He had drawn7 his latch-key from his pocket and was on the point of inserting it in the lock, when he became conscious of someone standing8 close behind him. Nervous from his excitement, he turned quickly round. He then saw that he was standing face to face with a girl whose shabby dress of worn-out finery was sufficient to indicate her character. At first the darkness prevented him from seeing her face, but there was something in her form and position to which his memory responded with the startling suddenness of a lightning-flash. His heart, a moment before so hot and bounding, seemed chilled to ice in his breast and checked his breathing as with a heavy load. A cold sweat broke out upon his forehead; he became deadly faint, and, had he not stretched out his hand to the wall, he would have fallen. It was as though some terrible supernatural shape had come before him in the darkness, and had pronounced his doom9.
Though he opened his lips to speak no sound issued from them. He tried to move away from the door, but had not the strength to stir. The silence was first broken by the girl herself, who moved nearer to him, and said, “Arthur, don’t you know me?”
He knew her but too well, and his eyes by degrees perceived all the lineaments of her face; he shuddered11 at the dreadful change wrought12 in her once beautiful features by so short a period of vice13 and misery14. Her cheeks had become hollow, and looked all the more ghastly for the traces of artificial colour still evident upon them; her eyes were red and bleared, with livid circles round them; her hair, cut short across her forehead, gave her a wanton, abandoned look; and the way in which she constantly shivered showed that her thin dress of vulgar frippery was almost the only clothing she had to protect her against the keen night air. For all that he knew her only too well, and not the soul of Belshazzar, when the finger wrote ruin upon the walls of his festive15 chamber16, experienced a deeper revulsion of anguish17 than Arthur in this moment suffered.
Mechanically, he beckoned18 to her, and she followed him some distance into a by-street where there was no chance of his being observed by anyone that knew him. In the shadow of a lofty warehouse19 he stopped, and again faced her.
“Was it by chance you met me?” he asked, avoiding meeting her gaze.
“No,” she replied, searching his face for a glimpse of the old kindness, but seeing nothing save pale resolution. “I found out where you lived from Mr. Challenger, for I wanted to speak to you very much.”
“You had not asked for me at the house?”
“Yes, I had,” she replied, after a moment’s hesitation20. “They told me you were out, and they did not know when you would be back. I was bound to see you to-night, so I waited near the door.”
“Did you tell them who you were?” asked Arthur, forcing his tongue to utter the question, though it was in the most fearful suspense21 that he awaited the answer.
“No,” said Carrie, “I only said as I wanted to see you — upon my oath, that was all! I was bound to see you tonight.”
“And why? What do you want?”
In his momentary22 relief at her reply, he had spoken these words with more of harsh sternness than he intended. She shrank back from him as though he had struck her, and burst into tears.
“Don’t speak so hard to me, Arthur,” she sobbed24, leaning her head against the cold damp wall and covering her face with her hands. “Don’t speak so hard to me. You wouldn’t if you knew what I’ve gone through. I’ve been ill in bed for more than a week; and because I couldn’t pay nothing they’ve taken all my clothes from me. I know as I oughtn’t to be out at night now; I’m too weak still; it may be the death of me. And I came to see you and tell you this, and to ask you if you’d help me a little, just a little. You was kind to me once, Arthur, and you used to say as you loved me!”
Loved her! With mingled25 pity, remorse26, and horror he heard her utter the words which that evening had been so sanctified to him, and was compelled to own that she spoke23 the truth. Yes; though he now shuddered in looking at her, though he drew back from her lest his hand, fresh from the clasp of Helen’s, should be soiled by the mere27 touch of hers, though the intervening sorrows and joys had removed to what seemed a distance of centuries those nights when he had watched beneath her window and been agonised by thought she might be unfaithful to him — for all that he could not forget that he had so watched, that her mere presence had once brought him ineffable28 delight, that he had kissed her lips and praised her beauty, in short that he had loved her. Love! Love! Could he use the same word to express the excitement of the senses which Carrie Mitchell’s prettiness had once had power to cause, and that holy passion which, ignited by the hand of Helen Norman, burned like a pure, unquenchable flame upon the altar of his heart? How he scorned his past self; surely he was another being now, with other thoughts, other feelings. And yet she stood there before him, sobbing29 with her head against the wall, shivering at every keener blast which swept along the dark street, and told him that he had loved her. His heart would indeed have been of iron had it failed to soften30 to the appeal of such a crushed and suffering creature. So keen was his compassion31 that he could have joined in her tears, and yet it was nothing more than compassion. No faintest spark of any warmer feeling lived within him. Save that she could appeal to bitter memories common to both of them, she was no more to him than any other wretched outcast starving in the streets.
