The next night he again slept little. Rising early, he packed his large trunk with what,clothing he possessed8, adding a few of his favourite books, and one or two small remembrances of Carrie. This done, he sat down and wrote a brief letter to Mark Challenger, merely saying he was compelled to leave London very suddenly, and begging that Mark would take away and retain till it should be redemanded all the property left behind in the room in Huntley Street. The letter sealed and directed, he went down and gave Mrs. Oaks notice of his intention to leave immediately, making some plausible9 excuse to explain his wife’s absence. After that he removed his boxes by means of a cab to the nearest railway station, depositing it in the left-luggage office till he should have found himself another lodging10. This object he effected before the afternoon, and the evening saw him seated in a garret which he had taken in a dreary11 part of Islington.
No criminal in fear of the gallows12 could have effected a more complete escape from the eyes of all who knew him; yet Arthur was urged to this step by no sense of guilt13, merely by overwhelming shame and’ a blind, unreasoning desire to remove himself entirely14 from the scene of his sufferings. Once established in the wretched garret, which on account of its quietness and security seemed a very haven15 of refuge for his storm-beaten soul, he breathed more freely. Even his body seemed to benefit by the change, for a long night of profound sleep left him altogether free from fever and with a more temperate16 pulse than he had known for many days. He rose shortly after six o’clock, and, throwing open his lattice, drank in the fresh breath of the July morning with an effect upon his spirits almost exhilarating. The narrow street below, bordered on either side with neglected gardens, was absolutely still, and grass growing here and there between the paving stones seemed to show that traffic was almost unknown. For the moment Arthur felt that he would ask nothing more than to live and die, unknown, in such retirement17 as this.
first of all it behoved him to consider how he should find employment. To return to his old place was, of course, impossible. He had absented himself too long, and, even had this been no objection, he was determined18 to shake off completely every trace of his former life. In his purse, moreover, he had five pounds still, and he calculated that, by exercising economy, he could live nearly ten weeks on this sum, for he only paid half-a-crown a week for his garret. The prospect19 of so long a period of absolute freedom was so delightful20 to him that he embraced it forthwith. Why should he trouble to seek for work immediately? When the time of need came a good workman like himself could have no difficulty in finding a place. For a while, at least, he would allow himself to taste the rare sweets of liberty.
Throughout the day he occupied himself pleasantly enough in reading. He was surprised at the sudden calm which had come over him, which allowed him to put aside all his gloomy and painful thoughts and drink once more of his old delights, finding the draught22 the sweeter from his long abstinence. Then, towards evening, he issued forth21 and wandered about the back streets of Islington, quite sure of meeting no one who would recognise him. When it grew dark he found himself irresistibly23 attracted towards the thronging24 life of the larger thoroughfares. He experienced a delight in mingling25 with the crowd greater than he could have conceived, a delight of which he had enjoyed but a brief foretaste on the fatal evening when Carrie’s voice first became known to him. By degrees he drew towards the City, into the Strand26. Here the glittering doorways27 of the theatres began to attract him, and, after standing28 near one of them for a long time, exciting his fancy by a perusal29 of the play-bill, he yielded to the voice of the charmer and entered. A comic opera was being played, one of those thrice-warmed French rago?ts, slightly unspiced to suit the less discriminating30 English palate, a dazzling mélange of tinsel, and dance and song, where lovely English faces come and go against a background of roses and melody, and taper31 limbs whirl gracefully32 hither and thither33 amid a mist of muslin. To Arthur, who had never even witnessed the legitimate34 drama, this was the veritable cup of Circe; his senses were rapt; without a thought of resistance he yielded to the intoxicating35 influences of the spell.
