Arthur pondered much during the days which followed as to whether it would be wise to acquaint Carrie with the wealth that would become his early in the following year, or not. At times he was strongly tempted to do so, urged by the hope that this expectation might awaken in her a stronger feeling of self-respect than his own exhortations and instructions had hitherto availed to excite. But, on the other hand, if he meant to persevere in his severely unselfish plans with regard to the disposal of the money, it would be scarcely prudent to make Carrie a party to them, for Arthur was beginning to recognise only too clearly that she had but little of that high-mindedness which would be required to achieve such renunciation. She would not be able to comprehend his views; who could say that she would not attribute to him in her own mind the meanest motives instead of the highest? But then came the question — Did he really mean to persist in his purpose? Would it be wise? Would it be just to himself and to Carrie? As yet he was not prepared with an answer for these questions. There were yet many months before an absolute decision would be required of him. For the present he would let the matter rest. Possibly in the end he might find it prudent to consult William Noble, who himself knew nothing of his friend’s fortune, and it was very difficult to foresee in which direction Noble’s advice might tend.

If he was reticent with regard to the future, Arthur was almost as silent about the past, as far, at least, as it concerned Carrie. Once or twice he did venture to ask her a question about her life during the period in which he had lost sight of her, but she showed such reluctance to reply, that he ceased to mention the subject. Indeed, there was very little to learn. Carrie’s experience had been that of the numberless girls in a similar destitute condition whom London nightly pillows in her hard corners, the only peculiarity being that she had found a way out of her misery without having recourse either to the workhouse or the river. Of one thing, however, Arthur felt certain, and it was that this period of wretched vagabondage had done Carrie considerable moral harm. True, he had scarcely spoken to her before the night on which he saved her from death in the streets, but he felt sure that she had previously been much gentler, and, to speak plainly, more innocent. Above all, he believed that this fatal habit of drinking had had its source in that prolonged nightmare of homeless agony. Doubtless his own unsuspecting heedlessness had contributed to its development, for he now saw clearly that the woman called Mrs. Pole had exercised a strong influence for evil over Carrie’s mind, an influence that endured even now that he thought he had removed his wife from her reach. One experience which he had now acquired, tortured him ceaselessly; it was that Carrie was by no means to be trusted. She seemed to have no innate respect for truth, and had acquired a facility in deception which made it all but impossible to arrive at the truth by questioning her. The knowledge of this terrible flaw in her character gave Arthur many sleepless nights. How could he tell what ruinous schemes were ripening in the brain of the girl who slept so peacefully by his side? And this evil only grew by time, for his suspicions never ceased to be fed with only too substantial evidence. Distrust haunted him like a phantom. It constantly stood between himself and Carrie, chilling her kiss, and little by little estranging her from his embrace. At times he asked himself, with a shudder, whether he could any longer pretend that he loved her.

For, in spite of her solemn promise, she continued stealthily to gratify her passion for drink, and Arthur knew it but too well. Often he detected it in her breath, and openly charged her with her broken faith, but she denied the charge so boldly, with such shameless persistence, that he stood aghast before her, and was unable to say another word. He had so strongly insisted upon her keeping accounts, that she was obliged to make a show of it; but Arthur, by inspecting her book, saw clearly that the expenses were constantly falsified. Before long he resorted to the plan of. giving her money every day, barely sufficient for the expenses he knew to be legitimate; but, nevertheless, he continued to find her upon his return either excited to an unnatural gaiety, or plunged in dangerous moroseness, and always with the gleaming eyes which were the infallible index of her wrong-doing. He could not understand how she managed to procure liquor; but before long he began to notice the disappearance of sundry articles from the room, and he had no more wonder on the subject.

