It was none of Arthur’s intention to quit his wife for good. Angry as he was, his was not a nature which could allow itself to be led wholly astray by blind passion, and, as he descended the stairs, he said to himself that he would be absent for a few hours, trusting to the interval both to calm his own outraged feelings and to effect a salutary change in his wife’s bad temper.

It still rained, and the February wind swept the streets with cutting severity. Strong emotion had stilled the sense of hunger as effectually as a meal would have done, and although all his clothes were so wet that they clung about him, Arthur did not feel it.

Heedless of what direction he took, he walked at a rapid pace along the main streets of the neighbourhood, seeing nothing that he passed, merely obeying the impulse which led him to quick motion. As he turned the corners the cold rain lashed his face, and he felt it soothing rather than disagreeable, for his whole body burned violently. The inside of his mouth, moreover, as is usual after moments of strong anger, was terribly parched; his tongue felt like a piece of leather.

As he passed the coffee-houses, he felt that a cup of coffee would have been a great luxury to him, but he had no money with him. So completely did he place confidence in Carrie, that he always entrusted to her the whole of the money for the week, applying to her whenever he needed any, and so few were his private needs, that it was quite usual for him to be without a coin in his pocket. So he was obliged to turn his eyes from the warm interiors of the coffee-houses and to take a long, cold draught from the first drinking fountain which he passed. There also he bathed his forehead, and the moisture seemed to refresh him.

When he had so far recovered himself as to be able to reflect, he drew aside from the crowded thoroughfares into narrow and darker streets, and at length, pausing in an entrance above which hung a gas lamp, he drew the torn drawing from his pocket, and, holding the two halves together, once more regarded it.

For a long time it had lain in the very bottom of his box, for he had placed it there purposely, lest by being too near at hand it should tempt him to look at it. It was a most unfortunate circumstance that Carrie’s ill-governed curiosity should have led to its discovery to-night, for all through the day Arthur’s thoughts, despite his strongest efforts to turn them in another direction, had been running on Helen Norman. He had thought of the drawing, and had half persuaded himself that there would be no harm in taking the opportunity of some moment when Carrie was absent to gaze upon it once more.

What harm? he had asked himself. Was not Helen Norman as far removed from him now as if she were dead? and what harm could there be in giving himself the pleasure of looking at her picture? Then Arthur’s sterner good sense had come to the rescue, and had urged that the mere fact of this being a pleasure proved that the wish should not be indulged. His honour spoke, and told him that not even in thought should he deviate from the undivided attention which he owed his wife.

Upon his return home, had he found the room neat and bright, had Carrie been in her best humour, and received him, as usual, with a kiss, then the victory would have been complete, and Helen Norman would have rested undisturbed in the portfolio at the bottom of the box.

In this way he reflected as, piecing the portrait together, he viewed its sweet outlines by the lamp-light. Insensibly he passed on to a comparison between Helen and his wife. Supposing he had married Helen, and she had one day come across a piece of evidence proving indisputably that her husband had once loved another girl, would she have acted as Carrie had done? Would she not rather have made it a subject for merry laughter and jest, have asked questions about the buried love, have sincerely sympathised with any little sadness which the recollection might have aroused, and then, after all, have set a seal upon the real and living affection with tender caresses? But he felt in his heart that such behaviour was impossible in Carrie; it was vain to expect from her the gentleness, the intelligence, the fine discrimination of such a nature as Helen’s. And thereupon a fierce rush of wild regret swept over his soul, and in a burst of anguish he pressed a thousand kisses upon the mutilated face.

Intruders forced him to once more fold up the picture and pass on. But Helen’s countenance had stamped itself upon his imagination, and he saw it gleaming in the darkness as he hastened along the narrow bye-ways. Helen and Carrie! 0 God! How could he bear to reflect upon the two together? In these moments every loveable look which he had ever seen on Helen’s face, every tone which he had heard from her lips, every wise, good, tender word she had spoken in his presence, was as real to him as if he had been subject to its influence but a moment ago. What a spirit of sweet and noble intelligence breathed from her whole person. Intelligence — intelligence! That, after all, was what Arthur most worshipped in her; that godlike property in virtue of which man becomes “a being of such large discourse, looking before and after.”

Aye, had she been endowed with the grossest ugliness that ever weighed upon human creature, Arthur, in his present mood, felt that he should have made a goddess of her for her intelligence alone. But poor Carrie — alas! What was all her outward beauty when she utterly lacked all trace of that divine fire, that heaven-aspiring flame which, when it burns upon the altar of the heart, permeates and sanctifies it with its glow. Who was this that he had married? What beast’s nature encased in a human form?

In this hour of agony he felt that the struggle had begun; that while he aspired to highest regions of pure air, this weight to which he had immutably bound himself was dragging him down, down into the foul atmosphere of a brutal existence.

