After the first shock of passionate grief had been lived through, and when Arthur was capable of calmly reviewing his position, he found that he could look forward to the future with something more than resignation. Nor will the reader be at a loss to account for this apparently strange condition. In constitution of mind eminently an idealist, he was yet, as we have had frequent opportunities of seeing, singularly dependent upon external influences for the shape which his idealism should for the time assume. The secret of his life lay in the fact that his was an ill-balanced nature, lacking that element of a firm and independent will which might at any moment exert its preponderance in situations of doubt. Hence it resulted that he was one of those men whose lives seem to have little result for the world save as useful illustrations of the force of circumstances — one of those who, had Fortune directed his path amid congenial scenes, might have developed a rich individuality. As it was, though noble impulse unmistakably constituted the soil of his mind, adverse circumstances forbade his giving to the implanted seeds that care which might have nourished them into flower and fruit. All the more sensible was he to the influence of those who, assuming the position of his own will, exerted themselves to direct the cultivation of his nature. Once he had possessed such a guide in William Noble; at present he was as clay in the hands of Helen Norman. In both of these friends he felt the presence of that which he himself lacked — a strong will; and in both cases he clung to the leadership of this will with a presentiment that it was his best resource. William Noble he had formerly followed from respect for his sterling character and admiration of his lofty aims. But both these feelings had yielded before the influence of Helen Norman, who established immutably, with the seal of passion, the power which her ideal character might only have exerted for a while. Thus it was that Arthur looked forward with a strange kind of pleasure to the strict pursual of the course which Helen had enjoined upon him. The fact that the injunction carried with it the infliction of fearful torture rather attracted than terrified him; he was about to suffer for her sake, in the pursuit of a noble ideal which she had set before him, and this consideration was to Arthur Golding an impulse stronger than that which any prospect of mere worldly ease could have afforded. Indeed, it was only in the pursuit of such ideals that he could ever hope to find ease. It was nothing to him that the way led through unheard-of suffering. Already he had suffered much more than falls to the lot of ordinary men, and he might reasonably hope that, by constant endurance, his torture would become his element.
To say that it was pure idealism which drove him onward to his dread task would not be the whole truth; there was also hope. To say that he hoped for an ultimate termination of his strife, that he hoped some day to be able to claim his reward, is but to say that he was a man. The hope was not one upon which he could permit himself to dwell, which, indeed, he could venture to contemplate as existing at all; but for all that it was there, no inconsiderable element of his determined courage. Instinctively he knew that Helen also was nursing the same hope. They were both young; both could wait, untroubled by the faintest distrust of each other’s purposes. What power could forbid them to hope?
Arthur’s first task was to rediscover Carrie. He could not tell whether she would again come to his lodgings, but it was possible, and he must not miss her in case she did. Accordingly, he took the resolution of telling Mr. Venning the facts concerning his marriage, and also his future intentions. This step taken, he began an active search. He knew that there was little chance of discovering Carrie in the day time, so through the day he applied himself steadfastly to his work, and at night went forth and wandered for hours about those districts where, as his former experience told him, women of Carrie’s class were most wont to congregate. Save such vague guidance as this, he had absolutely no clue to her whereabouts. He frequently inserted advertisements in the newspapers, but they remained without answer. Many a time when walking late at night along the Strand, or in the Haymarket, or about Regent Street or Oxford Street, he caught a distant glimpse of a form resembling that which he sought; then he would hurry in pursuit, and only when the approach of his quick step had caused the girl to look round would find that he had been deceived. At such times he was absolutely proof against all seductive arts; the sensual part of his nature seemed for the present subdued before the seriousness of his task. Night after night he frequented scenes of gaiety, of debauch of the most depraved licentiousness, but always with the same sad, fixed face, the same impatient eagerness of glance, which denoted something very different from the pursuit of pleasure. He had somewhat the air of a gambler, wandering about in feverish search of an opportunity to retrieve his ruined fortunes. He never spoke to any one, and, as he lived in unbroken Silence during the day time, his manner showed that nervous shyness peculiar to those who live much in solitude. Possibly the nature of his search may also have contributed to make him timid and shrinking, for he dreaded to meet with Carrie at least as much as he desired to do so. His feverish imagination exhausted itself in the picturing of horrible circumstances amid which he might find her. Every crowd in the street caused him a vague dread. He became by degrees nervously sensitive to unusual noises; sometimes an unexpected touch when he was passing along the street would cause him to start violently. Doubtless much of this was due to ill-health, caused by want of sleep and the constant mental trouble he endured. Soon he had not even the resource of wholesome work, for alas! art was becoming once more distasteful to him. He missed the cheerful energy which had lately urged him on whenever he took up the pencil, the ever-active imagination revealing to him worlds of glorious possibilities, the rapid heart-beat which was his reward when he had achieved a success. Now he was obliged to force himself to his easel, and the labour of an hour wearied him inexpressibly in body and mind.