They had soon been married six months. The pretence of Carrie’s education had long since gone to add another stone to the paving of Hell; no word was ever heard of reading or writing now, and Arthur had even ceased to correct her errors in speaking. All day long he worked with an overburdened heart, and a brow which began to show distinct signs of hopeless trouble. His foot began to lose its lightness, he began to stoop as he walked, never looking about him with the old joyous, hopeful glance, but with eyes fixed upon the ground, ever thinking, thinking. He acquired the habit of talking aloud to himself, and occasionally gesticulated as he walked. He had grown to dread his wife’s face. Affectionate expostulation was altogether thrown away upon her, or only met with a return of sickening hypocrisy; and to angry utterances she only replied with passionate retorts. Arthur fancied that he could observe her features growing coarser, and he felt convinced that her voice had no longer the clearness of tone which had once marked it. Yet of none of these signs did she herself appear conscious. Not the most impassioned pleading on Arthur’s part had force to awaken her to the unavoidable consequences of her course of life.

One morning, early in July, as Arthur was leaving the house to go to his work, he was stopped by his landlady, Mrs. Oaks, who requested him to step into her parlour. The good woman had a troubled expression on her face, and was evidently preparing to speak on a subject she found disagreeable.

“I’m afraid, sir,” she began, “that I shall be obliged to ask you to find other lodgings.”

“For whatever reason, Mrs. Oaks?” asked Arthur, in the utmost surprise.

“Well, to tell you the truth, Mr. Golding, the character of my house is being damaged. These girls that come so often to see your wife have such a very — unrespectable appearance, I might say, that the other lodgers don’t at all like it. One has given me notice already, an old lady on the first floor who has been with me a year. And then the neighbours are beginning to talk about it, too. I shall have my house empty if it goes on.”

Arthur turned deadly pale as he listened. He looked round to see if the door was closed behind him, and then sat down, as if overcome with sudden weakness.

“Aren’t you well, sir?” asked Mrs. Oaks, disturbed at the sight of his countenance.

He waved his hands to signify that it was nothing.

“I know nothing of these visitors you speak of,” he said. “When do they come? Who are they?”

“They come at all hours of the day, sir; and as for what they are, I don’t exactly know, of course, but I am afraid they’re no good. But didn’t you know they came for Mrs. Golding?”

Arthur shook his head.

“Well,” took up the old lady, “and I asked her only the other day if you knew about it, and she said that you knew well enough, and that there was no call to complain of anything, as they were respectable friends of hers.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Oaks,” said Arthur, solemnly, “I know nothing of them. How many come?”

“Oh, perhaps not more than two or three; but they are here so often, and they dress in such a flashy way, that nobody can help noticing them. They must stop coming here, that’s very certain.”

“So they shall, Mrs. Oaks,” returned Arthur, rising. “I am very much obliged to you for telling me of this. I hope that is your only objection to me remaining your lodger?”

“Oh, I’ve nothing else in the world to complain of,” said the old lady. “I’m sure I should be very sorry to lose you.”

Arthur went upstairs again forthwith. It would result in his missing half a day’s work — perhaps losing his place — but that he could not help. For him to be absent all day with this weight upon his mind would be intolerable.

“Carrie,” he began sternly, as soon as he reentered the room, “who are these girls that visit you so often in my absence?”

“I don’t know of any girls,” she replied, shaking her head.

“You do!” replied Arthur, with sudden violence, every fibre in him thrilling at the bare-faced lie. “You know very well that you are constantly visited by girls during the day. Tell me who they are at once!”

“Oh,” she replied with an affectation of indifference, “I suppose you mean Lily Marston, as come to see me once last week.”

“And who is she?”

“One of the girls I used to work with. What harm if she did come? I suppose I’m not to be caged up like a wild beast, am I, and not allowed to see any one?”

“Do you mean to tell me that this girl is the only visitor you have ever had?”

“The only one as I remember. Who told you about her?”

“Never mind who told me. I know perfectly well that you have had frequent visitors during the present week. It is useless to try to deceive me.”

“I know who told you,” returned Carrie, her eyes flashing. “It’s that spiteful old cat of a landlady! She’s got a spite against me, she has, because she knows I don’t like her. She threatened to tell you.”

“And she has done so. And she has also told me that the nuisance has become so great we shall be obliged to leave if it continues. Once more, I ask you: Who are these girls who visit you?”

“Is it likely,” returned Carrie, “as I can live day after day without seeing no one? And I’m not going to do it, that’s plain. If I have one or two friends come to see me, they come into my own room and don’t disturb anybody, and the landlady’s a spiteful old cat to say as it isn’t so!”

