The bell is now ringing for the second time, and will give but one more warning before the boat starts. Despite the fearful day, a considerable number of passengers have already collected in the little saloon, where they sit in the midst of piles of miscellaneous luggage, most of them very silent and a few looking already somewhat pale and dismayed. There are women among them, and one or two children, driven across the ocean at this time of the year by Heaven knows what strange whim8 or necessity; but the passengers for the most part have the air of men of business, individuals who sit reading their letters or their newspapers with the most unconcerned air by the light of the swinging oil-lamps. One baby there is amid the company, which lifts up its shrill little voice in emulation9 of the clanging bell, and at moments decidedly succeeds in making the more noise of the two, at all events to the ears of those in the saloon.
As the bell at length became silent a new comer stepped on board, a tall young man, wrapped up in a great overcoat, carrying in one hand a small portmanteau, in the other a carpet-bag. On entering the saloon he looked round in the semi-darkness with a somewhat shy air, and, after a moment’s hesitation11, seated himself in a vacant corner; then, when he had surveyed once or twice the faces of those who were to be his fellow passengers, by degrees sank into abstractedness. Those who had the curiosity to inspect his face closely could see that it was rather handsome in outline, but severely12 pale and careworn13 in expression. He appeared nervous, too, for at every unexpected sound he started slightly and for a moment his face wore a pained expression. He had put the portmanteau and carpet bag at his feet. The former alone bore a direction, in handwriting, which ran thus: — “A. Golding, Passenger to New York.”
After a delay which appeared to be endless to those waiting in the saloon, the loud bell clanged for the last time, and the boat moved off into the darkness. Half-an-hour’s careful voyaging brought it beneath the shadow of an immense hull14, in the side of which appeared a large square of reddish light, through which the passengers forthwith made their way on to the body of the “Parthia.” Arthur Golding — for the young man described is no other than our old acquaintance — was one oft he last to go on board. After a long straying about pitch-dark and narrow passages, after ascending16 and descending18 innumerable almost perpendicular19 stairs, after endless collisions with wanderers like himself, after repeated questionings, to which unintelligible20 answers were returned, he at length found himself at the door of his own state-room where he was glad enough to throw down his burdens and rest for a few minutes. The state-room had berths21 for two, one on the top of the other, and Arthur saw that the top one was already occupied, at all events someone had deposited his luggage there in sign of taking possession. Having reconnoitred the locality as well. as he was able, he once more made his way through the labyrinth23 of passages and staircases up on to the deck. In half an hour the great ship suddenly vibrated to the motion of her machinery24, the sluggish25 river at the stern was all at once lashed26 into angry wave and foam28 by the revolution of the screw, and the “Parthia” had begun her voyage.
As the inclemency30 of the weather rendered it impossible to remain on deck, and the company in the saloon offering few if any attractions, Arthur very early retired31 to his berth22. He had no desire to sleep, but a great desire to be once more alone in order to reflect upon the past and speculate as to the future. Let us see what subject for thought the past afforded him.