Perhaps it will be better to render no detailed36 account of the few days which followed, days in which poor Arthur sounded all the depths of folly37 and degradation38, impelled39 by the feverish40 need of distraction41, of forgetting his past miseries42 and avoiding the thoughts of his future prospects43. This was his period of Bohemianism, a phase of life from which few escape who are raised above the crowd by the fineness of their sensibilities, the warmth and strength of their imaginative powers. It lasted scarcely a week, by the end of which time every farthing was spent and every article on which money could be obtained sold or pledged. The last night was one of vulgar and brutal44 debauch45. One does not practise economy with one’s last sixpenny-piece, and there are few depths to which those will not descend46 whose motto has become, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.”
On the morning which followed, with hideously-swollen features, with clothing filthy48 and torn, shaking as if in a palsy, Arthur slunk along the back streets of Islington, seeking for some means of earning a mouthful of bread. He would not have dared to present himself at any printing-office, for his own figure reflected in the windows of the shops he passed made him shudder49 and shrink away in disgust. He could now only hope for work of the meanest kind, and that he accordingly sought. He saw a paper in a public-house window making known the fact that a “potman” was wanted there. He offered his services, but, owing to his lack of experience, they were refused. He entered one or two warehouses50, and, though at the cost of terrible struggles with his pride, asked if they wanted a porter. In each case he was contemptuously bidden to go about his business. By this time it was noon, and the odour of dinners steaming out of the cook-shops he passed excited his hunger past endurance. So famishing did he at length become that, on noticing half an apple which some child had thrown away in the .street, he waited till he thought himself unobserved, pounced51 upon it, and, retreating down a neighbouring alley52, devoured53 it eagerly. Exhausted54 with these sufferings, he at length sat down to rest on one of the seats by the reservoir on the summit of Pentonville Hill. As all who have had the misfortune to endure semi-starvation know, the first terrible pangs55 of hunger are wont56 to be succeeded by a deadly sickness, and, when this passes away, neither hunger nor sickness is any longer felt, but the sufferer is for a brief space at rest. This stage Arthur had now reached, and for more than two hours he sat watching the passers-by, wondering at the ease he enjoyed. All the time his mind was engaged in the peculiar57 process of unconscious reflection. Whilst he persuaded himself that he was only looking about him in a lazy manner, he was in reality engaged in accustoming58 himself to face the dread59 necessity of begging, whether of private persons or at the workhouse. What other resource was left to him? If he had shrunk from facing his friends when only deterred60 by shame on another’s account, how utterly61 impossible was it now for him to request their aid when his very appearance bore unmistakable evidence to the degradation of his life. Rather than William Noble should see him now, he felt that he would die of hunger. Evening approached, and once more the voracious62 wolf, hunger, began to gnaw63 angrily at his vitals.’ If he was not to die in the street, he must do something now. He rose, but at first could not walk, staggering back against the wall. Turning out of Pentonville Road he went by the quieter neighbourhood in the direction of Gray’s Inn Road. Before long he arrived before a baker’s shop. No one was inside but a young girl, and she seemed to Arthur to have a pleasant look. He felt that it would be but little degradation to beg of her, and, if she refused him, he was sure she would do so gently. So, after a moment’s hesitation64, he forced himself to enter the shop, and, with face burning and voice which did not seem to be his own, he begged for a penny roll. The young girl looked at him for a moment in surprise, perhaps alarm, but the next he saw her eyes lighting65 up with womanly compassion66, and he knew that he had not begged in vain.
“Put it in your pocket, quick,” she said, as she gave him a small loaf. “If father was to come in he wouldn’t like me to give it you.”
Arthur only replied by a look of the intensest gratitude67, and instantly left the shop. Never had food tasted so sweet to him as this did, but, alas68! how little there was of it. Nevertheless, it, had stilled for the time the fiercest pangs of hunger, and, as he had not the courage to beg again, he began to make his way homewards, hoping to forget in sleep all the agonies of the past and the still gloomier prospect of the future.