Wandering on with limbs already stiffening under fatigue, and with a mind well-nigh exhausted by the violence of his emotions, he found himself at length in Leicester Square, and mingled with the crowd of reeling revellers and painted prostitutes which is always to be found here after nightfall. Such company was dangerous to one in his mood, for how easy is it for the nature weary with struggling after an exalted ideal suddenly to fall into the opposite extreme, and find no depth of degradation sufficient for its cravings.

Before him blazed the lights of the Alhambra, and for the first time in his life he burned with passionate eagerness to see the inside of a theatre, a delight he had never yet experienced. But he was without money. Eager to relieve his thoughts from the insufferable oppression to which they had yielded, he turned his attention to the female faces which he saw passing and repassing. How hideous were most of them! The eyes encircled with rings of dark red, the drawn lips, the cheeks whereon the paint lay in daubs of revolting coarseness, the bodies for the most part puffed into unsightly obesity — surely there was little to invite in all this. But Arthur’s passions were awakened, and he found a pleasure in the novel sensation of witnessing such scenes.

At length a young girl passed him, very different in appearance from those other women, yet none the less evidently a fille perdue. Her shape dainty and slim, her walk marked by that delightful spring which gives an impression of staginess, and her face unmistakably lovely. Without thinking why he did so, Arthur turned and followed her.

Possibly she heard his step behind her, for suddenly she stopped, turned round with a fascinating smile, and spoke to him in French. Arthur, at once abashed, turned hastily away, and walked quickly from the square.

It was past ten o’clock, and he felt that it was time to return home. Making his way slowly in the neighbourhood of Soho Square, the quietness of the street was suddenly broken by the sound of a barrel-organ which proceeded from a court close at hand. Music of any kind had always the utmost attraction for Arthur, and for a street organ he entertained the utmost liking, partly because it was almost the only kind of music he ever heard, partly because it recalled to him many happy hours of his childhood, when his toil in Little St. Andrew Street had been lightened by some heaven-sent organ-grinder’s strains.

He now approached the court where the music was, and saw a little band of miserably clad children availing themselves of the Italian’s good offices to enjoy a dance on the pavement. Hidden in the shadow of a wall Arthur stood and listened for nearly a quarter of an hour, whilst the organ played through a long string of hackneyed street ditties, the favourites of the day on the lips of errand-boys, the latest melodies of the music halls or the theatre. Be they what they might, to listen to them was soothing for Arthur.

Gradually his thoughts reverted to Carrie, and he felt himself able to think of her with more kindness, before long even with pity. What sort of a night had she passed alone? Doubtless she was yearning for his return. After all, she certainly loved him; for what was this outburst of absurd jealousy due to if not to the very strength of her affection, which could not brook the mere suspicion of a rival? Yes, she loved him, and what an ungrateful wretch was he to return her love with anger. Had she forced him to marry her? Had it not been by his own free will that he had taken her home as his wife? Was it not his bounden duty to bear with the fullest consequences of his own act — nay more, to exert himself to the utmost for the poor girl’s happiness? Aye, poor girl; for was she not worthy of the profoundest pity? Was it her fault that she had never been educated, that she had been born with such a small portion of intelligence? Surely not, and he was a brute, lacking in reason no less than in humane sympathy, to think of her as he had done. He would make full reparation; he would bear with her utmost humours. Above all he would never do her the wrong to despair of her elevation to a higher stage of culture.

He hurried homewards, now eager to arrive. As he turned into Huntley Street he had to pass a public-house, about the door of which was collected a little crowd. From the midst came the shrill voices of two women, high in dispute. Drawn on by curiosity, he caught a glimpse of the wranglers, and — horror! he saw that Carrie was one of them, the other being her old landlady, Mrs. Pole. Carrie was hatless, her hair streaming in wildest disorder, her dress torn in places, her face swollen and tear-stained. Even as Arthur stood gazing, struck into momentary paralysis, the other woman rushed at her with the violence of a fury, and the language of a Billingsgate fishwife, and struck her repeatedly about the head. In a moment Arthur had violently forced a passage through the crowd, and, how he knew not, had dragged Carrie from the midst of it into the open street. She seemed incapable of walking, and only leaned against him, gasping out his name with hysterical repetition. Calling to the crowd to keep back the woman, who had begun to pursue, he lifted Carrie bodily into his arms, and, with a strength he could not ordinarily have exerted, bore her rapidly along to their own door. He entered, and supported her up the stairs to their own room.

As soon as he had lit a candle, Arthur saw that the room was just as he had left it, in cheerless disorder. He could not for a moment doubt what had led to the hideous scene he had just been in time to interrupt. Carrie was quite unable to stand, and her breath filled the room with the smell of spirits.