“We mustn’t talk of that, Carrie,” he said, wondering as he spoke at the different sound the name had now to his ears than when first he learned to use it. “It is useless to remember it; let us talk as if it all never happened. You say you wanted to ask me for help. What do you mean by help? Do you mean you want money from me to enable you to buy fresh dresses and to go back to the old life?”
“No, no!” she exclaimed, eagerly, raising her tear-stained face. “Upon my soul, I don’t want it for that! I’ve done with that! I’ve done with it all for good! I’ve been thinking whilst I’ve been ill in bed that, if ever I lived to get up again, I’d never go back to that life. I hate it. It’s killing32 me fast, I know; I often wish as you’d let me die in the snow — that night as you found me. It would have been much better, so much better.”
“What do you intend to do, then?”
“If I had enough to buy a little better clothing, I’d go and get work. I’m not very strong now, but that doesn’t matter; I’d rather work my fingers to the bone at some honest business than go back again to the streets. I know I haven’t no right to ask you for anything, Arthur. When you was kind and good to me I didn’t know the value of it, and all as you did for my good worried me and made me wish for a freer life, like. But I’ve seen enough since then to make me wish as I’d never left you, Arthur. I know as I gave you a great deal of pain, but you mustn’t think of it. You must try and forgive me, for you shall never see me again; I promise you never shall. I shouldn’t have come to you now if I hadn’t been helpless and like to die in the streets for the want of something to eat. None of those people as I’ve been with knows as I was married. I wouldn’t tell them, Arthur, for fear some one might hear it as knew you; I never would.”
“And yet,” returned Arthur, after a slight pause, “you sent a woman to me with a letter asking me to pay some rent for you. Do you forget that?”
Carrie stared at him in perfectly33 natural surprise.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Didn’t you recommend a landlady34 of yours to apply to me for money you couldn’t pay her?”
“Never! Upon my soul, never, Arthur.”
“Then I was deceived,” he replied, searching her face keenly. “She brought a letter as if written by you. I felt sure it was your writing.”
“What was her name?” asked Carrie, quickly.
“Mrs. Hemp35,” replied Arthur, after a moment’s reflection.
“So help me God!” exclaimed the girl, “I never told Polly Hemp as I had a husband. Did she come and get money from you?”
“She did. I was foolish enough to believe her tale and to pay her.”
“I never knew; upon my soul I never knew!” cried the wretched girl, again bursting into tears. “But you won’t believe me, Arthur. It was my only comfort all through my wretchedness that I had never said a word of you. My God! How I wish I was dead!”
“If you tell me that I was deceived, Carrie,” said Arthur, profoundly moved by her despair, “I of course believe you. I didn’t like the woman’s appearance, and I can easily believe what you say.”
“You believe me?” she asked, checking her violent sobs36. “That’s all I want, Arthur. I can’t bear you to think me altogether bad, and upon my soul I’m telling you the truth. I wasn’t so bad once, but it’s drink as has done for me. Oh, I’m so cold. Go away, Arthur; go home and don’t think no more of me. I’ll go and see if they’ll take me in at the workhouse, and if they won’t, I shall find some way of putting an end to my wretched life. Oh, my God! my God! how cold it is!”
She crossed her arms upon her breast and seemed to be endeavouring to warm herself, all the while muttering to herself and sobbing. Arthur was pierced with compassion, which he was, however, unable to express. Words of comfort seemed unmeaning before such wretchedness as this. There was only one way in which he could help her, and the sooner he put an end to this painful interview the better for both.
“If I gave you money to pay for a lodging37,” he asked, “would you know where to find one?”
“Oh yes,” she replied, “I could easy do that.”
“And you promise me that you would use it in a proper way?”
“Oh yes, yes! So help me God, I would!”