He rose early next morning, weak and feverish, but resolved once more to set forth and endeavour to find employment. In a day or two he would have to pay his rent again; failing that, he would most likely find himself homeless as well as starving. Yes, for this one day he would do his utmost to find work. If he should again fail he had no idea what he should do. Possibly the extremity69 of need might drive him to the humiliation70 of seeking either Mark Challenger or William Noble. With no other refreshment71 than a glass of water, he issued forth on his hopeless task. But he had over-rated his strength. With the utmost difficulty he toiled72 slowly along, past the Angel and as far as the reservoir; but here his powers altogether failed him, and he was obliged once more to make use of the seats. Every limb trembled with exhaustion74, his forehead bathed in a cold sweat, at his heart a feeling as though a great flood of tears was there gathering75 in readiness to rush resistlessly to his eyes; he sank upon the bench. As he did so a deep sob76 broke involuntarily from between his lips.
On the same bench was sitting an elderly gentleman, engaged in reading the newspaper. Arthur had scarcely noticed him, but, when the sob of anguish77 made itself heard, the old gentleman looked up from his paper and regarded Arthur curiously78. The latter’s eyes were fixed79 upon the ground in a dull despairing gaze. After once or twice looking up from his paper, the old gentleman moved slightly nearer to his companion on the bench, and asked him if he was in trouble. Arthur stared at the speaker for a moment as if unable to collect his faculties80, but then a ray of hope lit up his countenance81, and he replied that he was indeed in trouble, for he had been looking for employment a long time without success. The old gentleman, still surveying him with the somewhat critical eye of one who did not lack experience in the world’s impostures, proceeded to enquire82 as to the kind of employment he required, and, on receiving the information, turned back calmly to his paper, and for some minutes appeared to peruse83 it in forgetfulness of Arthur. Such, however, was not really the case; for all at once he turned round, and handed the paper to the young man, pointing, as he did so, to an item in the advertising84 columns. Arthur saw that it was an advertisement for a compositor, the address being in Edgware Road.
“Do you think it worth your while to go after it?” asked the stranger, still eyeing Arthur keenly.
“Certainly I do, sir,” he replied, with as cheerful a voice as he could command. “I shall go at once. Thank you very much for your kindness.”
The old gentleman nodded pleasantly, and Arthur rose with a fresh impulse of hope. But the first few steps showed him how miserably85 weak he was. Edgware Road was at the,very least three miles away. He felt that it would be impossible to walk the distance. He was on the point of falling from absolute exhaustion when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning, saw again the old gentleman by his side.
“Bye-the-by,” asked the latter, “have you had any breakfast this morning?”
Arthur replied in the negative, with a sickly smile.
“Or any dinner yesterday?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Then how are you likely to get work?” asked the other. “Or what use would it be when you’d got it?”
Arthur made no reply, but he saw that his unknown friend had in the meantime taken out his purse.
“I have a mind to try an experiment,” said the old gentleman. “There’s half a sovereign, and there’s my card. If you get work and feel disposed to consider this money as a loan, you can come and pay it back to me at that address. You understand?”
“Perfectly well, thank you sir,” replied Arthur. “If I live to earn a week’s wages you will certainly see me.”
“I hope to do so,” returned the other. “Now go and get something to eat, for you look as if you wanted it.”
Arthur stammered86 out his thanks as well as he could, and the old gentleman, after nodding pleasantly once more, departed on his way.
Without further detail I will state that Arthur succeeded in obtaining the employment he sought, though not without great difficulty, owing to his lack of recommendations. It was a very small business, and the master was not a particularly agreeable man; but he saw that Arthur would be a useful man in his office, and took advantage of the circumstances of the case to arrange with him for the lowest possible wages. They would be just enough to live on, however, and at present this was all that Arthur cared for. The same evening he gave up his garret in Islington, exchanging it for a far less agreeable abode87 in Chapel88 Street, distant only some five minutes’ walk from his employment.