Already he had begun to ask himself whether this search could endure for ever, and what course he should pursue if unable to attain his object, when, one night towards the end of April, his wanderings came to an end. It had been a severe night, bitter with alternating snow, hail and rain, and with a piercing wind which never ceased to rush along the muddy streets, setting at defiance every protection. Despite the weather, Arthur had wandered about as usual, partly from mere habit, partly because his own room was intolerable to him. Though he had scarcely any hope of recognising the face he sought, he never ceased to scan the features of every woman that passed him, feeding the melancholy in his heart upon the endless variety of woe which was thus exhibited to him. But about eleven the storm became so fierce that it was hardly possible to stand against it. At this moment he found himself near a lighted entrance into which several people were hastening, and hither he too repaired, in the intention of seeking shelter till the violent hail was over. It was a narrow doorway, situated in a very shabby back street, and, as he entered, he found himself in front of a second door, on which was a large placard, exhibiting the words, “Tableaux Vivants.” Hearing the sound of music within, he pushed the door open, and entered a moderate-sized room, lighted only by a jet of gas suspended from the low ceiling. Standing and sitting about the room were some thirty or forty men, engaged in watching the entertainment. Their eyes were directed to a small elevated platform, of circular shape, which was placed immediately under the gas-jet, the rays from which were concentrated upon it by means of a large shade. On the platform, which kept slowly revolving to the sound of a melancholy hand-organ, stood two women, at first sight apparently naked, but in reality clothed in tight-fitting tissue of flesh-colour. The fact that one was in the act of offering an apple for the other’s acceptance rendered it probable that the group was meant to represent Adam and Eve. As the platform revolved, the two engaged in a slow pantomime indicative of conversation. Such was the entertainment, watched in silence, only broken now and then by a coarse laugh or a whispered comment. Of course it was meant to be vicious, and certainly was indecent in character; but surely not the severest moralist could have devised a means of showing more clearly the hideousness of vice. The cold, bare room, swept through by a gust from the street whenever the door opened, the wailing hand-organ playing a waltz in the time of a psalm-tune, and with scarcely a correct note, the assemblage of gross and brutal-featured men, whose few remarks were the foulest indecencies, the reek of bad tobacco which was everywhere present, the dim light, save on the revolving platform where the shivering wretches went through their appointed parts, — surely only in England, where popular amusement is but known in theory, could so ghastly an ensemble attract a single spectator.
But to Arthur it was no opportunity for moralising. Scarcely had he taken half-a-dozen steps towards the end of the room where the platform was, before he suddenly stopped. As he entered, the backs of the women had been towards him, but now the revolution had brought their faces under the light, and that moment he knew that he had found Carrie. The one holding up the apple could be no other than she. Her features were paler and thinner than they had been even on the night when he last saw her. Her hair, which had always been wonderfully long and thick, now fell quite loosely upon her shoulders, and to below her waist. Her face was distorted with the semblance of a smile; but so intensely was she suffering from the cold that her parted teeth frequently chattered, and her hand trembled visibly.
On either side of the platform, green curtains shut off a portion of the room, and behind these the two performers disappeared as soon as their pantomime was at an end. Inquiry of the door-keeper informed Arthur that the payment of a shilling entitled the spectators to go behind the scenes, or, in other words, behind the green curtains. Almost throwing the money at the man, he hastened to avail himself of the privilege. Besides the two performers, who had cast over themselves a little extra clothing for the sake of warmth, he found two or three other women, evidently preparing to go upon the platform, and chattering the while with half-a-dozen low-looking men, who stood there with their hands in their pockets, smoking. At Arthur’s entrance, Carrie raised her hands, with an artificial smile of welcome; but, recognising him the same moment, she involuntarily gave utterance to a low scream, and rose to her feet, as if with some thought of escaping. Arthur made no sign in reply, but simply drew near to the wretched girl and addressed her in a low voice, inaudible to the others present.