On the evening when the last conversation between Carrie and her temptress took place, Arthur returned home about nine o’clock. All day he had suffered from depression even greater than usual, and for hours after it had become dark he wandered aimlessly about the streets, sunk in miserable32 reflections upon his wasted life. Several times he crossed the river, and on each occasion paused for many minutes to look down into the black depths, made blacker by the reflection here and there of the lights upon the banks. He remembered how near he had once been to plunging33 himself and his sufferings for ever beneath that gloomy surface, and he even now did his best to resummon the state of mind in which he had been capable of such a resolution. How gladly would he long since have sought the rest which the river always offers to the despairing, had it not been for that ever-present image whose smile forbade more strongly than the sternest words such an abandonment of duty. Moreover, it seemed as if out of the very extremity35 of his misery36 was arising an increased love of existence, a passionate37 desire for active exertion38 in an entirely39 new sphere, a keener appreciation40 of the joys which life could afford to those in happier circumstances. Oh, how weary, weary, intolerably weary did he feel of the life he had led for so many months, this life in which no day passed without bringing the acutest agonies, which opened up no vistas41 of the future where the light of Hope burned ever so dimly or ever so remote, but was closely hemmed42 around by a blackness of woe43 into which the eye dared not endeavour to penetrate44! Before, when desperation had driven him to the fixed45 idea of suicide, it had been in consequence of self-degradation, because he had felt that every spark of noble aspiration46 had been extinguished in his soul, because it was to himself that he owed his wretchedness, the utter destruction of hope and energy. But now it was different. He had set before himself a lofty ideal, and had conscientiously47 done his best to live up to it. That he had failed in attaining48 the hoped for end was not, could not be considered, his own fault. His worst crime had been to submit to almost irresistible49 despondency; he had not now soiled the purity of his purpose by yielding to any ignoble50 passion. To live thus amid the circumstances Fate had gathered round him he considered, and rightly, as a self-conquest, a step upwards51 in the scale of being. Why could he not be free to expand his nature to the uttermost, to develop all his faculties52 to that rich fulness of which he felt they were capable? As he thought of this, his depression threw off its passive character and became active anger. By what law, human or divine, was he compelled to sacrifice his life thus, without even the recompense of conferring a benefit upon a fellow creature? He knew that his efforts to reform Carrie were utterly53 useless, would for ever remain so. Was it incumbent54 upon him, knowing this, to add his own ruin to the inevitable55 ruin of her whom the world called his wife? Could even Helen Norman, when made to understand the circumstances, still bid him persevere56 in his desperate course? And, if she could, would it not be mere57 narrow-minded worship of conventionality in her, would it not satisfactorily prove that her advice had never been worthy58 of acceptance? A thrill of self-reproach ran through him as his bitter indignation thus forced him to canvass59 unworthy suspicions regarding her who was his good angel; but still the hard facts of the case remained, and reason would not refrain from drawing her conclusions. In this moment Arthur loved Helen as sincerely as he had ever done, but there was an ideal which unfortunately urged its claims to even greater devotion, and that ideal was Liberty. He was so young, he had means at his disposal so all-sufficing, he shuddered60 so at the thought of death, and yearned61 with such an unutterable yearning62 for the pleasures of existence. Leaning over the parapets of London Bridge and communing thus with himself, of a sudden he smote63 the damp stone violently with his clenched64 fist, and then turned homewards.
As I have said, he reached home about nine o’clock. It did not at all surprise him to find the rooms in disorder65 and Carrie out; these were circumstances to which he had grown only too well accustomed. As it was severely cold, his first employment was to light a fire. This done, he walked about the room ceaselessly for more than an hour, at times covering his face with his hands, now making wild gestures as if in the acutest agony, now even uttering low cries, With the exception of the fire he had kindled66 no light, and as the flame in the grate by degrees sank, giving way to a red glow, he was in almost total darkness.
About midnight a staggering footstep on the stairs told him of his wife’s approach. In haste he lit a candle, and waited for her appearance. Carrie was in a mood of maudlin67 affection to-night, and, as she reeled into the room, threw her arms round Arthur’s neck. With a gesture of disgust and loathing68 he forced her away from him. He did not speak a word, knowing that at such times it was useless; but his action had changed the current of the girl’s humour, and she at once broke out into the coarsest reviling69 and abuse. For more than an hour he had to submit to this torture, which ceased only when exhaustion70 obtained the ascendancy71 over passion, and Carrie sank into beast-like stupor72, it could not be called sleep, upon the nearest chair. With difficulty Arthur removed her into the other room and laid her upon the bed, she all the while struggling feebly in half consciousness. There she once more became silent and still.
