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131
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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132
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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133
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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134
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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135
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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136
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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137
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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138
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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139
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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140
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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141
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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142
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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143
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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144
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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146
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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147
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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148
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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149
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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150
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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151
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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152
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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154
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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155
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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156
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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157
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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