“I have been seeking you for many weeks, Carrie,” he said, “and had almost given up in despair. Quick; dress, and come out of this horrible place.”
“Come?” she repeated, as if not understanding, while every limb trembled. “Where to?”
“With me, with me,” said Arthur. “I cannot explain. be quick.”
“But I can’t go,” she replied. “I’m engaged for an hour yet. won’t let me go,” she added, nodding towards the other of the curtains.
“Who? The man at the door?”
“Yes.”
“How much has he paid you?”
“He hasn’t paid me yet; but he’ll pay me five shillings at the end of the week.”
“Dress at once, then. I will go and speak to him.”
Half-a-crown to the man at the door removed all difficulties, and in a very few minutes the two issued together into the street.
The violence of the storm had by this time spent itself, but the rain still fell heavily. They hurried on together, side by side, in silence, till at length Arthur stopped before a small coffee-house.
“Are you hungry, Carrie?” he asked, turning and looking into her face.
She shook her head.
Beckoning her to follow, he pushed open the door and entered. In a few moments he had paid for a night’s lodging, and, accompanied by Carrie, was shown upstairs into a small and not too clean-looking bedroom. The waiter gave him a candle and retired. Arthur turned the key in the door, and then faced Carrie, whose eyes had followed his motions with wonder.
“Last time I saw you, Carrie,” he said, speaking in a low voice, lest he should be heard through the thin walls, “I behaved cruelly to you. You told me how anxious you were to return to a better life, and how you repented of the past, and yet I let you go away without a word of kindness or an offer of forgiveness. For a long time I have tried to find you, wishing to make amends for my unkindness. Now let us forget the past. Come and live with me again as my wife. Will you, Carrie?”
As he regarded the girl’s suffering face, a deep feeling of compassion had by degrees awakened within his heart, and he nourished it eagerly, trusting that it might render his task easier to him.
“How can I be your wife, Arthur?” returned Carrie, sobbing. “You don’t know what I have gone through; you don’t know what a miserable wretch I am. I am not fit to be your wife.”
“Yes,” replied Arthur, “you are more fit than when we first met. You have suffered severely; you are better able to understand the pleasures of a quiet, virtuous life. You will no longer think me foolish when I urge you to improve yourself; you will feel that I was always anxious for your happiness, and could see more clearly than you how it was to be attained. I assure you I shall never think of the past, and you will soon forget it in the happiness of a better life. Have you still any love for me, Carrie?”
“I have always loved you,” she said, weeping bitterly. “It isn’t you as has been cruel to me, Arthur; it’s me as has behaved as if I hated you, though all the while I loved you better than I ever loved any one else. It was all the drink; it drove me to do things and to say things as I shouldn’t never have thought on, and as I didn’t mean — no, upon my word, I didn’t. If I can only keep from drink, Arthur, I could be a faithful and hard-working wife, indeed I could. I’ll do my best I will. But I feel I’m not fit to live with you. I never was fit.”
“We won’t talk any more about it, Carrie,” said the young pressing her hand kindly. “It is possible to begin again and correct all our mistakes; for I have made mistakes as well as you. Only promise me that you will do your very best, for, you know, it cannot be done without an effort.”
“Yes, yes, I will promise,” said Carrie. “I’ll do my very best, indeed I will. If I can only keep from drink you shan’t have nothing to complain of. Kiss me, Arthur! Oh, it’s so long since you kissed me, and I’ve always loved you, all the while.”
He bent his head, and she clung to him with a fervour resembling that of the early days of their love. There was no feigning in this outbreak of passion, it was a genuine gleam of womanly nature making itself visible amid the foul gloom of a desecrated humanity. When she said that she had always loved him, she spoke the simple truth, strange and incredible as it may seem. This feeling it had been which had alone preserved her from sinking into absolute brutality, as the majority of such women do; upon its development depended her only chance of rising to a purer life. And Arthur, though he could not persuade himself into a belief of reviving passion, yet experienced so intensely the emotion of pity, felt so keenly the full pathos of her broken words, was so profoundly touched by the sense of her helplessness, that the thought of once more being a providence to the poor suffering outcast melted his heart, and for the moment made him forget to compare her with Helen.