“Then you own that you have visitors, and without my knowledge? Well, it must cease at once. You understand me? I forbid you to see any one at this house without my consent.”

He paused to see the effect of his words. Carrie turned away, and said nothing.

“Do you mean to obey me?” he asked.

She said nothing, but appeared engaged in covering over something which lay on the dressing-table, something in front of which she had been standing since he entered the room. Arthur stepped up quickly to her, and, seizing her hands, disclosed a large jet necklace, a gold brooch, and a silver bracelet. For some minutes he was unable to speak with surprise.

“How have you obtained all these?” he asked at length, his voice quavering from the conflict of emotions.

“They’re mine!” cried Carrie, passionately. “Leave them alone!”

“Yours!” he exclaimed. “How have they come into your possession?”

“They’ve always been mine.”

“Always yours! But you have not had them here in this room.”

“I know I haven’t. They’ve been at my aunt’s all the time. I went and fetched them yesterday.”

He looked into her face for some moments, desperately endeavouring to determine whether she spoke the truth. Possibly she did, but, as Arthur too well knew, it was quite as possible that she did not. Yet how else could she have obtained these ornaments? He dared not ask himself the question, but forced himself obstinately to believe that she had told him the truth.

“What are you going to do with them?” he asked, after standing with his eyes fixed upon the objects for several minutes, almost stunned by the weight of trouble that was pressing upon him.

“What should I?” she asked, putting them away into a drawer. “Wear them, of course.”

He stood still, gazing at the place where the things had lain, unable to determine upon a course of action. Suddenly he spoke.

“You didn’t answer my question about the visitors,” he said. “Do you mean to obey me, or must I look for other lodgings?”

“Oh, I’m sure I don’t want to drive you away,” retorted Carrie. “If you’re tired of having me with you, I can look for a room for myself. That’s very easily done.”

It was not the first time that Carrie had expressed herself ready to leave him, and to hear her speak thus was always intensely aggravating to Arthur. Regarding his marriage as a solemn bond which nothing but death could break, it was torture to him to hear it spoken of so lightly, as if it were capable of dissolution at will. It may be that in this feeling there was something of the indignation with which an upright mind regards a tempter. So when she spoke, the taunting coldness of her words irritated him once more into stern anger.

“What do you mean, when you speak so to me?” he exclaimed. “Do you understand the words you use? Do you mean that you hate me, that you are weary of owning me as your husband? Would it please you if I took you at your word and bade you go and earn your own living?”

“I could force you to support me,” replied Carrie, with a short laugh.

The utter heartlessness of these words checked his further speech. What good was it to exact a promise from her that she would obey him? Neither was her word to be trusted, nor had she the slightest trace of affection for him left. With a glance of burning scorn he walked out of the room. On reaching the ground floor he knocked at Mrs. Oaks’ parlour, and was admitted.

“I am sorry to say that in any case we shall be obliged to leave, Mrs. Oaks,” he said. “I suppose you will not require more than a week’s notice?”

The old lady replied in the negative, surveying Arthur’s pallid features with a look of pity. Possibly she divined the trouble from which he suffered. He did not leave her time to make any further remark, but walked at once from the house.

The rest of the morning he spent in wandering aimlessly about the streets, his brain throbbing feverishly, his body oppressed with an intolerable lassitude. He had taken his resolution. At the end of the week he would move to an entirely different part of London, where Carrie would be out of the reach of these companions who were leading her to her ruin. Once in a new abode, he would again attempt the work of reformation. But even as he resolved thus in his mind, he was struggling with the heart-sickness of perpetual disappointment. He could not bear to keep his sorrows any longer to himself. As yet he had not said a word of them to his friend Noble, but now, at length, he felt compelled to make him his confidant, and seek counsel in his dire straits.

During the afternoon he worked as usual. His appearance readily lent itself as a proof of his statement that he had been kept away in the morning by sudden illness. When the day came to an end he gladly left the toil which was ever becoming more odious to him, and set out in the direction of Noble’s lodgings.

