Sister Carrie: A Novel
lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained and designed panes of
glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire. She was perfectly
certain that here was happiness. If she could but stroll up yon broad
walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to her was of the beauty of a
jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to possession and command—oh! how
quickly would sadness flee; how, in an instant, would the heartache
end. She gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting, longing, and all the
while the siren voice of the unrestful was whispering in her ear.
“If we could have such a home as that,” said Mrs. Hale sadly, “how
delightful it would be.”
“And yet they do say,” said Carrie, “that no one is ever happy.”
She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox.
“I notice,” said Mrs. Hale, “that they all try mighty hard, though, to
take their misery in a mansion.”
When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive they
were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had had,
but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors was
still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears.
What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she thought
it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park
toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland avenues. She was too
wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock
and sing. Some old tunes crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her
heart sank. She longed and longed and longed. It was now for the old
cottage room in Columbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive,
now the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene. She
was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally,
it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness,
and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the lip. She hummed and
hummed as the moments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and
was therein as happy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would
be.
While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought
up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour asking to see
Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.
“I guess he doesn’t know that Charlie is out of town,” thought Carrie.
She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter, but
had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another,
principally by the strong impression he had made. She was quite
disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied
herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.
Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn’t heard that Drouet
was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and
devoted himself to the more general topics which would interest Carrie.
It was surprising—the ease with which he conducted a conversation. He
was like every man who has had the advantage of practice and knows he
has sympathy. He knew that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and,
without the least effort, he fell into a train of observation which
absorbed her fancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to
such a degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confined
himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and pleasures. He
had been here and there, he had seen this and that. Somehow he made
Carrie wish to see similar things, and all the while kept her aware of
himself. She could not shut out the consciousness of his individuality
and presence for a moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling
emphasis of something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would
draw out, with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her
hand for emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an
atmosphere which suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute,
and seemed to make her clever. At least, she brightened under his
influence until all her best side was exhibited. She felt that she was
more clever with him than with others. At least, he seemed to find so
much in her to applaud. There was not the slightest touch of patronage.
Drouet was full of it.
There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting
between them, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent, that
Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense of difficulty. She
was no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts in fluent order. It
was always a matter of feeling with her, strong and deep. Each time
there had been no sentence of importance which she could relate, and as
for the glances and sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such
things had never been between her and Drouet. As a matter of fact, they
could never be. She had been dominated by distress and the enthusiastic
forces of relief which Drouet represented at an opportune moment when
she yielded to him. Now she was persuaded by secret current feelings
which Drouet had never understood. Hurstwood’s glance was as effective
as the spoken words of a lover, and more. They called for no immediate
decision, and could not be answered.
People in general attach too much importance to words. They are under
the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter of fact,
words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. They
but dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which lie
behind. When the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart
listens.
In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices of the
things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of his
appearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! The
growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand.
She did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she did
not need to worry over what other people would say—what she herself
would say—because it had no tangibility. She was being pleaded with,
persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet
there were no words to prove it. Such conversation as was indulged in
held the same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain
that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident which
it is used to cover.
“Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North Side?”
asked Hurstwood.
“Why, I was just over there this afternoon—Mrs. Hale and I. Aren’t they
beautiful?”
“They’re very fine,” he answered.
“Oh, me,” said Carrie, pensively. “I wish I could live in such a
place.”
“You’re not happy,” said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.
He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He
assumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to say
a word in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his
steady gaze. He felt the critical character of the period. She
endeavoured to stir, but it was useless. The whole strength of a man’s
nature was working. He had good cause to urge him on. He looked and
looked, and the longer the situation lasted the more difficult it
became. The little shop-girl was getting into deep water. She was
letting her few supports float away from her.
“Oh,” she said at last, “you mustn’t look at me like that.”
“I can’t help it,” he answered.
She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him strength.
“You are not satisfied with life, are you?”
“No,” she answered, weakly.
He saw he was the master of the situation—he felt it. He reached over
and touched her hand.
“You mustn’t,” she exclaimed, jumping up.
“I didn’t intend to,” he answered, easily.
She did not run away, as she might have done. She did not terminate the
interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of thought with the
readiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and she felt that he was
in power. “You mustn’t feel bad,” he said, kindly; “things will
straighten out in the course of time.”
She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.
“We are good friends, aren’t we?” he said, extending his hand.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Not a word, then, until I see you again.”
He retained a hold on her hand.
“I can’t promise,” she said, doubtfully.
“You must be more generous than that,” he said, in such a simple way
that she was touched.
“Let’s not talk about it any more,” she returned.
“All right,” he said, brightening.
He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door and
ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the
mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently
bought.
“I’m getting terrible,” she said, honestly affected by a feeling of
trouble and shame. “I don’t seem to do anything right.”
She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown
waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.
“I don’t know,” she murmured at last, “what I can do.”
“Well,” said Hurstwood as he rode away, “she likes me all right; that I
know.”
The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his
office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.
Chapter XIII. HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED: A BABEL OF TONGUES
It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and Hurstwood
in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his appearance. He
had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Her leniency had, in a
way, inflamed his regard. He felt that he must succeed with her, and
that speedily.
The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than
mere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had been
withering in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probable
that Carrie represented a better order of woman than had ever attracted
him before. He had had no love affair since that which culminated in
his marriage, and since then time and the world had taught him how raw
and erroneous was his original judgment. Whenever he thought of it, he
told himself that, if he had it to do over again, he would never marry
such a woman. At the same time, his experience with women in general
had lessened his respect for the sex. He maintained a cynical attitude,
well grounded on numerous experiences. Such women as he had known were
of nearly one type, selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends
were not inspiring to look upon. His own wife had developed a cold,
commonplace nature which to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew
of that under-world where grovel the beat-men of society (and he knew a
great deal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women with
suspicion—a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. He followed
them with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was not so
dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally, he did
not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He would take off
his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the vicious in her
presence—much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hall will humble himself
before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll to charity with a willing and
reverent hand. But he would not think much upon the question of why he
did so.
A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless or
hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul, is
apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness, or to
draw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery. It is only
by a roundabout process that such men ever do draw near such a girl.
They have no method, no understanding of how to ingratiate themselves