He knew from experience that her unconsciousness would last probably for many hours, and for once he welcomed the prospect73; for this latest trial had suddenly ripened74 in him the resolution around which his mind had been all day wavering. Away all hopes and fears in which this degraded creature had a part! Away all hesitation! Away even every thought of that other one whose power had always been great! Away everything before the might of the animal instinct of self-preservation!
In feverish75 haste he drew his largest trunk into the middle of the room, and commenced to pack it with all that he most valued. No need to do it so silently; if the house had fallen above her head Carrie would have perished in her unconsciousness. By half-past one the packing was completed. Most of his clothing he had left; he only cared to take articles such as books and drawings which had an intrinsic value for him. Next he took down his half-finished picture of Portia’s Pleading from the easel where it had stood so long untouched, and carefully enveloped76 it in sheets of brown paper, tying up the whole into a portable parcel. Then he sat down and wrote several letters, most of them of a business nature. The one he wrote last he did not, however, put in an envelope like the rest, but, stepping lightly into the bedroom, pinned it in a prominent position upon the blind, immediately above the looking-glass. This letter was brief, and ran thus:
“Dear Carrie, “I can bear this life no longer and think it better for both that we should part. I am taking with me everything that I care to keep. The rest I leave for you. That you may not want for money to go where you think fit, I have put two sovereigns in your purse on the dressing-table; and, lest you should come to want in the future I shall make arrangements that you may receive one pound a week — as long as I am able to pay it. This you will have each week, by calling upon Mr. Venning, whose address is ——. He will not pay the money to anyone but yourself. I trust you may yet see the miserable folly77 of your life and carry out some of those good resolves you have so often made in vain. Good-bye.
“Arthur.”
When he had completed these tasks it was nearly half-past two. He then made some slight alterations78 in his toilet, put in his pocket all the loose cash he had in the house, together with his valuable papers, and forthwith softly descended79 the stairs and left the house. He was only absent some five minutes, returning in a cab. He entered the house with the cabman, led the way up to his room, and both together carried down the packed trunk and picture, doing all with the utmost quietness. It was not, however, done so quietly but the landlady80, who slept on the ground floor, overheard what was going on. On hearing her door open, Arthur went and exchanged a few words with her, informing her that he had suddenly been called away on a journey; and, as he was irreproachable81 in the payment of his rent, the good woman made no further comment. By three o’clock Arthur was driving away in the cab. He had not even returned upstairs to take a last glance at Carrie.
He drove as far as Charing82 Cross, and here stopped at a hotel which kept open its hospitable83 doors all night. Obtaining a bedroom, he did his best to snatch a few hours sleep, but with poor success. He succeeded however, in killing84 the hours up to half-past seven o’clock, when he partook of a slight breakfast, and immediately set forth15 on foot. His aim was Mr. Venning’s house, which he reached just as that worthy man was sitting down to his breakfast. Without the least circumlocution85 Arthur told him all that had happened, laid before him frankly86 and honestly the reasons for his conduct, then went on to show the plans he had formed for Carrie’s welfare and to ask him whether he would be willing to act as trustee in the matter. Mr. Venning, as we have seen, was a sincerely religious, but by no means a narrow-minded man. He had always entertained great personal friendship for Arthur, and had sadly deplored87 the misery of the latter’s fate when first it was made known to him. Now, when so startling a drama was suddenly unrolled before his eyes, and he was called upon to take an active part in it, for a time he hesitated. But it was only for a time. Arthur’s words, his looks, carried absolute conviction. There was no doubting the truth of all he said, and at length Mr. Venning confessed that his action, though grievous, might still be necessary, even wise.
“But you are placing great confidence in me,” he said, when somewhat reluctantly yielding. “How can you be sure that the trust will always be properly carried out?”
“I know quite well, Mr. Venning,” replied Arthur, “that you are a man of principle. Moreover, you are a religious man, and religion with you is more than a mere profession. It operates within your heart before it finds utterance88 upon your lips.”
“And yet, Mr. Golding,” pursued the old man, “I think you hold my religion in but light esteem89.”