At the beginning of the interview, Arthur had done his utmost to harden his heart against her, and, in his own interests, to leave her to her fate. But this had been only a momentary purpose. Such cruelty was impossible to his nature, and then reflection told him that to drive her to despair would most likely be the very way to awaken38 all her worst passions and to cause her to ceaselessly persecute39 him. He had not been at all prepared for the self-reproachful mood which the girl had shown, her suffering and repentance40 had touched him inexpressibly. But to do more for her than to give her the means of subsisting41 for a few days till she could find employment, if indeed it was her purpose to do so, was impossible. It must not be thought that he had not likewise his feelings of bitter self-reproach. Had he been free, had not this day been the commencement for him of an era of hope and bliss42 unspeakable, against the endurance of which Carrie’s very existence was a threat, then indeed he might have acted very differently towards her. He had to make his choice between her and Helen, but he never for a moment wavered in his determination. He suffered severely43, he could not bear to look into the miserable44 girl’s face, and his conscience never ceased to whisper to him that he was committing a cruel wrong. Who could tell whether, even at this eleventh hour, the influence of constant kindness, the prospect45 of a quiet and comfortable home, might not suffice to save her? But he was not hero enough to sacrifice his life in order to save hers. Had she come to him with a brazen46 face and made mercenary propositions without shame or disguise, he could have either acceded47 or refused as his discretion48 led him, and without remorse of conscience. But, as it was, to give her only what she begged, mere charity, cost him terrible pangs49. Already the dark shadow of clouds had encroached upon the visioned heaven of his future; he knew as he stood face to face with this miserable outcast, who was yet his wife, that what he was now about to do would haunt him till his last day. He knew it, yet he could not relinquish50 at once so vast a treasure as Helen Norman’s love. Better to die than to do so.
For about a minute they stood in silence, whilst these thoughts fermented51 within his brain. At length he spoke in the tone of one who had taken his part.
“I have no money with me,” he said; “will you wait here whilst I fetch some from the house?”
She nodded in acquiescence52, and he left her. Within five minutes he returned.
“I am not rich,” he said, as he dropped some gold coins into her hand. “This is all I have, and I must borrow for my own necessities till I am paid again. Will it be enough for you?”
“Quite enough, quite enough,” she replied. “I shall be able to get into a new life with it. I knew as you’d help me, Arthur.”
“I hope you will do all you say with it,” he continued, forcing himself to speak in unbroken tones. “But I give it to you on one condition, Carrie. We must never see each other again.”
“No, no; never again,” she sobbed. “I know as we oughtn’t never to have met, and though I might once have lived happy with you, that is all over now. I shouldn’t have come to you to-night, Arthur, if I hadn’t been forced to, indeed I never should. Never as long as I live shall you see me again.”
He endeavoured to say good-bye, but the word stuck in his throat, he could not speak. Neither could he give her his hand. She did not seem to expect either, but, muttering a few words of thanks, hurried away into the darkness, leaving Arthur to his remorse.
Driven by supreme53 misery to one desperate attempt to free herself from the slough54 of a vicious life, Carrie had been perfectly sincere in all she said to Arthur. Oppressed by hunger, cold, and the results of a brief but violent fever, she had experienced a fit of bitter repentance such as had never before visited her. No degree of self-humiliation was too deep for her whilst in this mood, and, remembering with unwonted vividness all Arthur’s past kindness to her, she felt humbly55 grateful for the help he had rendered her. She did not look for more. At this moment the distance between herself and him she had called her husband seemed infinite. It is probable that few of her miserable class are without better intervals56 in which they realise with fearful pain the full extent of their degradation57; and such a reaction it was from which poor Carrie was at present suffering.
Leaving Arthur, she went straightway to the only decent lodging-house in which she felt sure she might be received. This was that kept by the woman, Mrs. Pole, somewhere in Soho. Carrie knew nothing of the acquaintance existing between Mrs. Pole and Polly Hemp, and as in the circle of the social hell to which this poor girl had fallen, virtue58 is in a most emphatic59 sense merely comparative, she looked up to the former as to a model of propriety60. Mrs. Pole was a drunken, low-minded, sensual creature, but yet she managed to keep a moderately respectable house, probably because experience had convinced her that it was most profitable in the end to do so.