Already, in anticipation of this event, Arthur had realised in cash one hundred pounds out of his Three Per Cents., and with this he was enabled to take and furnish two rooms for himself and Carrie. In order to remove her as far as possible from the temptations of the town, he chose his lodgings in a quiet little street in Hampstead, at this time of year a delightful neighbourhood, where he hoped that the calmness of the surroundings, the fresh, healthful air, and the constant presence of nature, would likewise act beneficially upon his own mood and renew his artistic impulses. It was with strange sensations that he sat down to pass the first evening in his new home with Carrie at his side. For more than a week the latter had been engaged in purchasing articles of clothing for herself. Arthur had not attended her on these shopping excursions, being unwilling to arouse the suspicion of distrust, and he had been astonished at the moderation which Carrie had exhibited in the quality and number of her purchases. It seemed as though she had made up her mind to destroy at a blow all the extravagant propensities of her nature, and to demonstrate by the severe simplicity of her external appearance the change which had come over her mind. To-night she sat in a dress of her own making, an extremely plain print gown with no trace of adornment; her hair done up into a single plait behind her head, and fixed with merely a piece of black ribbon. Attired thus, she still retained much of her old beauty, though her eyes were dark and heavy and there was a woeful hollowness in her cheeks. In her behaviour she was extremely quiet, not often speaking, sitting most of her time with an absent, melancholy look, and often sighing deeply. Her health was utterly shattered; even the performance of the lightest household work taxed her strength almost beyond its endurance. Yet as he sat gazing at her in the evening twilight, pretending to be engaged with a book, Arthur felt his heart warm with a glow of delight, which was no other than the glad sense of having performed a just action. He had once more raised Carrie from the depths of wretchedness to comfort and respectability. His mind was almost at ease this evening. There was something like hope pictured before him in the warm hues of the western sky, a calm, sober hope, which should have its source in nothing but the steadfast performance of duty. When at length his look met Carrie’s by chance, he smiled upon her, with a kindliness which was scarcely distinguishable from affection.
In this way Arthur conscientiously did his best to adapt himself to his circumstances and render his life tolerable. His was a nature which ever found its amplest joy in the gratification of others, and during the first few weeks of his new life, he was even happy in watching Carrie’s delight at every fresh instance of his thoughtfulness and care for her. He had recommenced his work, too, and was constantly engaged in making studies for what he meant should be a great picture, the subject to be the Pleading of Portia. As was always the case when a new and strong idea suddenly possessed itself of his mind, Arthur worked with the utmost enthusiasm for several weeks. Carrie he used for his model of the female form, for male figures he secured the services of a good-for-nothing, but finely-built and handsome young fellow who was perpetually lounging about the door of a public-house hard by, and who was only too glad to earn a few shillings by means so admirably adapted to his constitutional indolence. Having made his first rough cartoon, he purchased at some expense a fine work on costumes, by means of which he was enabled to clothe his figures in appropriate raiment. The scene which he was illustrating had been a favourite one with Mr. Tollady, who had many a time made Arthur read it aloud to him, insisting on the utmost nicety of tone and expression; so that the eager artist had his zeal redoubled by the dear recollections amidst which he worked.
Another incitement, too, he had, perhaps of a somewhat perilous character, but which he had persuaded himself was innocent. Ever since his love for Helen had unmistakably declared itself in his heart, her image had become for him the ideal of female excellence. So, whatever book he read, whatever fancies he meditated upon, as often as the figure of a noble woman was called up before his mind’s eye, it inevitably appeared in Helen’s shape, looked forth from Helen’s eyes, and spoke in Helen’s tones. Thus, in depicting Portia, it was Helen who sat for the likeness. An exquisitely graceful, yet tall and commanding, form; a firm, lithe neck, connecting head and trunk with ideal aptitude; features of classical purity, wherein every line spoke character, mobile, expressive of the finest shades of subtle thought and feeling, ravishing when lighted with a gleam of tenderness and joy, awe-inspiring when moulded to the utterance of rebuke, at all times the incarnation of lofty purity; such was the idea which Arthur had conceived of Portia, and which his heart held embodied in the shape of Helen Norman. Unable to wait for the completion of the subsidiary details of the picture, as soon as he had designed the main groups he threw himself upon the canvas with a desperate ardour, and scarcely laid down his pallet till, as it were, the ghost of Portia looked out upon him from the midst of still more ghostlike shapes. For the arrangement of the drapery Carrie stood as his model.