“Only when it is a meaningless babble90 in the mouth of fools,” replied Arthur. “Every real life-guide, whatever it calls itself, my conscience compels me to respect. How I wish that I had had the strength to conceive and act up to a religion of my own!”
“But what are your plans? Where are you going?”
“I am sorry to say that I can answer neither question. I think it likely that I shall leave England, but in any case you shall always have my address.”
The old man sighed as he looked into Arthur’s fine face, which bore such fearful marks of suffering.
“Well, Mr. Golding,” he said, “you are in the hands of God, whether you acknowledge His guidance or not. I hope — I trust — I am doing nothing wrong in giving my consent to these plans. But I fear you would not heed91 me whatever advice I gave.”
“Forgive me,” replied Arthur; “I could not act otherwise than I am doing. A thousand thanks for your great kindness. But there is yet one more task. I have a picture of my own painting which I desire to be given to Miss Norman. I suppose she still lives at the old address.”
“No, no,” returned Mr. Venning, shaking his head sadly.
“No? Where has she gone?”
“She left England for the south more than a month ago. Lucy is with her.”
“But why?” asked Arthur, holding in his breath.
“Her failing health made it impossible for her to stay in England through the winter. I saw her just before she went, and she had worn away to a mere shadow. She told me, in the quietest tone imaginable, that her father had been consumptive, and that she felt there was no chance for her.”
The old man spoke92 in a tone of the deepest sadness, sighing as he ended.
“But you hear from them — from Miss Venning?” asked Arthur, when able to speak.
“Frequently, and there is very little encouragement in the letters, I am sorry to say.”
Arthur turned away and walked once up and down the room.
“Then I must send the picture to her myself,” he said, at length, the pallor of his face showing what a blow the intelligence had been to him. “Mr. Venning, will you promise me that you will always preserve absolute silence with regard to myself? Promise that you will never give anyone the least information with regard to me, except, perhaps) that I called and obtained from you Miss Norman’s address? I am sure you will promise that.”
“I will,” said Mr. Venning, in his quiet but resolved tone, which always meant much. He then gave Arthur the desired address, and they took leave of each other. A few hours after, Arthur had despatched his picture on its journey to Helen — his last offering. He sent no word with it, but let it speak for itself. Who knows, he thought, whether she will ever see it?
For three days he continued to reside at the hotel, during which time he transacted93 all business matters connected with the disposition94 of his money. Five hundred pounds he realised at once for his own necessities. That in future he should be obliged to live upon his capital did not trouble him. He desired nothing better henceforth than to earn his own living once more by strenuous95 exertions96. The interval97 between this and the day on which we have seen him embarking98 at Liverpool — a space of about a fortnight — was spent in the consideration and rejection99 of endless plans. He had not continued to live in London, for to remain still was torture to him. It was in Manchester that he at length decided10 upon the course to pursue. He would go to the New World, not to its civilised parts, but out into the extreme West, where in arduous100 struggles with the powers of Nature he might forget all his past existence and — he could conceive it possible — in time lead a happy life. His money would purchase land for him and secure him the services of labourers. His heart throbbed101 at the prospect. At once he wrote and secured his passage in the next Cunarder that left Liverpool. Upon his precise destination he did not endeavour to decide. There would be better opportunity of doing that when he reached America.