As Carrie hurried along the cold streets, clasping the coins tight in her hand, numerous were the temptations which beset61 her. It is not easy for ordinary people to realise the agony of inward strife62 with which a nature, which has accustomed itself to limitless indulgence in any vice, struggles for the first time to throw off its allegiance to the tempter and follow the voice of reason. Every flaring63 gin-palace which she passed called to her with accents sweeter and more tempting64 than those of the sirens, and when, as often occurred, she found herself between two such places, one on either side of the street, it became a veritable struggle as between Scylla and Charybdis. She walked, when it was possible, along the middle of the streets, looking straight before her, that she might not see the inside of the bars, or scent65 the odour of drink which steams forth66 whenever a drunkard reels in or out of these temples of the Furies. She was so terribly cold; how one small glass of spirits would have warmed her. But by the exertion67 of marvellous resolution she escaped the danger. Arriving at Mrs. Pole’s house, she found that she had not miscalculated the woman’s temper. A trifle surly to begin with, when she thought that Carrie had come to beg for charity, she soon brightened up at the sight of the money. Carrie wanted a room? Of course; nothing could be easier. She happened to have a delightful68 little room empty. And Carrie rested that night with a more untroubled slumber69 than she had known for many wretched months.
Exactly a week after this, on the Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Pole’s kitchen was the scene of a rather interesting conversation, the conversers being the landlady herself and her occasional visitor, Polly Hemp. They sat, one on each side of the fire, in large round-backed chairs, for both were somewhat portly in shape, and fond of sitting at their ease. There was a blazing fire in the grate, which, as evening was coming on, did more to diffuse70 light through the room than the grated window looking up through another grating into the murky71 street. The kitchen was stone-paved, the stones being only hidden here and there by a rag of carpet, but one or two large mahogany dressers, together with an oaken press, a crockery-cupboard, and some other articles of substantial appearance, gave the room an air of moderate comfort. On the table, close by the elbows of both women, stood sundry72 jugs73 and bottles, as well as two glasses more or less full of a steaming liquor, from which they constantly took draughts75 to clear their throats. The two faces were a study for Hogarth: that of Polly Hemp, round, fair, marked with an incomparably vicious smile, the nose very thin and well-shaped, the lips brutally76 sensual, the forehead narrow and receding77; that of Mrs. Pole altogether coarser and more vulgar, the nose swollen78 at the end and red, the mouth bestial79 and sullen80, the eyes watery81 and somewhat inflamed82, the chin marked by a slight growth of reddish hair. At the present moment both faces, different as were their outlines, vied in giving expression to the meanest phase of the meanest vice, that of avarice83. In Mrs. Pole’s face the passion showed itself in every lineament; in Polly Hemp’s it gleamed only from the eyes. The latter was more skilled in concealing84 her designs than the lodging-house keeper.
“And how d’ye know as she’s here?” asked Mrs. Pole, at the moment when we begin to overhear their conversation. “That’s what I want to know. ‘Ow d’ye know it, Mrs. Hemp?”
“Well, if you must know,” replied the other, sipping85 her liquor, “‘tain’t so hard to explain. One o’ my girls see her comin’ out, and come and told me. Do you understand?”
Mrs. Pole was silent for a minute, apparently87 revolving88 something in her mind.
“Well, and what next, Mrs. Hemp?” she asked at length. “I s’pose as I can ‘ev what lodgers89 I like in my ’ouse, eh?”
“Of course you can, Mrs. Pole,” replied Polly, with much good-humour. “You don’t understand me right. I only come as a old friend of Carrie’s to arst her how she gets on. It’s a sort of friendly interest, that’s all.”
“I hain’t in the ‘abit of hinquirin’ much into my lodgers’ affairs,” returned Mrs. Pole. “She gets on well enough for all I know.”
“May be she isn’t in now, Mrs. Pole?”
“I don’t think as ‘ow she is, Mrs. Hemp.”
“Do you think she’ll stay long with you, Mrs. Pole?”
“I don’t know no cause why she shouldn’t,” replied the woman.
There was again a brief silence, during which both drank from their glasses, directing one eye on the liquor, one upon each other. And the expression in the eyes which performed the latter part was indescribable.
“You don’t happen to know, Mrs. Pole,” resumed Polly at length, “whether she’s seen her ‘usband lately, eh?”
Mrs. Pole shook her head.
“Well, I do,” continued Polly, closing one eye and looking shrewdly with the other.
“You do, eh?” inquired Mrs. Pole, a little startled.
“And shall I tell you how, Mrs. Pole?” went on Polly, winking90 and smiling. “The girl as see Carrie comin’ out of your house stopped her and had a talk, and Carrie told her as how she’d begun a different kind of life. And when the girl arst her where she got her tin from to pay her lodging — for she know’d as Carrie went away from me without a blessed farthing — Carrie out and said as she had a good friend who gave her the money. And if that warn’t her husband, I’m a stupid fool!”
