Sister Carrie 13 страница

“I wish I could travel, ” said the girl, gazing idly out of the window.

“What has become of your friend, Mr. Hurstwood? ” she suddenly asked, bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation, seemed to contain promising material.

“He's here in town. What makes you ask about him? ”

“Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back. ”

“How did you come to know him? ”

“Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month? ”

“Get out, ” said the drummer, lightly. “He hasn't called more than half a dozen times since we've been here. ”

“He hasn't, eh? ” said the girl, smiling. “That's all you know about it. ”

Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as to whether she was joking or not.

“Tease, ” he said, “what makes you smile that way? ”

“Oh, nothing. ”

“Have you seen him recently? ”

“Not since you came back, ” she laughed.

“Before? ”

“Certainly. ”

“How often? ”

“Why, nearly every day. ”

She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what the effect of her words would be.

“Who did he come to see? ” asked the drummer, incredulously.

“Mrs. Drouet. ”

He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to correct himself so as not to appear a dupe.

“Well, ” he said, “what of it? ”

“Nothing, ” replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one side.

“He's an old friend, ” he went on, getting deeper into the mire.

He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the taste for it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when the girl's named was called from below.

“I've got to go, ” she said, moving away from him airily.

“I'll see you later, ” he said, with a pretence of disturbance at being interrupted.

When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. His face, never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and disturbance which he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received so many visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood lying? What did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had thought there was something odd about Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look so disturbed when he had asked her how many times Hurstwood had called? By George! He remembered now. There was something strange about the whole thing.

He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one leg on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a great rate.

And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be, by George, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why, even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and Hurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could hardly believe they would try to deceive him.

His thoughts burst into words.

“She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed, and gone out this morning and never said a word. ”

He scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was still frowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was now looking after another chamber. She had on a white dusting cap, beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Drouet almost forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him. He put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing.

“Got over being mad? ” she said, still mischievously inclined.

“I'm not mad, ” he answered.

“I thought you were, ” she said, smiling.

“Quit your fooling about that, ” he said, in an offhand way. “Were you serious? ”

“Certainly, ” she answered. Then, with an air of one who did not intentionally mean to create trouble, “He came lots of times. I thought you knew. ”

The game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to simulate indifference further.

“Did he spend the evenings here? ” he asked.

“Sometimes. Sometimes they went out. ”

“In the evening? ”

“Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though. ”

“I'm not, ” he said. “Did any one else see him? ”

“Of course, ” said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in particular.

“How long ago was this? ”

“Just before you came back. ”

The drummer pinched his lip nervously.

“Don't say anything, will you? ” he asked, giving the girl's arm a gentle squeeze.

“Certainly not, ” she returned. “I wouldn't worry over it. ”

“All right, ” he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most excellent impression upon the chambermaid.

“I'll see her about that, ” he said to himself, passionately, feeling that he had been unduly wronged. “I'll find out, b'George, whether she'll act that way or not. ”

Chapter XXI

THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT—THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His blood was warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman who had stirred him so profoundly the night before.

“Here you are, ” he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself.

“Yes, ” said Carrie.

They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty skirt was like music to him.

“Are you satisfied? ” he asked, thinking of how well she did the night before.

“Are you? ”

He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.

“It was wonderful. ”

Carrie laughed ecstatically.

“That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time, ” he added.

He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now.

Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for her. Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice.

“Those were such nice flowers you sent me, ” she said, after a moment or two. “They were beautiful. ”

“Glad you liked them, ” he answered, simply.

He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. All was ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in and expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words and feeling for a way.

“You got home all right, ” he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tune modifying itself to one of self-commiseration.

“Yes, ” said Carrie, easily.

He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her with his eye.

She felt the flood of feeling.

“How about me? ” he asked.

This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the floodgates were open. She didn't know exactly what to answer. “I don't know, ” she answered.

He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let it go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his toe. He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance.

“Won't you come away from him? ” he asked, intensely.

“I don't know, ” returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and finding nothing at which to catch.

As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her, sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed of a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before her a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the glow of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from feeling what he felt.

And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened, and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if Drouet had told him they were not married. There was never anything at all convincing about what Drouet said.

And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what he said. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, until she was on a borderless sea of speculation.