With the following day began a period of hopeless, grinding toil73, of long days spent in miserably-recompensed labour, followed by nights which hunger often made hideous47 with restlessness or terrifying dreams. For, spite of terrible temptations, the strength of which could only be realised by one who has been in similar positions, Arthur persisted in his resolution of saving every penny he possibly could towards paying off his debt. It took him a month, with the utmost economy, to save the ten shillings. How often, as he returned from his work at night, was he tempted89 to spend some of his savings90 and enjoy the luxury of a satisfying meal; what ghastly fascination91 was there in the glaring fronts of the public-houses, beckoning92 him to enter and, in a few draughts93 of fiery94 liquor, forget at once his hunger and that vain folly which men call honour. Why should he suffer so to pay this debt? The lender did not know his name, and it was scarcely probable that he should trouble to remember the address of the advertising printer. For all that Arthur was determined to repay the debt: common gratitude, if no finer feeling, demanded that he should do so. And, after hours of fierce conflict with himself, after weeks of the most utter misery95 which even these few shillings could greatly have relieved, Arthur did repay the debt. He would not venture to carry the money in his pocket as far as Islington, where the old gentleman lived; the temptation on the way might prove too strong, and any little accident, such as the gentleman’s absence from home, might lead to a fatal hesitation. The difficulty was better got over by the agency of a post-office order. With a sigh of ineffable96 relief, Arthur addressed this from the card his benefactor97 had given him, and posted it.
This was on Saturday afternoon. The same evening Arthur sank into a terrible despondency, a sickness of the heart, exceeding in misery even that bodily suffering to which he was now becoming almost reconciled. With the repayment98 of the debt, it seemed as though an impulse to healthy exertion99 had been suddenly withdrawn100; henceforth there was nothing to look forward to but an arid102 future spreading out into interminable tracts103 of hopeless toil. To obtain a better place was almost impossible, for he now knew his employer sufficiently104 well to be sure that he would not aid him the least to improve his position, but would rather do his utmost to retain him in this state of servitude. Arthur was rapidly losing all self-respect, all hope of better things, all thoughts above his every-day labour and every-day needs. He never opened a book to read a page, for he felt no longer any interest in the cultivation105 of his mind. To what end should he trouble? Even the recollection of the wealth of which little more than half a year would make him master brought with it no saving grace. For he had lost all faith in himself. How would he be better off when he possessed his five thousand pounds? Certainly he would not suffer from starvation, but, otherwise, how would he differ from what he was at present? Evidently fate had declared that his should be a useless, unproductive life, and it was vain to struggle against the decree. With a bitter smile he reflected upon the hopes and the aspirations106 of past years; already they were growing so dim, so unsubstantial to his memory, that he could with difficulty realise the power they had once exercised over his life. He thought of Helen Norman — indeed no single day passed on which he did not still think of her — and he was glad that her portrait was in the safe keeping of his friend Noble; if it had been in his own possession he could not have refrained from continually looking at it, and the indulgence could have had no consequence save perpetual self-torture. Of course,,she who was still his wife in the dogged estimation of the law, he thought of less often, and always with a vague species of compassion which was not altogether without a mixture of resentment107. If she was now suffering from the consequences of her folly, what, else could she have expected? And was he not suffering? Had he not suffered as much as, aye more than it was possible for her to suffer, and wholly in consequence of her conduct? On the other hand she might still be living in luxury, supported by the infatuation of some wealthy admirer; and in that case was she worthy108 of pity? Aye, even then worthy of infinite pity. For she had voluntarily exchanged the devotion of a faithful heart for the sensual caprice of a fop, an unprincipled rake, and her hour of utter wretchedness could not in any case be far off. In such passing moments Arthur felt that there was still a spot of tenderness in his heart for the poor, weak fool; but the love, the passion which had once inflamed109 him, that had gone never to return.