For a moment Mrs. Pole looked keenly with her blurred91 eyes into the other’s face, then she pulled her chair a little forward, and bending her body still further forward towards Polly, rested her hands upon the latter’s knees.
“Now look ’ere, Mrs. Hemp,” she said, in a lower tone than that she had hitherto used. “It ain’t easy to come it over you, I can see that. What’s the good of us two a beatin’ round about the bush in this blessed way? Let’s out and say what we mean at wunst. Don’t yer think as ‘ow it ‘ud be much better and straightfor’arder? Eh?”
“I don’t know but how it would, Mrs. Pole,” replied Polly, taking a sip86 at her glass, and smacking92 her lips after it with much satisfaction.
“Well then, look ’ere,” pursued Mrs. Pole. “It’s clear to me as ‘ow we’re both wantin’ the same thing. I want to keep Carrie in my ’ouse and make money of her; you want to get her back to yourn and make money of her too. Now why can’t we do this little business both together, eh? Maybe if we go on workin’ agin’ each bother we shan’t get nothink at hall, either on us; but if we work together we can share. What d’yer think, Mrs. Hemp?”
“I’m agreeable,” replied the latter, thinking as she spoke that present compliance93 might bring her information which she could afterwards apply to her exclusive profit. “I arst nothing better, Mrs. Pole.”
“Then I’ve got a secret to tell yer,” said the other woman, still bending forward. “When Carrie come ’ere to my ’ouse larst Sunday night, she ‘ed several soverin’s in her hand. I couldn’t quite hunderstand at the time ‘ow she’d got ’em, but as she wanted a room it was none o’ my business, yer see, to make myself hinquisitive. But Carrie and me is old friends, and on Monday night she come down into this kitchen to ‘ave a bit o’ talk. And then she told me as ‘ow she was tired of her old doin’s — arsting yer pardon, Mrs. Hemp — and as she wanted to find some work to keep herself. She wasn’t very open like, at first, but I know’d as she liked her drop to drink as well as either me or you, Mrs. Hemp, so I sends out my Jenny for a quartern of Old Tom, and I soon gets her talkin’ ‘ard enough. An’ then I draw’d it all out of her, an’ she said as ‘ow she’d seen her husband, an’ he give her some money, an’ then she promised as she wouldn’t never see him again.”
As she ceased speaking the two exchanged significant smiles.
“And has she found work?” asked Polly Hemp.
“No, she ‘asn’t been able to find no one as’ll take her. An’ worse ‘n that. Last night she come ‘ome very late, and quite screwed. She couldn’t walk upstairs by herself, an’ I ‘ad to ‘elp her up. An’ when I’d undressed her and put her i’ bed, I took the liberty like of lookin’ in her pocket, an’ I found she ‘edn’t a blessed farthin’ left. Well, I see her this mornin’, an I arst her if it was quite convenient to pay her rent; an’ she said as she ‘adn’t no money; but she’d go an’ get some. When I arst her where she’d get it, she wouldn’t say. An’ now she’s been out all day, an’ I ‘even’t seen nothink hof her.”
“Then she’s gone to her husband again, be sure o’ that,” said Polly. “I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Pole. It’s my opinion as that husband of hers is a fool, and anyone can do what they like with him. And we may be quite sure as Carrie knows that too. All this story about getting work and so on, it’s all make-up, we may be sure of that. Very like this husband of hem10 has promised to give her so much a week to have her leave him alone. Most like he’s plenty of tin, and doesn’t miss it. If we keep our eyes open, Mrs. Pole, this might be a good lay for us.”
“I believe you,” replied the other, grinning in such a way as to show all the hideous94 stumps95 which served her for teeth. The next moment she raised her finger, as if listening to some noise. Polly also became attentive96, and heard the front door of the house open and close. Then a voice was heard in the passage above, singing a popular song.
“It’s her!” exclaimed Mrs. Pole, rising. “It’s Carrie. Shall she come down?”
“May as well,” replied Polly. “She’s screwed, I know. She only sings when she’s screwed.”
By this time the voice was sounding nearer, and then steps were heard descending97 the stone stairs. All at once the singing stopped, and Carrie called out, “Mrs. Pole!”
“Come in, come in!” responded the latter. “No one ’ere.”