“Why don't you come away? ” he said, tenderly. “I will arrange for you whatever—”

“Oh, don't, ” said Carrie.

“Don't what? ” he asked. “What do you mean? ”

There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of marriage.

He himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in. He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely enlisted in his plan.

“Won't you come? ” he said, beginning over and with a more reverent feeling. “You know I can't do without you—you know it— it can't go on this way—can it? ”

“I know, ” said Carrie.

“I wouldn't ask if I—I wouldn't argue with you if I could help it. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to stay away from me, do you? ”

She shook her head as if in deep thought. “Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all? ”

“I don't know, ” said Carrie.

“Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment me. Be serious. ”

“I am, ” said Carrie, softly.

“You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love you. Look at last night. ”

His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face and body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of the man's nature was distilling itself.

Carrie made no answer.

“How can you act this way, dearest? ” he inquired, after a time. “You love me, don't you? ”

He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. For the moment all doubts were cleared away.

“Yes, ” she answered, frankly and tenderly.

“Well, then you'll come, won't you—come to-night? ”

Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.

“I can't wait any longer, ” urged Hurstwood. “If that is too soon, come Saturday. ”

“When will we be married? ” she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's wife.

The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to his mind.

“Any time you say, ” he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his present delight with this miserable problem.

“Saturday? ” asked Carrie.

He nodded his head.

“Well, if you will marry me then, ” she said, “I'll go. ”

The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had gotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with reason. He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its difficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth.

Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his shoulder, so delightful did it all seem. “Well, ” she said, “I'll try and get ready then. ”

Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more lovely.

“I'll see you again to-morrow, ” he said, joyously, “and we'll talk over the plans. ”

He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began to realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the world.

“To-morrow, ” he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully to his brave demeanour.

“Yes, ” said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.

There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they would be happy.

Chapter XXII

THE BLAZE OF THE TINDER—FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH

The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs. Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences could transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a physical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him, but in a social sense he fell short. With his regard died his power to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright crime toward another. Our self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her husband's indifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from a faded appreciation of her presence.

As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She could see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. Every motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days. Mrs. Hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off.

This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement of satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more recently, he resented her irritating goads. These little rows were really precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. That it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunderclouds, would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her hair. Hurstwood had already left the house.

“I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast, ” she said, addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. “Now here the things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten. ”

Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to feel the fag end of the storm.

“I'm not hungry, ” she answered.

“Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things, instead of keeping her waiting all morning? ”

“She doesn't mind, ” answered Jessica, coolly.

“Well, I do, if she doesn't, ” returned the mother, “and, anyhow, I don't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such an air with your mother. ”

“Oh, mamma, don't row, ”; answered Jessica. “What's the matter this morning, anyway? ”

“Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think because I indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I won't have it. ”

“I'm not keeping anybody waiting, ” returned Jessica, sharply, stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. “I said I wasn't hungry. I don't want any breakfast. ”

“Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'll not have it! ”

Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the independence and indifference she felt. She did not propose to be quarrelled with.

Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish. George, Jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in the matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all feel that he was a man with a man's privileges—an assumption which, of all things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen.

Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more by a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a lessening understanding.

Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start to Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He was being made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharp temper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer or a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into hardly repressed passion, and wished himself clear of the whole household. It seemed a most irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities.

For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and control, even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display of temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing more than the feeling that she could do it. She had no special evidence wherewith to justify herself—the knowledge of something which would give her both authority and excuse. The latter was all that was lacking, however, to give a solid foundation to what, in a way, seemed groundless discontent. The clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath.

An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come. Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood, met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood and Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale, coming east on the same drive, had recognised Hurstwood, but not before he was quite past him. He was not so sure of Carrie—did not know whether it was Hurstwood's wife or daughter.

“You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving, do you? ” he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.

“If I see them, I do. Where was I? ”

“On Washington Boulevard. ” he answered, expecting her eye to light with immediate remembrance.

She shook her head.

“Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband. ”

“I guess you're mistaken, ” she answered. Then, remembering her husband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign.

“I know I saw your husband, ” he went on. “I wasn't so sure about you. Perhaps it was your daughter. ”

“Perhaps it was, ” said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that such was not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She had recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details.

“Was it in the afternoon? ” she asked, artfully, assuming an air of acquaintanceship with the matter.