The voyage proved long and stormy, yet from the first morning of his going up on deck to look out on to the Atlantic to the coming to anchor in the docks at New York, Arthur’s body and soul were pervaded102 with exuberance103 of health such as he had never enjoyed. When he lay in his berth at night, listening to the lash27 and thunder of the waves against the sides of the vessel104; to the cracking and straining of the masts and cordage, to the shrill whistle upon deck, now and then making itself heard above the duller noises, his heart was filled with a wild wish that the winds might sweep yet more fiercely upon the heaving water, that the ocean might swell105 up to mountainous waves, such deep delight did he experience in the midst of the grand new scene. Throughout the day, no stress of weather could suffice to keep him below. It was his chief pleasure to sit in the stern, in the shelter of the wheel-house, from whence he could overlook the whole length of the ship as it plunged106 down the sides of the huge water-gulfs. How little she looked, for all her thousands of tons burden, and what a mere mite108 she would have made in the gullet of the insatiable deep! Then, to turn and look down into the frothy hell beneath the stern; to watch for minutes the fierce whirlpool where the untiring screw was struggling amid a thousand conflicting currents, and then to feel the vessel rising upwards, upwards, till at length a mountain of deep green water surged from beneath her, showing a surface smooth and solid-looking as ice, threatening the very sky in its upward striving. Day after day the same spectacle lay before his eye from morning to night, and yet he never wearied of watching it. Though towards evening the wave-splashed deck became too slippery to stand upon, though the ropes were stiff with ice, though the wind cut through the darkening air with the swift keenness of steel, yet not till he was obliged would Arthur descend17 to the saloon, the picture was too engrossing109 in its majesty110. He almost believed that the mind expanded in the mere act of watching; he felt capable of greater thoughts than formerly111; the thought of his security in the midst of such terrors gave him a loftier and truer conception of human powers than he had yet attained112 to.
A year passes, and once more we are within a few days of Christmas. Arthur Golding is sitting to-night in a little room which he has inhabited for more than a month, a longer period than he has rested in any place hitherto since he arrived in America. Though there is no cheerful English fire to impart comfort to the room, yet there is no absence of warmth, for an abundant supply of hot air issues from the “register” in one corner. Outside everything is covered with deep snow, and the night is wonderfully clear and still, the deep blue sky sprinkled with stars of a brilliancy never beheld113 in our misty114 clime. Not a breath of wind is stirring, and occasional crunching115 of feet on the hard snow beneath the window would be the only sound, were it not for a heavy, deep-noted, unceasing roar which, though perfectly116 audible, forces itself so little upon the ear that it can be easily forgotten amid the else perfect silence of the night. Arthur does not notice it at all, for it has been in his ears ever since he took up his abode117 here, sometimes much more distinct, sometimes scarcely perceptible. If you asked him for an explanation of it, he would tell you that not quite ten minutes’ walk from his door would bring you to the edge of the cataract118 of Niagara.
Arthur’s face is that of a middle-aged119 man whose life has been one of constant care, for all that he is some months yet from the completion of his twenty-third year. Since his arrival in the New World his life has been that of a wanderer. At first he travelled for pleasure, passing in hot haste from end to end of the Continent, now wandering over the endless prairies, now exploring with ceaseless delight the marvels120 of California, at one time basking121 amid the plantations122 of Carolina, and shortly after revelling123 in the delicious sunshine of New England. But during the last three months he has been the prey124 of ever-growing wretchedness, beginning in mere weariness at this unsettled life, and passing at length into strong disgust at his own inactivity, coupled with moments of bitter regret at having ever quitted England. For a year he had not know what it was to hear the voice of a friend. Naturally retiring in his disposition, he seldom, if ever, addressed a stranger. Such of the Americans as he had had the opportunity of seeing more closely he could not persuade himself to like. He had nothing in common with them; their taste seemed to him hopelessly vulgar. With society which would have been in harmony with his nature he had no means of mixing. The agricultural schemes which had been so ardently125 conceived before he left England, he had never even attempted to carry out; in his travelling he had seen quite enough to show him that he could not endure the life. That perpetual indecision, that lack of a firm and independent energy which had been the great evil of his life, now came back upon him more strongly than ever, nourished by his unsettled state. A thousand times he said to himself that it was necessary he should seek some fixed position, that he should endeavour to assume a place in the world’s work, if for no other reason, at least for the sake of his future prospects126. But it was this future which he could not bear to contemplate127. To art alone had he ever devoted128 any steady application, but for art he had just now lost his taste, without acquiring a taste for any other work. His was a wrecked129 and ruined nature, hopelessly drifting