Sister Carrie: A Novel
“It’s from Hurstwood,” said Drouet, noting the superscription as he
tore it open.
“You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me to-night,” it ran
in part. “It’s my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets are
off.”
“Well, what do you say to this?” asked Drouet, innocently, while
Carrie’s mind bubbled with favourable replies.
“You had better decide, Charlie,” she said, reservedly.
“I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement upstairs,”
said Drouet.
“Oh, I can,” returned Carrie without thinking.
Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress.
She hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to
her most.
“Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?” she asked, as she came out
with several articles of apparel pending.
“Sure,” he returned, pleasantly.
She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her
willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemed
that the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was more
agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayed
herself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses
upstairs.
“I say,” said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, “we are
exceedingly charming this evening.”
Carrie fluttered under his approving glance.
“Now, then,” he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre.
If ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personification of
the old term spick and span.
“Did you ever see Jefferson?” he questioned, as he leaned toward Carrie
in the box.
“I never did,” she returned.
“He’s delightful, delightful,” he went on, giving the commonplace
rendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after a
programme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he had
heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was really
hypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, the elegance
of her companion. Several times their eyes accidentally met, and then
there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before
experienced. She could not for the moment explain it, for in the next
glance or the next move of the hand there was seeming indifference,
mingled only with the kindest attention.
Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in
comparison. Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven into
Carrie’s mind that here was the superior man. She instinctively felt
that he was stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By the end
of the third act she was sure that Drouet was only a kindly soul, but
otherwise defective. He sank every moment in her estimation by the
strong comparison.
“I have had such a nice time,” said Carrie, when it was all over and
they were coming out.
“Yes, indeed,” added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that a
battle had been fought and his defences weakened. He was like the
Emperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his fairest
provinces were being wrested from him.
“Well, you have saved me a dreary evening,” returned Hurstwood.
“Good-night.”
He took Carrie’s little hand, and a current of feeling swept from one
to the other.
“I’m so tired,” said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet began
to talk.
“Well, you rest a little while I smoke,” he said, rising, and then he
foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game as
it stood.
Chapter XII. OF THE LAMPS OF THE MANSIONS: THE AMBASSADOR PLEA
Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband’s moral defections,
though she might readily have suspected his tendencies, which she well
understood. She was a woman upon whose action under provocation you
could never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not the slightest idea of
what she would do under certain circumstances. He had never seen her
thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a
passion. She had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were
erring. She was too calculating to jeopardize any advantage she might
gain in the way of information by fruitless clamour. Her wrath would
never wreak itself in one fell blow. She would wait and brood, studying
the details and adding to them until her power might be commensurate
with her desire for revenge. At the same time, she would not delay to
inflict any injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her
revenge and still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She
was a cold, self-centred woman, with many a thought of her own which
never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye.
Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not actually
perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and some satisfaction. He did
not fear her in the least—there was no cause for it. She still took a
faint pride in him, which was augmented by her desire to have her
social integrity maintained. She was secretly somewhat pleased by the
fact that much of her husband’s property was in her name, a precaution
which Hurstwood had taken when his home interests were somewhat more
alluring than at present. His wife had not the slightest reason to feel
that anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet the
shadows which run before gave her a thought of the good of it now and
then. She was in a position to become refractory with considerable
advantage, and Hurstwood conducted himself circumspectly because he
felt that he could not be sure of anything once she became
dissatisfied.
It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and Drouet
were in the box at McVickar’s, George, Jr., was in the sixth row of the
parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the third partner of a
wholesale dry-goods house of that city. Hurstwood did not see his son,
for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible, leaving himself
just partially visible, when he bent forward, to those within the first
six rows in question. It was his wont to sit this way in every
theatre—to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it
would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.
He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct being
misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him and counted
the cost of every inch of conspicuity.
The next morning at breakfast his son said:
“I saw you, Governor, last night.”
“Were you at McVickar’s?” said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the
world.
“Yes,” said young George.
“Who with?”
“Miss Carmichael.”
Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could
not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual
look into the theatre which was referred to.
“How was the play?” she inquired.
“Very good,” returned Hurstwood, “only it’s the same old thing, ‘Rip
Van Winkle.’”
“Whom did you go with?” queried his wife, with assumed indifference.
“Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy’s, visiting
here.”
Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as this
would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for granted
that his situation called for certain social movements in which she
might not be included. But of late he had pleaded office duty on
several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any evening
entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening in question
only the morning before.
“I thought you were going to be busy,” she remarked, very carefully.
“So I was,” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t help the interruption, but I made
up for it afterward by working until two.”
This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a residue
of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time at which the
claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily pushed. For
years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial devotion, and
found her company dull. Now that a new light shone upon the horizon,
this older luminary paled in the west. He was satisfied to turn his
face away entirely, and any call to look back was irksome.
She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything less
than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship, though
the spirit might be wanting.
“We are coming down town this afternoon,” she remarked, a few days
later. “I want you to come over to Kinsley’s and meet Mr. Phillips and
his wife. They’re stopping at the Tremont, and we’re going to show them
around a little.”
After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though the
Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could make
them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when he left
the house.
“I’ll put a stop to this,” he thought. “I’m not going to be bothered
fooling around with visitors when I have work to do.”
Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar proposition,
only it was to a matinée this time.
“My dear,” he returned, “I haven’t time. I’m too busy.”
“You find time to go with other people, though,” she replied, with
considerable irritation.
“Nothing of the kind,” he answered. “I can’t avoid business relations,
and that’s all there is to it.”
“Well, never mind,” she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling of
mutual antagonism was increased.
On the other hand, his interest in Drouet’s little shop-girl grew in an
almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the stress of
her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed effectively.
She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks emancipation. The glow
of a more showy life was not lost upon her. She did not grow in
knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of desire. Mrs. Hale’s
extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and position taught her
to distinguish between degrees of wealth. Mrs. Hale loved to drive in
the afternoon in the sun when it was fine, and to satisfy her soul with
a sight of those mansions and lawns which she could not afford. On the
North Side had been erected a number of elegant mansions along what is
now known as the North Shore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and
granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid out,
the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the
houses were thoroughly new and imposing. When the winter season had
passed and the first fine days of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale
secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first
through Lincoln Park and on far out towards Evanston, turning back at
four and arriving at the north end of the Shore Drive at about five
o’clock. At this time of year the days are still comparatively short,
and the shadows of the evening were beginning to settle down upon the
great city. Lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance
which seems almost watery and translucent to the eye. There was a
softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling
to the flesh as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely
day. She was ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they
drove along the smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw
one stop and the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who
seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. Across
the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps faintly
glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a table, now
an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her as almost
nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had had of fairy
palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imagined that across
these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed and crystalled