“Yes, about two or three. ”

“It must have been Jessica, ” said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to seem to attach any importance to the incident.

The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the matter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least.

Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought during the next few hours, and even days. She took it for granted that the doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding, most likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as BUSY to her. As a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had refused to go to places with her, to share in little visits, or, indeed, take part in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion of her existence. He had been seen at the theatre with people whom he called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most likely, would have an excuse for that. Perhaps there were others of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so indifferent, of late? In the last six weeks he had become strangely irritable—strangely satisfied to pick up and go out, whether things were right or wrong in the house. Why?

She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his eye. Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be getting old and uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles, perhaps. She was fading, while he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth. He was still an interested factor in the merry-makings of the world, while she—but she did not pursue the thought. She only found the whole situation bitter, and hated him for it thoroughly.

Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it did not seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only the atmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating every now and then little sprinklings of irritable conversation, enlivened by flashes of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing was merely a continuation of other things of the same nature.

The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwood visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr. Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing establishment. They had driven out early, and, as it chanced, encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whom had attended the performance the evening before. A thousand chances the subject of the performance had never been brought up had Jessica not been so engaged by the attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as possible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood to extend the perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long ones. It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily that this interesting intelligence came.

“I see, ” said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder, “that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening. ”

“No? ” said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he should be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not been to something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say, “What was it? ” when he added, “I saw your husband. ”

Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of suspicion.

“Yes, ” she said, cautiously, “was it pleasant? He did not tell me much about it. ”

“Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever attended. There was one actress who surprised us all. ”

“Indeed, ” said Mrs. Hurstwood.

“It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry to hear you weren't feeling well. ”

Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after him open-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingled impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly:

“Yes, it is too bad. ”

“Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it? ” the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.

The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no opportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think for herself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused him to give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her company not wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find out more.

“Were you at the performance last evening? ” she asked of the next of Hurstwood's friends who greeted her as she sat in her box.

“Yes. You didn't get around. ”

“No, ” she answered, “I was not feeling very well. ”

“So your husband told me, ” he answered. “Well, it was really very enjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected. ”

“Were there many there? ”

“The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a number of your friends—Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins. ”

“Quite a social gathering. ”

“Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much. ”

Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.

“So, ” she thought, “that's the way he does. Tells my friends I am sick and cannot come. ”

She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was something back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason.

By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She wanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported. She was certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard, and evil curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of her wrath of the morning. She, impending disaster itself, walked about with gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her mouth.

On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home in the sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie had raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who sings joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his success, proud of Carrie. He could have been genial to all the world, and he bore no grudge against his wife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the atmosphere of youth and pleasure which had been restored to him.

So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and comfortable appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper, laid there by the maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and shiny with glasses and decorated china. Through an open door he saw into the kitchen, where the fire was crackling in the stove and the evening meal already well under way. Out in the small back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had recently purchased, and in the parlour Jessica was playing at the piano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner of the comfortable home. Every one, like himself, seemed to have regained his good spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and beauty, to be inclined to joy and merry-making. He felt as if he could say a good word all around himself, and took a most genial glance at the spread table and polished sideboard before going upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable armchair of the sitting-room which looked through the open windows into the street. When he entered there, however, he found his wife brushing her hair and musing to herself the while.

He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that might still exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing. He seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly in making himself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. In a few moments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account of a baseball game which had taken place between the Chicago and Detroit teams.

The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him casually through the medium of the mirror which was before her. She noticed his pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and smiling humour, and it merely aggravated her the more. She wondered how he could think to carry himself so in her presence after the cynicism, indifference, and neglect he had heretofore manifested and would continue to manifest so long as she would endure it. She thought how she should like to tell him—what stress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she should drive over this whole affair until satisfaction should be rendered her. Indeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but weakly suspended by a thread of thought.

In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning a stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with a bunco-steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred and chuckled to himself. He wished that he might enlist his wife's attention and read it to her.

“Ha, ha, ” he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, “that's funny. ”

Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as deigning a glance.

He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt as if his good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probably still out of humour over that affair of this morning, but that could easily be straightened. As a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, but he didn't care. She could go to Waukesha right away if she wanted to. The sooner the better. He would tell her that as soon as he got a chance, and the whole thing would blow over.

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