“Is it the Queen, Arthur?” she asked, one morning, when her eye was able to discern something of the commanding shape.
“Yes,” replied Arthur, in a low voice, adding to himself — “My queen.”
“But you must put the crown on her head,” urged Carrie, with an overwhelming sense of the importance of the symbol.
“Perhaps I may do; but I am not sure.”
“Oh, but how can it be the Queen without a crown?” asked Carrie. “Nobody will know who it’s meant for, Arthur.”
“Perhaps not, Carrie, I must think of it.”
With all sincerity, Arthur believed himself innocent in thus dwelling upon the memory of Helen’s loveliness. He convinced himself that she was no longer a woman to him. She was now a mere personification of a principle, the bodily presentment of the high spirit she had breathed into his life, of unshakable consistency and aspiring effort. He felt that it was good for him that he should have her image ever present in his mind; it constantly reminded him of his promise to her, urged him not to falter for a moment in the path of self-sacrifice upon which she had bidden him enter. She was his patron saint, his divinity; he would scarcely have esteemed it folly to pray before her effigy.
When his hand sunk in weariness from its perpetual task, and his mind irresistibly craved relaxation from its intense toil, it was the occupation of hours to sit and dream of the time when his picture would be completed. He would send it to the Academy; it would be received, he felt sure it would be received; and there Helen would see it. Perhaps it would make him famous — who could tell? Perhaps she would read glowing eulogies of him and his work. Oh, it was Heaven to wander through long summer evenings about the country lanes, feeding the fire of his imagination from the warm, rich sunsets, chastening the conceptions of his passionate heart in the calm, cool light of the rising moon.
At first he had always taken Carrie with him when he went on these evening walks, but by degrees her commonplace chatter, her vulgarisms of thought and language, her utter insensibility to the impressions of the season and the hour, rendered her company at such times intolerable to him. He could not bear that the deepest joys of which his nature was capable should be vexed and sullied by these wretched admixtures of vulgar inappreciativeness. Carrie had not the faintest conception of the beauties of nature; when amid delightful country scenes she yearned for the lights of the shops and the coarse tumult of the pavement. Though country-born and bred, the fresh air of the fields, the glad light of a cloudless heaven, the odour of flowers, the verdure of tree and meadow, awoke not a single tender reminiscence within her heart. She was emphatically a child of the town, dreaming of nothing but its gross delights, seeing in everything pure and lovely but a sapless image of some town-made joy. One evening Arthur endeavoured to make her appreciate the grandeur of a sunset scene from the Heath. After looking at it for some moments, she exclaimed, “It’s almost as pretty as the theatre, isn’t it?”
Comfort had a demoralising effect upon Carrie. In the midst of physical suffering she seemed to become somewhat finer natured, manifesting sensibilities worthy of respect, and, thanks to her personal beauty, exciting deep compassion and sympathy. But as the recollection of her pain began to lose its edge, she became perceptibly coarser; her language, her very features seemed to bear witness to the reviving animal within. Arthur observed this only too well; it made him shudder for the future. Scarcely had this genial life endured two months, before occasional words and actions on Carrie’s part began to remind him of that hideous period in his life which preceded her desertion of him. Once more she showed signs of becoming headstrong and wilful; her temper was being aggravated by her constant ill-health. At first Arthur turned aside her impatience by the softest of answers, resolved to endure anything rather than be unfaithful to his task. He reflected that she had at least successfully struggled with her main vice for his sake; and it would be ungrateful to forget that. Everything was tolerable, compared with this ghostly phantom, which, though inactive, still seemed to sit by his fireside, brooding over horrors fatal to his peace.
But the phantom could not for ever remain inactive. One evening it began to stir — very slightly, but very perceptibly. Carrie’s health had rendered it necessary that she should be seen by a physician, and for several weeks she obta............