Seating her with difficulty upon the bed, he held both her hands, and gazed into her face with unutterable anguish.

“Carrie! Carrie!” he repeatedly exclaimed, “for Heaven’s sake tell me what this means! What have you been doing? Where have you been?”

She made no reply, but sobbed hysterically, and floods of tears streamed from her eyes. To his repeated questions she at length muttered some kind of unintelligible reply. She evidently had no clear knowledge of her situation. It was vain to endeavour to make her understand or answer.

Arthur passed the night in watching, distracted with remorse which almost drove him mad.

Carrie was sleeping just as he had placed her — a heavy drunken sleep, interrupted by struggling sobs, by starts and cries. As the candle by degrees burned down into the socket, Arthur extinguished it and lit the lamp. Any thought of rest was impossible, though his limbs ached intolerably, and his whole body was oppressed with a deadly faintness. With the exception of a very slight lunch, he had eaten nothing since breakfast during the day. At length he was compelled to rise, and, going to the cupboard, cut a slice of bread from a loaf which he found there. This and a draught of water somewhat refreshed him, but only to become more sensible to the fearful pictures of his mind. His wife a drunkard, engaging in a low brawl before a public-house — surely this was a degradation of which he could not have dreamt. What would this be the prelude to? Was it but the commencement of horrors whom he had visited for the purpose of relieving, horror such as he had witnessed in the homes of wretched creature which he had often thought it would drive him mad to suffer in his own home? He durst not turn his eyes to look at Carrie; the disgust and terror which the sight of her awakened were too painful.

He endeavoured to read, but in vain gazed upon the page, not a line could he understand. He went to the window threw it up, and looked out into the night. It still rained a little, but otherwise the night was calm; the only wind was a warm and gentle one from the south-west, doubtless betokening more rain. As he stood thus gazing into the darkness, he was startled to hear a deep-toned bell begin to strike the hour with the utmost distinctness. Not till it had struck three or four times could he remember that it must be Big Ben at Westminster, whose tones were borne so plainly to his ear by the wind. The hour was midnight. It seemed as though the deep-mouthed bell would never cease to toll, and every stroke bore with it echoes which sounded like moanings of woe. It brought hot tears to Arthur’s eyes, and for many minutes he wept like a child, quite overcome by the anguish of his mind. He turned to look at Carrie, who had just uttered a groan, and, approaching her, he gazed long at her face, letting his tears drop upon it. Then he arranged the pillow under her head so as to render her more comfortable, and having kissed her forehead, he returned to the window.

In a garret on the opposite side of the street a dull light was burning, and it was now the only light visible in the houses around. Arthur began to find employment for his thoughts in speculating as to the cause of the light. Most likely some one was lying in the garret ill, perhaps dying; or perhaps it was only a husband or a wife sitting in all but hopeless expectation for the loved one to return, even though it were in a condition which it was agony to picture. With such watchers as these Arthur felt that he should henceforth have a keen sympathy. Then, as he thus pictured imaginary scenes, a far-off shriek, piercing even though so distant, seemed to cut through the night. Here was a fresh horror, a fresh exercise for the thoughts. Was it the mere yell of a drunken woman being dragged through the streets? Was it a scream to awaken the neighbourhood to the terrors of fire? Or was it midnight murder? He heard the policeman who had been tramping steadily along the street below suddenly pause and listen. But there was no second cry, the policeman continued to tramp on, and Arthur’s thoughts wandered away to other themes.

One and two he heard sounded by the great bell, and after that his frame began to yield to exhaustion. Carrie still slept; she seemed rather quieter, too, moaning and struggling less. Taking one of the pillows from the bed, Arthur placed it on the floor, spread out by it a few articles of clothing, and, turning the lamp low, lay down to rest. But very few minutes had passed before he sank into a deep sleep.

When he woke it was pitch dark; apparently the lamp had burnt itself out. Striking a match he found it was half-past six. Already there were signs of waking life in the streets. Though his head ached so dreadfully that the light in his hand seemed to swell his brain to bursting, Arthur had no inclination to sleep again. His whole body was shivering with cold, his face and hands felt clammy with a strange perspiration. Having lit a new candle, he occupied himself in making a fire, and, as soon as the blaze began to shoot up cheerfully in the grate, he made some water warm and washed in it. Feeling revived, though still suffering intensely in his head, he proceeded to make tea. As he completed this, he perceived by motions upon the bed that Carrie was sleeping less soundly. She appeared to be in the agony of a fearful dream; her eyes were wide open, her hands convulsively clenched. Shaking her, and calling her name, Arthur at length succeeded in partly awaking her. She sat up on the bed and looked round the room with only half-conscious eyes.