Carrie obeyed and entered the kitchen. She was dressed in plain but good clothing, the result of a purchase she had made early in the preceding week; but her face indicated only too clearly the wreck98 of all the good resolutions she had made in the period of her misery. It was flushed in the extreme, and her eyes gleamed with an unnatural99 light. Her hair had all escaped from its ribbon and hung in magnificent tresses down to her waist. Her hat was crushed and out of place, and she wore only one glove.
“Why, Polly!” she exclaimed, as she walked with an unsteady step into the room and her eyes first fell on her old acquaintance, “what are you doing here? I thought you said you was alone, Mrs. Pole?”
“Oh, I didn’t count Mrs. Hemp,” replied the woman; “she’s an old friend.”
“She may be a friend of yours,” cried the girl, coming forward and striking with her fist upon the table, “but she’s no friend of mine. I let you know it to your face, Polly Hemp; there!”
“What the devil’s up now, Carrie?” asked Polly, with affected100 surprise.
“What’s up?” echoed the girl, in a shrill101 key. “Why, I’d like to know what business you have to be keeping all my dresses and linen102, and turning me out of your house without them. You’re a thief, Polly, that’s what you are; and I’m not the first as has told you so.”
“Why, bless the wench,” exclaimed Polly, “what’s she talking about? Ain’t the dresses waiting for her day after day in her own room, if only she’ll come and take ’em. Don’t you use no hard words to me, Carrie, because I haven’t deserved it of you. If it comes to thieving, I’d like to know why you ran away from me before you’d paid the rent as was owing? Eh?”
“Now don’t you two get ‘avin’ words together,” interposed Mrs. Pole, whilst Carrie was beginning a shrill and angry reply. “Just sit down, Carrie, there’s a good girl, an’ ‘ave a drop o’ somethink ‘ot. I know you like it. He, he, he!”
Carrie took up the offered glass in her trembling hand, and drank off its contents at a draught74. Then she staggered back into a chair, and remained for some moments in a half-stupefied state, staring vacantly into the fire.
“And ‘ave yer brought me my rent, as you promised, Carrie?” asked Mrs. Pole, presently.
“Course I have,” replied the girl. “Here! Can — can you give me change?”
She threw a sovereign on to the table as she spoke.
“I dessay I can find it presently,” replied the landlady, taking up the coin and exchanging a meaning smile with Polly Hemp. “But you don’t drink. Come, try this.”
Carrie needed little temptation to induce her to drink. She had done little else since Saturday morning, and her moods alternated rapidly between semi-stupefaction and wild excitement. She took what was offered, spilling half of it on the front of her dress.
“You’re flush of coin, Carrie,” said Polly Hemp, following the sovereign with wistful eyes as it dropped in her ally’s pocket. “Where did you pick it all up?”
“Never you mind, Polly,” she replied. “You want to know too much. That always was your fault. You don’t sup — suppose but what I’ve plenty of ways of getting money when I want it?”
“Pity you can’t get enough to pay off your debts,” retorted Polly, winking at Mrs. Pole to indicate that she was playing a part. “If I had a husband I’d see he did something to support me. What do you think, Mrs. Pole; eh?”
“Husband?” repeated Carrie, staring strangely into the speaker’s face. “Who’s talking about husbands. It ‘ud be a good thing if you’d learn to mind your own business, Polly Hemp; so I tell you.”
“I mind my own business right enough,” returned Polly. “All I said was, as if I had a husband I’d see he did somethink for me, and didn’t leave me to get my own living as best I could. There’s no harm in that, I hope?”
“Yes, there is harm!” cried Carrie, the drink she had taken seemed to be rendering103 her momently more excited instead of stupefying her. “I know well enough what you mean, Polly, and I say again, I’ll thank you to mind your own business. What’s it got to do with you whether I’ve a husband or not? We all know how sharp you look after you money, and we know you’re not partic’lar how you get either. Who writes letters and puts other people’s names to em, eh, Polly Hemp? Who does that?”
The last words she screamed into Polly’s face, her eyes glaring with anger which was almost madness. Her words confirmed Polly Hemp in her suspicion that Carrie had reinstituted relations with her husband, and she became all the more eager to play her part out to the end.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” she retorted, “but I know as I wouldn’t have a husband who didn’t own me.”
“No more wouldn’t I,” put in Mrs. Pole.
“And no more I have,” cried Carrie, growing every moment more passionate and excited. “If you know anything about my husband, Polly Hemp, or you either, Mrs. Pole, you don’t neither of you know nothing bad of him; I’ll take my oath to that!”