Monday came, and he went to his work as usual. When he came home at dinner-time he was surprised to find a letter for him, directed in a hand of which he had not the least knowledge. He opened it, and found it contained a short note from the old gentleman in Islington, acknowledging the receipt of the ten shillings, expressing his extreme gratification at finding Arthur’s promise adhered to, and, finally, returning the money with the request that Arthur would accept it as a mark of his creditor’s esteem110.
It was a fatal present. With this unwonted wealth in his pocket, Arthur no longer felt compelled to deny himself so vigorously as hitherto every little indulgence that might make his life at least more tolerable. The same night he yielded unresistingly to the attraction of the public-house, and, after the first draught, he continued to drink with the sole object of inducing oblivion. In his present condition this’ was the utmost happiness he could hope for, and this he attained111. Even whilst doing his best to enervate112 his faculties of thought, however, he remembered the narrowness of his resources and resolved to avoid wild debauch. Not to-night only would he need to deaden his self-consciousness, but for many and many a night to come, and he must carefully husband the means for purchasing forgetfulness. He knew that on the morrow he should pay the penalty in horrible suffering, but what was that compared with these few hours of blessed delight?
Soon every night saw him wandering from bar to bar, brutalising himself with whatever cheap poison came within his means, then staggering home to his garret to spend the few hours before daylight in heavy unconsciousness. The day grew to be nothing but a preparation for the night, a dreary waste of hours which must somehow be plodded113 through in order that the oasis114 of the night might be reached. Life such as this soon destroyed his appetite, and the diminished need for food left more money for drink. He was past reflection; in the few hours during which he was capable of continued thought he bound his mind down to the task before him, not daring to look before or behind. He grew altogether negligent115 of his personal appearance, and his very features seemed to partake of the degeneration of his mind. Day by day the clouds of misery seemed to envelope his life closer and closer. It seemed as if either the hospital or the gaol116 must ere long behold117 the close of such a career.
At length he lost his place. Of late he had been growing more and more irregular in his time of appearance at the office, and for some weeks his master had been on the point of discharging him. At length, without any warning, he was supplanted118 in the office, and was told that his services were no longer needed. The same evening he was under an obligation to pay considerable arrears119 of rent, or else to quit his lodgings120. Taking the money his master paid him, he discharged as much of his debt as possible, and once more found himself homeless and penniless in the streets, just as night was falling.
In this moment of despair came a thought which had several times of late passed through his mind, but which he had never yet been courageous121 enough firmly to face. Now with the thought, the courage came also. He dwelt upon it, looked at it in all its phases, made up his mind to pursue it even to the end. That thought led him along the Marylebone Road, eastwards122. As he passed the workhouse, it was the time when the “casuals” were beginning to assemble in order to seek admittance for the night. They stood in a long row against the wall, wretches123 of all ages, and of every degree of misery, some emaciated124 with incurable125 disease, some hale and strong, their only ailment126 being laziness, all exhibiting in their persons the results of abject127 poverty. Ever since early morning it had rained unceasingly, and at this moment the rain streamed down pitilessly from the blackening sky upon the row of drenched128 and shivering creatures. The sight of them made Arthur pause for a moment, as if a doubt had crossed his mind, but the next moment he walked rapidly on muttering to himself, “Never, never!”
The thought led him down Tottenham Court Road and then off to the left into Huntley Street. He stood still for a moment in the darkness before the house where he had lived with Carrie, and a thrill of horror at the recollection of all he had suffered there made his heart chiller than the body which contained it, though the wet and cold of this November night had numbed129 every limb. With a bitter curse upon his fate, he passed hurriedly on, again crossed Tottenham Court Road, and found himself in a few minutes in Charlotte Place. He knew that Mr. Tollady’s shop had long since disappeared, being replaced by a larger one of a different nature, but still it was a pleasure to him to see the place where it had been, the narrow street in which the only happy time of his life had been passed. John Pether’s shop was also transformed. He and Mr. Tollady were at rest. Mark Challenger, the third of those friends of his boyhood, no doubt still lived, but Arthur’s business was no longer with the living.
