In a few days it will be Christmas, the Christmas of the year 1872. The time is about mid-day, and the scene — not the streets of London, but the banks of the River Mersey, amid all the bustle and confusion of the Liverpool docks. The clocks, at all events, tell us that it is midday, but, judging from surrounding appearances, it might rather be supposed to be midnight. For everything is wrapped in the densest of fogs, a thick, rolling, dark-brown mass of stifling vapour, scarcely allowing one to see as far as the hand will stretch, and making the ear the only possible guide to a knowledge of what is going on around one. And the ear is not left without occupation. Every imaginable cry of the human voice, incessant shrill whistles from steamboats near and far, the dull roar of vehicles landwards, the steady, endless tramping of feet upon the wooden landing-place, the occasional crash or thud of heavy baggage from the shoulders of porters, all these and a hundred other indescribable and unrecognisable noises combine to make, as it were, a muffled Babel. And hark! a new sound, close at hand, suddenly rises above all the others, forcing attention to itself alone. It is the loud and long clanging of a bell, a clanging impatient and almost fierce. It sounds from the deck of the boat which is waiting to carry passengers out to the good ship “Parthia,” Cunard steamer, of one knows not how many thousand tons burden, now lying two or three miles down the stream in the midst of the dense fog, whence it will in a few hours be working its way into the purer air of the Atlantic.
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 whim 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 emulation 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 hesitation, 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 severely pale and careworn 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 hull, 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 ascending and descending innumerable almost perpendicular stairs, after endless collisions with wanderers like himself, after repeated questionings, to which unintelligible 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 berths 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 labyrinth of passages and staircases up on to the deck. In half an hour the great ship suddenly vibrated to the motion of her machinery, the sluggish river at the stern was all at once lashed into angry wave and foam by the revolution of the screw, and the “Parthia” had begun her voyage.
As the inclemency of the weather rendered it impossible to remain on deck, and the company in the saloon offering few if any attractions, Arthur very early retired to his berth. 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 miserable 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 plunging 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 extremity of his misery was arising an increased love of existence, a passionate desire for active exertion in an entirely new sphere, a keener appreciation 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 vistas of the future where the light of Hope burned ever so dimly or ever so remote, but was closely hemmed around by a blackness of woe into which the eye dared not endeavour to penetrate! Before, when desperation had driven him to the fixed idea of suicide, it had been in consequence of self-degradation, because he had felt that every spark of noble aspiration 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 conscientiously done his best to live up to it. That he had failed in attaining the hoped for end was not, could not be considered, his own fault. His worst crime had been to submit to almost irresistible despondency; he had not now soiled the purity of his purpose by yielding to any ignoble passion. To live thus amid the circumstances Fate had gathered round him he considered, and rightly, as a self-conquest, a step upwards in the scale of being. Why could he not be free to expand his nature to the uttermost, to develop all his faculties 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 utterly useless, would for ever remain so. Was it incumbent upon him, knowing this, to add his own ruin to the inevitable ruin of her whom the world called his wife? Could even Helen Norman, when made to understand the circumstances, still bid him persevere in his desperate course? And, if she could, would it not be mere narrow-minded worship of conventionality in her, would it not satisfactorily prove that her advice had never been worthy of acceptance? A thrill of self-reproach ran through him as his bitter indignation thus forced him to canvass 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 shuddered so at the thought of death, and yearned with such an unutterable yearning for the pleasures of existence. Leaning over the parapets of London Bridge and communing thus with himself, of a sudden he smote the damp stone violently with his clenched 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 disorder 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 kindled 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 maudlin affection to-night, and, as she reeled into the room, threw her arms round Arthur’s neck. With a gesture of disgust and loathing 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 reviling and abuse. For more than an hour he had to submit to this torture, which ceased only when exhaustion obtained the ascendancy over passion, and Carrie sank into beast-like stupor, 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 prospect; for this latest trial had suddenly ripened 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 feverish 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 enveloped 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 folly 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 alterations in his toilet, put in his pocket all the loose cash he had in the house, together with his valuable papers, and forthwith softly descended 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 landlady, 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 irreproachable 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 Charing Cross, and here stopped at a hotel which kept open its hospitable doors all night. Obtaining a bedroom, he did his best to snatch a few hours sleep, but with poor success. He succeeded however, in killing the hours up to half-past seven o’clock, when he partook of a slight breakfast, and immediately set forth 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 circumlocution Arthur told him all that had happened, laid before him frankly 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 deplored 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 utterance upon your lips.”
“And yet, Mr. Golding,” pursued the old man, “I think you hold my religion in but light esteem.”
“Only when it is a meaningless babble 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 heed 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 spoke 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 fo............