These were near the Strand. In crossing that thoroughfare he had to run before a hansom which was coming along at an unusual speed, and, even in the moment of its passing him, he distinctly saw Carrie seated in it by the side of a tall, finely-dressed young man. Was it possible he had made a mistake? As soon as the thought had flashed through his mind he started and ran at his utmost speed in pursuit of the vehicle. He had it distinctly before him amid the great crowd of traffic, and he gained upon it visibly. Suddenly it drew up to the pavement and stopped. The next moment he was standing by it — only to see a grave old gentleman step out with a carpet bag in his hand. In his agitation he had evidently pursued the wrong hansom.

No thought now Of visiting Noble. Arthur was mad, and the very thought of his friend’s calm conversation was insufferable to him. Homewards — homewards! that was the sole idea which filled his brain. It was just possible that he had deceived himself in the hasty glance which the speeding vehicle had allowed him; if so he should find Carrie seated at home as usual. But if he found her absent, then — there would be time enough to decide how to act. As he ran along the swarming streets between the Strand and his home he did his best to persuade himself that his eyes had played him false, but all the time he was convinced that they had not. He knew Carrie’s face. and form too well; he felt sure that he had even recognised the gold brooch and the bracelet.

He reached Huntley Street and rushed panting upstairs to his room. He flung the door open. The room was empty.

He sat down to think. Was the fact of Carrie’s absence a proof of his having seen her in the hansom? By no means, for she had of late frequently been absent when he returned in the evening, employed he knew but too well how. But were the ornaments still here? He stepped to the chest of drawers. All the drawers were open, and in none were the ornaments to be found. There was no, other place in the room where she could have put them away. He went to the cupboard in which she was in the habit of hanging her dresses. It was empty, with the exception of one cast-off garment and the hat she generally wore. Her best hat was gone. He turned to examine other parts of the room, and, in doing so, his eye fell upon half a sheet of note-paper which lay on the table amidst the remnants of the morning’s breakfast. He took it up with a trembling hand, and read, written in Carrie’s well-known scrawl and with all her favourite errors of spelling, this: —

“Don’t expect me back. I’ve gone for good. I shan’t trouble you any more, though I am your wife.”

When he took up the paper it had shaken in his fingers like a leaf in the wind, but, having read it, he put it down with perfect steadiness. The certainty of what he feared seemed to have cured him of his feverish anxiety. For a moment he felt cold in every part of his body, but, after that, he was calm. He began to pace the room, repeating to himself in a low voice the trenchant sentences of the note: “Don’t expect me back.” “I’ve gone for good.” Several times he stopped in his slow walk and looked out of the window. He faced the west, and could see the sky over the houses opposite still glowing with the rich colours of sunset. From one chimney ascended a thin stream of smoke, and very beautiful it looked as its transparency was permeated with a tinge of the hues behind it. Arthur’s thoughts wandered off to a translation of the Odyssey which he had once read aloud to Mr. Tollady, and he could not help connecting the vari-coloured smoke before him with his imagination of the smoke rising from a Greek altar in some sea-girdled isle made beautiful under an Ionian sunset. There was calmness in this hour. The streets seemed unusually quiet, and an organ being played in the distance sounded like delicious music. He found himself wandering off into day-dreams, and had the greatest difficulty in forcing his thoughts back to the present hour. To do so, he still kept repeating the note half aloud. What was this feeling so strongly resembling pleasure which crept further into his heart at each repetition? How was it that he unconsciously drew himself more upright, as if some great burden had suddenly ‘been taken from his shoulders?

So Carrie was gone. Well, nothing more natural than that she should go. Was it not rather wonderful that she had stopped so long? He had not been mistaken; it was really Carrie whom he had seen in the hansom. And who could the elegant-looking young man be who was with her? How had she made his acquaintance? Might it not even be the “A.W.” upon whose identity he had so often reflected?

He found himself thinking of Carrie’s future lot as if she had been someone with whom he was slightly acquainted, and no more. Would her new friend trouble himself about her grammatical faults, her errors of pronunciation? Most probably not. How foolish he himself had been to trouble, either. Of what consequence was an h omitted or foisted in where it had no business, wha............