about on the currents of circumstance, blown hither and thither130 by fitful blasts of passion and remorse131. How often did he curse him self for being so reckless, for removing himself so far from all who knew him, when a hundred wiser and more hopeful courses might have revealed themselves to his mind. He had imagined that he wanted freedom; choked beneath the nightmare of his intolerable life he had thought that free air and unrestricted liberty to wander about the world was all that he needed. For the moment he had forgotten the sincerest yearnings of his heart, those depths of genuine and life-long feeling which, like the depths of the ocean, would remain calm and undisturbed, however the surface might be troubled. Satiated with the freedom he had cried for, he now saw that it had been gained at the loss of that honour which he had pledged to her who truly loved him. He saw that in casting himself loose from all worldly bonds, as he had done, he had been guilty of a heedlessness of others which had wrought132 its inevitable vengeance133 upon his own life. He had acted as though he was his own master; whereas, even if his wife had forfeited134 all claims upon him, there remained another who had an indefeasible right to control his recklessness, the right of pure affection guided by a lofty mind. Living amid the rigour of winter, friendless, companionless, objectless, he seemed to hear night and day in the roar of the great cataract a ceaseless assertion that man is for ever dependent upon his fellows, that it is at his peril135 he breaks all the bonds of a lifetime, in the presumptuous136 belief that they are a mere hindrance137 to his future existence. The never-ending roar of waters bade him look back upon his life and see how every purpose had been frustrated138; or, if he yet ventured to raise an eye towards the future, murmured sternly, “Too late! Too late!”
Only once or twice during the year had he heard from Mr. Venning, his constant movements having doubtless caused many letters to go astray. This last he had received at Chicago, now nearly three months ago; and it informed him that Carrie still came to take her money, though at very irregular intervals139. Arthur had been bitterly disappointed that it contained no mention of Helen Norman. In his few and brief communications, he had always wished, though never dared, to ask news of her. He felt sure that in the event of any. thing decided occurring, Mr. Venning would not fail to acquaint him with it. Immediately upon his arrival at Niagara, he had written to London, this time begging distinctly for news concerning Helen, saying that he would remain where he was for at least six weeks, in order to receive a reply before deciding upon his future course.
He was sitting alone this evening, sunk in the vague abstractedness which had for some time supplied the place of rational thought with him, when he was disturbed by the entrance of a servant, who held in her hand a letter and a newspaper, both showing English stamps. Arthur took them, and first of all tore open the letter in eager haste. It was from Mr. Venning, written immediately on receipt of Arthur’s last. It stated that Carrie had, for more than a month, ceased to apply for her money, when the writer, driven by anxiety to make enquiries, had discovered that she had been for several weeks in a hospital, suffering from a malady140 which was the consequence of her dissipated life, and which left her but the faintest hope of recovery. He desired to know what Arthur’s wishes were under these circumstances, and begged that a reply might be sent as quickly as possible. This was the only matter which the letter contained.
Arthur’s first thought was one of compassion141 for the miserable girl, but this was almost immediately expelled from his mind by the reflection that, in all probability, Carrie was already dead. If so — was he not free? Could he not return from his exile, and ——? He dared not think out the thought to the end. Was it possible that Fate, with sweet irony142, was now bringing about such a termination of his sorrows? Arthur opened the letter once more and ran quickly through it. Certainly Mr. Venning wrote as if assured of the result — but then there was no mention in his letter of Helen, and had he not been explicitly143 desired to send news of her? Suffering a moment of the cruellest indecision, Arthur suddenly remembered that the newspaper still remained unopened. Pooh! what did he care for a newspaper? What was the world’s intelligence to him, whose world was contained in the compass of a woman’s heart? Yet why should his friend send it him? He had never done so before. Arthur reflected, and suddenly the cold sweat broke out upon his forehead as a horrible dread144 possessed145 itself of his mind. Certainly this paper must contain an answer to the most pressing part of his letter; Mr. Venning could never have neglected that. He tore off the wrapper, and, clenching146 his teeth firmly together, as if to keep down his emotions, slowly opened the paper upon the table, and cut the pages with a knife. It was the Times, and bore a date early in December. Forcing his eyes to do their office, which they would fain have refused to, he glanced rapidly up and down the columns for some mark which should have been put to guide him. One column he steadfastly147 refused to look at, though his good sense told him that only there could he hope to see any mention of Helen. Yet to this column he was obliged to come at last. He looked through the list of marriages — no, she was not there. He looked at the list of deaths, and at length read this — “On the 20th of November, at Mentone, Helen, daughter of the Rev29. Edward Norman (deceased), in her twenty-second year.” That was all.