“I s’pose you’ll pretend as he gave you this money today?” continued Polly.
“No I don’t,” cried Carrie, “and there you have it. I got this money as best I could, and you know very well how, Polly, without me telling you. So I didn’t get it from my husband, if you want to know!”
“Very good reason why,” cried Polly, with a laugh. “He wouldn’t have given you any if you’d gone and asked him. Ha, ha!”
“Wouldn’t he, Polly,” retorted the maddened girl. “Then you re a confounded liar104, that’s what you are, and I tell you to your face! If I wanted money and told my husband as I wanted it, I could get it any minute; so now you both know.”
Both the women joined in a chorus of jeering105 laughter.
“Oh, ain’t she talking large!” sneered106 Polly. “If I’d such a good husband as all that, Carrie, I’d go and live with him, that I would. Poor man! How he must miss you! What a ‘fectionate husband he must be, to be sure.”
“Ho, ho, Carrie,” put in Mrs. Pole. “I’m sorry for all the money as you get from your ‘usband. I’ll bet you a bob I could put it all in my eye, and see none the worser fur it. Ho, ho!”
“You say as he won’t give me any?” cried Carrie, suddenly starting to her feet, and staggering forward, though in a moment she seemed to regain107 her balance and to be as firm on her feet as ever. “You say as he won’t give me any? Come along with me, then, both of you, and see whether he don’t, when I ask him. Ah! you daren’t come. You know it’s all true as I’ve said, and that you’re a pair of liars108; you know it!”
“What’s the good of our a comin’?” asked Polly, tauntingly109. “We ain’t going to be made April fools of. It’s a month too early for that yet, Carrie.”
“Come and see; come and see!” screamed the girl. “If I don’t get money from my husband to-night for the asking for it, may God strike me dead before the house! Are you afraid to come? Ah! Are you afraid?”
“Yes, yes; we’ll come, hard enough,” said Mrs. Pole, who kept exchanging signs and words with Polly. “Put your hat on, Polly; we’ll go.”
“I’m ready!” cried Polly. “But your husband mustn’t see us, you know, Carrie; or maybe he won’t like it. We’ll wait at the nearest corner, you see, and you’ll bring us the bundle o’ sovrings as he gives you. Maybe you’ll want help to carry ’em ‘ome.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Mrs. Pole, drinking off the remnants out of all three> glasses with laudable impartiality110. “Maybe she will. We’ll ‘elp her, Polly, eh? Don’t fear, we’ll ‘elp!”
About eight o’clock the same evening Lucy Venning and her father were sitting together in their little parlour, enjoying that silence, only very occasionally broken by a word, which was Mr. Venning’s delight. He relished111 his daughter’s society on Sunday evenings more than ever now that she was not always with him. They had sat for nearly half-an-hour in perfect quietness, Lucy reading a favourite old devotional book, and her father sunk in congenial meditation112, when the latter looked up and said —
“It’s a long time since Miss Norman called here, isn’t it, Lucy?”
“Yes, more than a month, father,” replied Lucy, looking up from her book, but turning her eyes to the fire instead of to her father’s face.
Whenever the ingenuous113 girl was conscious of a secret withheld114 from her father she felt uncomfortable if their eyes met, and the mention of Miss Norman’s name was now equivalent to reminding her of a secret.
Mr. Venning again became silent, but Lucy seemed disposed to continue the conversation.
“But she constantly asks after you, father. She said only a few days ago that she could never forget the first Sunday evening she spent with us here; that it would always form one of her happiest recollections.”
Mr. Venning laughed quietly, and sank back into his brown study. But shortly he again looked up, as if something had suddenly occurred to his mind.
“Bye-the-by, Mr. Golding told me a very strange piece of news last night. I wonder I didn’t let you know of it, Lucy; but I seem somehow to have had other things to think of all day. Could you believe it, Mr. Golding has just become heir to five thousand pounds?”
Lucy raised her face with the best expression of surprise it was possible for her to assume.
“Never!” she exclaimed.
“Why, yes, it is very extraordinary, isn’t it? And can you think what he intends doing? He has given up his place in the printing-office, and is going to study to become an artist.”
“And — and will he continue to live with us?” asked Lucy, her heart reproaching her for the deceit she was practising.