“Carrie! Carrie!” said Arthur, sitting beside her, and holding a cup of tea in his hand, “wake, dearest! — try and drink this.”

She took the cup from his hands and drank the contents eagerly.

“More,” she said, holding it out to him again.

He refilled it, and this she also drank off.

“Are you well, dear?” he asked. “Can you go to sleep again?”

“My head, my head!” she moaned, sinking once more upon the pillow. Then, a moment after she asked, “What is the time?”

“Nearly seven o’clock. Do you think I may leave you to go to my work?”

“Oh yes,” she moaned; “leave me, leave me. Why do you ask?”

“I cannot leave you if you are not well.”

“You didn’t mind leaving me last night,” she returned, sobbing; “why should you now?”

With a thousand self-reproaches, Arthur exerted himself to calm her; he caressed her, spoke to her with loving words, only speaking to her of his own fault, not a syllable of hers. That must in time be spoken of, but not yet; not now that she was suffering so terribly from its consequences. Neither did she refer to it in the few sentences she uttered. She was still heavy with sleep, and Arthur saw it would be better to let her have quiet rest. Promising that he would return at dinnertime, he watched her once more fall asleep, and then, as soon as it was time, set out as usual.

When he returned about mid day he found Carrie sitting over the fire, her face resting upon her hands, her long hair falling loosely about her shoulders. All his anger had now left him, and he felt for her nothing but the sincerest pity. When he entered she did not stir, but when he bent over her and laid his hand soothingly upon her head, she looked up at him for a moment. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her cheeks had lost all their natural colour. She had evidently been crying, but was doing so no longer. To his enquiries as to whether she felt better she replied in the affirmative, but with very few words. Evidently something was upon her mind, and Arthur naturally concluded that she was suffering from remorse. Thinking it best to leave her undisturbed, he swallowed a mouthful of lunch, and again approached her to say good-bye; he had a long distance to go, and not a minute too much time.

“I will be back early, dearest,” he said, bending over her and pressing his cheek to hers. “Don’t trouble to get any dinner ready. I will bring something in with me that will do. Shall I find something nice for Carrie, to surprise her with?”

At other times she had always welcomed such a suggestion with a childish delight. Now she only shook her head and said, “Don’t trouble.”

“Oh, we shall see,” he returned; and he was on the point of going, when she suddenly moved to face him and asked —

“Where is that portrait?”

In the pain of the result all memory of the cause had escaped Arthur’s mind; he started when he heard this sudden question, for he knew the torn drawing was still in his pocket. It smote through him, moreover, like a piercing blow, the sudden disclosure of the true cause of Carrie’s depression. It was not sorrow for her fault which weighed upon her, but a brooding jealousy which nothing could dispel from her mind. In a second Arthur’s resolution was taken, and he answered firmly —

“I destroyed it last night; I threw it away in the street.”

Something like a smile rose to Carrie’s lips, and she resumed her attitude over the fire. Without further adieu, Arthur left the house.

In the evening, before returning home, he made a hasty call at Noble’s lodgings. Noble had just arrived from his work.

“I wish to ask a favour of you,” said Arthur.

“Ask a hundred,” returned Noble.

“No, only one. Will you take this little parcel of mine, and guard it for me as if it contained something more precious than gold — guard it till I ask you to give it me again?”

“I will,” replied his friend, with a slight look of surprise.

“But are you willing to do so without knowing what it contains? If I do not wish you to know it, Noble, you may be sure it is a secret which is far better kept by myself alone.”

“I am willing to do so,” replied Noble. “Let us say no more about it. Look; I will lock it in this little drawer, which I do not use for anything. You will find it there when you want it.”

“Many thanks.”

“How is your wife?” asked Noble, as Arthur was on the point of going.

“As usual, thanks,” replied the other; and, waving his hand departed.

Arthur had been at first uncertain whether he should impart to Noble what had happened at home, but at the last moment he found it impossible to do so. The degradation was too great; far better that no one else should be cognisant of it And then if, as he devoutly hoped, it was a single case which would never find a repetition, there would be an injustice to Carrie in making it known to his friend. Certainly it would be unjust to relate Carrie’s error without at the same time making the cause fully known, and this Arthur was not disposed to do. In the parcel he had entrusted to his friend was, of course, the torn portrait. But the perfect confidence he possessed in Noble’s honour was a guarantee that the parcel would never be looked into. Otherwise, he could not have given it to Noble to keep; for the thought that the latter should even suspect the secret which the portrait contained was intolerable to Arthur. He felt that his high-minded friend could not but regard him with less respect if he knew this secret, and Noble’s respect was a necessity of his life.

On his way home he fulfilled his promise of purchasing a delicacy for Carrie. As he ascended the stairs to their room, he wondered what effect his last sentence at dinner-time would have had upon Carrie. Without a doubt she ............