The thought soon bore him away, once more eastwards. It was now black night, and the rain came down more pitilessly than ever. Twenty minutes’ sharp walk brought him into the Strand, and here he hesitated. The object of his thought now lay at a very short distance below him. Which of these narrow streets should he take in his way to the river? What spot was likely to be the quietest? Where could one seek eternal rest with least danger of interference?
Unconsciously he had passed at a very short distance from Noble’s abode, which was in one of the dark and narrow streets between which he was choosing. As he meditated130, the recollection of this occurred to his mind. Why not choose that street as well as another? Possibly there might be a light in Noble’s window, and the comparison between his friend’s condition and his own would be a new means of strengthening his resolve. At once he crossed the Strand and entered the narrow street.
On the present evening William Noble was sitting alone in his lodgings, pursuing a train of thought, which, to judge from his countenance, was none of the most agreeable. His room was a very small one, on the third story, at once a bed and a sitting room. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and its warm rays did their best to expel the recollection of the dreary waste of waters upon which the night had descended131. Noble had drawn101 a little deal-topped table near to the fire, apparently132 with the intention of reading. At his elbow lay open a volume of Mill’s “Political Economy,” and on the table were also volumes exhibiting the names of Ricardo and Malthus. On one side of the room was a small book-case, containing some thirty or forty books of a very substantial appearance, a closer examination of which would have shown them nearly all to be works bearing on social problems. The library was an index to its owner’s mind. By nature grave, earnest, enthusiastic, and, withal, intensely matter-of-fact, Noble found a thoroughly133 congenial study in the severe problem of social science. Though tender-hearted as few men are, he knew little of literature in its more humanising products; poetry and all the sweet and tender off-shoots of the imagination he cared nothing for. Intensely convinced that he lived in an age of savage134 facts which required the most resolute135 facing, it was in the attempt to face and master them that he found his highest delight.
But even John Stuart Mill seemed to have but little attraction for him this evening. He sat over the fire with his forehead resting in his hands, much troubled in countenance. And in fact he had much to make him sad and thoughtful. The club which he had worked so hard to establish and to inspire with some portion of his own lofty unselfishness had utterly collapsed136 a few months since, collapsed beyond hope of reconstruction137. The history of this enterprise had done much to disabuse138 Noble of his extreme confidence in human sincerity139 and strength of purpose. He saw that the problems before him were indeed far more difficult than he had been wont to represent them to his own mind. His confidence in his own powers of judging individual men, moreover, had lately received a severe shock. A friend of whom he thought very highly had recently obtained from him a loan of a very large portion of his savings, and had immediately disappeared, without trace. The loss of the money weighed but little with Noble in comparison with the loss of trust in his friend.
But at present these matters, though supplying a gloomy background for his reflections, were not the principal object of his thoughts. Just now he was thinking of Arthur Golding. For months he had lost sight of Arthur completely; he knew not whether he was living or dead. Shortly after the death of John Pether, he had been visited by Mark Challenger, who had told him all that he knew concerning their common friend, but beyond this he had been able to learn nothing whatever. The loss of Arthur’s companionship had been felt severely140 by Noble, more severely, indeed, than he could have anticipated; for now that he had had leisure to reflect long upon the memory of his friend, he felt that his had been the only one among his acquaintances upon whose genuine sympathy and understanding he could truly rely. He saw clearly the many points in which Arthur’s character differed from his own, but he understood also that it was on account of these very differences that he had grown so to like him. About Arthur there had always been something of pleasing mystery, in reality the halo of genius, to the impression of which Noble had gladly submitted, though in no wise comprehending its nature. Had he known the real bent141 of his friend’s genius it is probable that he would not have sympathised with it at all; but as long as the genius had merely found expression in the glance of his eyes, the energy of his conversation, the unselfish nature of his aims, Noble recognised in it a vague superiority to which he had himself no claim, and grew to love its possessor.