“Yes, he says so. His money is invested so as to bring him just about enough to live comfortably upon. Very strange, isn’t it? Some very distant relative, he tells me, has left him the money. Very strange.”
The next moment Mr. Venning was off again into the land of reveries, perhaps meditating115 on Arthur’s unexpected rise to wealth, but more likely wandering in fancy near the picturesque116 old castle of Conisboro’ and the woody banks of the Don. Whatever his meditations117 were, they were suddenly disturbed by a sharp, loud knock at the house-door, which was repeated before Lucy had time to rise.
“Whoever can it be?” exclaimed the latter. “It quite startled me.”
“Take the little lamp in your hand, dear,” said her father.
She took it, and went to open the door. For a minute she seemed to be exchanging words with some one; then all at once came running back into the parlour, with a pale and frightened face.
“Oh, father!” she exclaimed. “Please, please come. There is a drunken woman asking to see Mr. Golding! She is so violent ——”
Before she had ceased to speak a staggering footstep was heard in the passage, the parlour door was thrown forcibly back, and Carrie reeled into the room.
“Arthur Golding!” she cried, glaring round the room out of blood-shot eyes in a manner more like a maniac118 than one merely drunk. “I want Arthur Golding. I — I don’t believe he’s out. Why won’t he see me?”
“What do you want with Mr. Golding?” asked Mr. Venning, stepping towards her.
“I want to see him, I tell you. Can’t you understand? Who are you? I don’t want you. I want Arthur Golding. I want my husband.”
“Your husband?” repeated Mr. Venning, whilst Lucy stood by trembling like a leaf, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave this house at once, or I shall call a policeman!”
“Leave the house!” she echoed. “Not till I’ve seen my husband, I tell you! I don’t know why he hides from me just when I want him. Tell him his wife wants to see him, I say!”
“Mr. Golding is not at home,” said Mr. Venning, exchanging a look of amazement119 with Lucy. “Come, you must go at once.”
He took her gently by the arm and pushed her towards the door.
As soon as she felt his hand, she began to cry “Arthur! Arthur!” with loud shrieks120 which must have rung through the streets, at the same time struggling violently.
“Run to the door, Lucy,” cried Mr. Venning, “and see if there is a policeman near, there’s a good child. Don’t be frightened, dear.”
Lucy ran accordingly. Standing outside near the door she found two women, one of whom approached her as soon as she appeared.
“Is that her as is kicking up that shindy?” asked the woman. “Is it the one as knocked at the door?”
“Yes,” replied Lucy, panting for breath. “We can’t get her away. Are you with her? Is there a policeman near?”
“Never mind a p’liceman,” replied the woman. “Isn’t her husband in — Mr. Golding, I mean?”
“No, he is not in. Oh, please come and take her away if you can.”
The woman, who was Polly Hemp, ran promptly121 into the house, where the cries and sounds of struggling still continued, and in a moment released Mr. Venning from his difficulty. She dragged Carrie by main force to the door and out into the street. Lucy followed, and closed the door quickly behind them. Then she returned into the parlour, where her father was standing, a picture of troubled astonishment122.
“What ever can it all mean, Lucy?” he asked. “Did — did you ever hear that Mr. Golding was married?”
“No, no, never!” replied the girl, and, as she spoke, sank back upon a chair and burst into tears.
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1
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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intoxicate
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| vt.使喝醉，使陶醉，使欣喜若狂 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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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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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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21
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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23
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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24
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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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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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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29
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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30
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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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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39
persecute
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| vt.迫害，虐待；纠缠，骚扰 | |
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40
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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41
subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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42
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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43
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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45
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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46
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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47
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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48
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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49
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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50
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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51
fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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52
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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53
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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54
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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55
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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56
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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57
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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58
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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59
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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60
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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61
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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62
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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63
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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64
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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65
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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66
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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67
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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68
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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69
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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70
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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71
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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72
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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73
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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74
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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75
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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76
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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77
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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78
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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79
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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80
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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81
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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82
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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83
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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84
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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85
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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86
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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87
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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88
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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89
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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90
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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91
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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92
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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93
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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94
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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95
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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96
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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97
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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99
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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100
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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101
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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102
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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103
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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104
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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105
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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106
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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108
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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109
tauntingly
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| 嘲笑地，辱骂地； 嘲骂地 | |
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110
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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111
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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112
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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113
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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114
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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115
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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116
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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117
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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118
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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119
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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120
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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122
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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