Some hours after, when it was close upon midnight, Arthur issued from the house, bearing in his hand a letter, which he seemed to have come out to post. This done, however, he did not return, but, though he wore only his light indoor clothing, very little adapted for a night-walk in the temperature which now prevailed, he set off at a sharp pace over the crunching snow. The deep roar of the falls was in his ears, and it guided his footsteps. Within ten minutes he had come to the riverside, and the whole glorious panorama148 lay unrolled before him.
A full moon reigned149 in the heavens, making it almost as light as day, though tinging150 everything with her own peculiar151 silvery hue152. Just on the edge of the precipice153, where the gathered waters took their fearful plunge107, hung a second full orb34, a perfect reflection of that above, the clear, luminous154 circle seeming scarcely disturbed by a wrinkle on the surface, the hue of which was a pale emerald. From the abyss into which the torrent155 disappeared, rose vast columns of spray, transparent156, glistening157 with a marvellous brilliancy, fading at length into the air like breath. Along either shore of the river, and on the dark barrier which Goat Island interposes between the American and Horse-shoe Falls, frost had built all manner of fantastic shapes, seizing upon the feebler jets of water which part from the main mass, and holding them suspended half way down the precipice as gigantic icicles; freezing the spray as it fell, layer upon layer, till huge blocks had been formed; daring even to encroach upon the very edge of the majestic158 cataract, and skim it with weird159 bridges, firm as adamant160. And over all this was spread a thick coat of snow, itself frozen into a thousand strange forms, making the eye ache to behold161 its dazzling purity. In contrast to the white banks, the river, as it issued from the spray-hidden depths at the foot of the falls, and once more went on its accustomed way, seemed a wonderful, deep green, flecked here and there with patches and long streaks162 of slowly-moving foam, not less white than the snow itself. How marvellously still was the deep-green water, all but motionless, as though it were resting after its wild leap. Only by intently watching one of the foam-streaks could the direction of its flow be ascertained163. And from the midst of all this dread magnificence spoke the solemn voice, not harshly loud, not so overpowering as to render other noises mute, but in subdued164, melodious165 thunder, as though proclaiming with calm, passionless decision, the immutable166 power of destiny.
With hands clasped behind him, Arthur stood for a long time gazing at the glorious scene. Moonlight is always saddening, and the gleam of the cold silvery beams reflected from the vast watery167 mirror filled his soul with an infinite passion of woe. In thought he reviewed his whole life. He strove with memory to gain back the full taste of his childish sufferings from those dim, far-off days when his father still lived — those sufferings, how light they now seemed, viewed amid the consciousness of present despair — nay168, he felt that those days must in reality have been days of happiness, could he but have known it. All the dim forms of those he had known and loved best passed before his eyes, all, all gone for ever. Mr. Tollady, the guardian169 of his youth, the model of heroic constancy set up before him for his guidance in life — long since dead. How clearly he now saw that the old man’s death had been the beginning of his misery, though at the time he had believed it to be the commencement of his true life. And she who, through good and evil, had never in reality ceased to be his ideal — she who had been noble and worthy effort personified whom he had always worshipped in the innermost of his heart, however with his lips he had declared his allegiance to false gods, she whose lofty counsel might even at the last have saved him, had he possessed the energy to obey her — Helen Norman was gone. And she being gone, what remained? In her person the ideal of his life had perished, all that he had ever lived for had ceased to exist; he found himself straying amid the billows of life like a wrecked and manless ship upon an ebbing170 sea. Why should he live? Why had he ever lived? In vain he surveyed his life for the traces of any positive result, of any real good accomplished171, any real end gained — he could find none. Failure was written upon it, written irrevocably. Why should he live?