So ill at ease did he become by indulging these thoughts, that before long he found it intolerable to remain alone. He was quite unable to study, and, after one or two vain efforts at so distracting his mind, he closed his books, rose, and prepared to go out. He resolved that he would visit Mark Challenger and ask if he had any news of Arthur. No doubt the errand would be in vain, but a most unwonted restlessness rendered it absolutely necessary that he should be active. A sharp walk through such a night would surely restore him to his usual quietude, if anything would.
Noble put on his top-coat, took his umbrella, and descended the stairs. As he threw open the front door and was on the point of leaving the house, he suddenly started back confounded. The light from the hall lamp streaming out into the black street had illuminated142 a face and form bearing some kind of hideous resemblance to the object of the past hour’s uneasy thoughts. Something like a startled look of recognition had also risen to the face before him, whose pallid143 ghastliness was for a moment shot over with a slight flush; but the same instant both face and form had vanished, swallowed up, as it seemed, in the darkness. At once Noble had recollected144 his faculties, and darted145 out in pursuit. He caught a glimpse of a black shape fleeing beneath a street-lamp a few yards before him, and he chased it like a hunter in pursuit of his game. The black shape had just come into view beneath the next lamp, and Noble was on the point of springing upon it, when suddenly it fell prostrate146, with a thud which sounded clearly through the quiet street. As the object of his pursuit fell, Noble sprang to his side.
“Golding! Arthur Golding!” he exclaimed, bending over the prostrate form. “Is it you?”
But there was no answer. Turning the face up to the light, Noble saw that it was without doubt his friend whom he had encountered, but whether now living or dead it was more difficult to decide. Arthur was pallid and cold as marble, and his limbs seemed to have stiffened147 as he fell. No trace of breath escaped from between the thin lips. His hat had fallen off in the chase, and his matted thick hair was rapidly becoming soaked with the rain, as all his clothing already was. As he raised the prostrate head, Noble felt something warm upon his fingers, and, hastily examining them by the lamp, found that it was blood.
With the aid of a policeman, who fortunately happened to pass, Noble quickly removed the insensible man into the nearest public-house, where means were rapidly applied148 for his restoration. In half an hour Arthur was able to rise and accompany his preserver home. Since his recovery he had scarcely spoken, and his replies to Noble’s questions were brief and incoherent. Fearing lest some serious illness should overtake him in the night, Noble put him at once into his own bed, and himself sat up till far into the night. About two o’clock, seeing that Arthur slept a sound and apparently healthy sleep, he made a bed of the arm-chair and sought by the fire-side a few hours’ rest.
In the morning, Arthur woke with his faculties undisturbed, though so weak in body that he was quite unable to rise. Accordingly, Noble left him in bed, whilst he went to his day’s work. Arthur lay all day long occupied with his own mingled150 reflections, scarcely knowing whether to be glad or sorry that fate had rescued him from the death he had contemplated151 and brought him once more in connection with his friend. He felt no disposition152 to stir, or to find other occupation than that afforded by his thoughts. He needed these hours of quietness to become reconciled to the change in his prospects, to call his mind once more back to the world with which he had believed himself to have done. As yet, he was not able to regard himself as a responsible being. William Noble had saved his life, and with him must lie the disposal of his future. Probably this day of perfect mental and bodily rest was the happiest Arthur had experienced since his marriage. He was, as it were, transformed into a child. Who of us that has lived to do earnest battle on our own account with the stern forces of life would not be glad to return, even for a day, to the condition of a child, to be devoid153 of cares for the future, of regret for the past, to think of nothing save the moment’s joy, secure in a parent’s omnipotent154 affection? Such was Arthur’s state of mind throughout this day. With the desire of life he had cast aside all life’s responsibilities. To Noble belonged the care of his future, and in Noble’s friendship he had absolute confidence.