Moving as though mechanically, whilst his countenance172 still showed him to be sunk in thought, he drew nearer to the edge of the cliffs, and began to descend them by the path which leads to the foot of the Falls. His eyes were fixed upon the cataract, and never wandered from it. In the bright moonlight he could even watch individual masses of foam as they appeared on the summit of the Fall, and, slowly, slowly, curved over and were lost for ever. How slowly they seemed to pass, as though being reluctantly dragged downwards173 and out of sight. He watched these, and, as he watched, still descended the path and drew nearer to the vast columns of spray, till at length he felt his face moistened by their breath. So long and so fixedly174 had he gazed, that the plunging water had begun to exercise a terrible fascination175 over him; involuntarily he drew nearer and nearer. The deep, musical voice from out of the hidden depths seemed to call to him irresistibly176, and he followed. A wild and mad longing177 to probe the dread mysteries veiled beneath that curtain of ever-rising spray took despotic hold upon him; with a delicious joy he contemplated178 a struggle with the roaring whirlpools, with a fierce longing yearned to experience their unimaginable horrors. Now he was at the lowest end of the path. He stood upon a vast mass of mingled179 ice and snow, and his garments were drenched180 with the rising vapour. Yet one step, and he gained the elevation181 of a huge shapeless block which seemed to promise him a view straight down into the depths. But still the mists gathered thick beneath him, and from out of it called to him the voice of the whirlpool, now so loud within his ears that at length it silenced thought. For a moment his blood boiled, his pulses leaped, his brain was on fire with the fierce joy of madness; in the next he shrieked182 in a voice which overcame that of the Falls, “Helen! Helen!” and plunged into the abyss.
The End
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1
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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2
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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3
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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6
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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10
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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13
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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14
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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16
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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17
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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18
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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19
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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20
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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21
berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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22
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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23
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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24
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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25
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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26
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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27
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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28
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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29
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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30
inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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31
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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32
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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33
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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34
orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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35
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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36
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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37
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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38
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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39
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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40
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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41
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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42
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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43
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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44
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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45
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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46
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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47
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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48
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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49
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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50
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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51
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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52
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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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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55
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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56
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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57
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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58
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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59
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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60
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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61
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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63
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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64
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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66
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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67
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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68
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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69
reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
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70
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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71
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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72
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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73
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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74
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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76
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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78
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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79
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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80
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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81
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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82
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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83
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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84
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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85
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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86
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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87
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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89
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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90
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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91
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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92
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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93
transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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94
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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95
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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96
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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98
embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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100
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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101
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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102
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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104
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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105
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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106
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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107
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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108
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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109
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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110
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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111
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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112
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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113
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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114
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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115
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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116
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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117
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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118
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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119
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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120
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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122
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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123
revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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124
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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125
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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126
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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127
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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128
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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129
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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130
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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131
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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132
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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133
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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134
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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136
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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137
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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138
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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139
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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140
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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141
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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142
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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143
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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144
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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145
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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146
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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148
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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149
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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150
tinging
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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151
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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152
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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153
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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154
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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155
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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156
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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157
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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158
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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159
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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160
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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161
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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162
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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163
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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165
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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166
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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167
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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168
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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169
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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170
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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171
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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172
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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173
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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174
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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175
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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176
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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177
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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178
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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179
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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180
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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181
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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182
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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