He could scarcely believe that a whole day had passed when his friend returned in the evening. Noble asked no questions, but evidently left it to Arthur himself either to relate or withhold155 his story. It was Arthur’s first wish to make a confidant of his preserver, to impart to him without reserve the long course of troubles which had so nearly terminated in his death. And this he did the same evening, Noble sitting by his bed, listening with a sad interest as Arthur passed from point to point of his melancholy156 narrative157. The narrator had no expressions strong enough to give utterance158 to the scorn, the hatred159 with which he regarded himself for his conduct during the past few months. He did not beg for sympathy, he spoke149 no word of self-justification. He had wittingly and of set,purpose endeavoured to brutalise his own nature, and it might be he had so far succeeded that his old self had gone for ever. In his bodily weakness he even shed bitter tears of self-reproach. The emotion did him good, and the whole confession160, by forcing him to behold himself in an objective light, imparted a healthiness to his mind which it was very long since he had enjoyed.
When Arthur ceased speaking, Noble reflected in silence for nearly ten minutes.
“And of your wife you know absolutely nothing?” he asked at length, regarding his friend with the sharp but kindly161 scrutiny162 of his clear grey eyes.
“Nothing,” replied Arthur, who had sunk back enfeebled.
Again there was a long silence.
“I have thought over the course to be pursued during the whole day,” began Noble again, “and in what you have told me there is nothing to make me alter my plans. Do you feel very weak?”
“At present, very. But it will soon go. I am not feverish, or otherwise ill. I shall be myself tomorrow.”
“Let us rather say in a week. Now listen to what I propose. You remember the Vennings?”
Arthur nodded.
“They have a room to let in their house. Now I propose that you should take this room. I tell them that you have had an illness, and that gets over all difficulties. In the meantime I look out for a place for you, whilst you occupy yourself in getting strong. How do you like the scheme?”
“But, my dear Noble,” said Arthur, turning his head, with a smile more resembling that of old than had yet risen to his face, “you forget that I am penniless.”
“Certainly not. It is you that forget that I am your friend, and may claim a friend’s rights. Sufficient to say that I am not penniless. Have you any other objection?”
Arthur’s strength was already well-nigh exhausted by the long conversation, and, had he wished to object further, he had not the power. Taking Noble’s hand, he pressed it firmly between both his own. Then he closed his eyes, and, still holding the hand of his staunch friend, dropped to sleep like a child.
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1
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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2
prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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3
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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4
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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5
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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6
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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8
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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9
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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10
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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11
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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13
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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14
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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15
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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16
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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18
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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19
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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20
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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21
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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22
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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23
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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24
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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25
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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27
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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28
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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29
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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30
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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31
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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32
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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33
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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34
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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35
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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36
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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37
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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38
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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39
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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41
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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42
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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43
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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44
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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45
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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46
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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47
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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48
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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49
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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50
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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51
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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52
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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53
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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54
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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55
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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56
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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57
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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58
accustoming
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| v.（使）习惯于( accustom的现在分词 ) | |
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59
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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60
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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62
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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63
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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64
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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65
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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66
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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67
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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68
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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69
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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70
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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71
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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72
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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73
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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74
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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75
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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76
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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77
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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78
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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79
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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80
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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81
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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82
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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83
peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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84
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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85
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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86
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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88
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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89
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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90
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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91
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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92
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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93
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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94
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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95
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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96
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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97
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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98
repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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99
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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100
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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102
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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103
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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104
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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105
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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106
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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107
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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108
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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109
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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111
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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112
enervate
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| v.使虚弱，使无力 | |
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113
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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114
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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115
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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116
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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117
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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118
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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120
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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121
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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122
eastwards
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| adj.向东方（的），朝东（的）；n.向东的方向 | |
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123
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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124
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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125
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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ailment
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| n.疾病，小病 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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disabuse
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| v.解惑；矫正 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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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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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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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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