Sister Carrie: A Novel
much of the world.”
It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned and
powerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling the
strangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little a while,
the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, and
the city, with all its mystery, taken its place? Here was this greatest
mystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her, appealing to
her. Behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength was great, his
position high, his clothing rich, and yet he was appealing to her. She
could formulate no thought which would be just and right. She troubled
herself no more upon the matter. She only basked in the warmth of his
feeling, which was as a grateful blaze to one who is cold. Hurstwood
glowed with his own intensity, and the heat of his passion was already
melting the wax of his companion’s scruples.
“You think,” he said, “I am happy; that I ought not to complain? If you
were to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothing about you,
if you went day after day to a place where there was nothing but show
and indifference, if there was not one person in all those you knew to
whom you could appeal for sympathy or talk to with pleasure, perhaps
you would be unhappy too.”
He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in her own
situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who were
indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing
about you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone?
Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for
sympathy? Not one. She was left to herself to brood and wonder.
“I could be content,” went on Hurstwood, “if I had you to love me. If I
had you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I simply move about
from place to place without any satisfaction. Time hangs heavily on my
hands. Before you came I did nothing but idle and drift into anything
that offered itself. Since you came—well, I’ve had you to think about.”
The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began to
grow in Carrie’s mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. To
think that all his fine state should be so barren for want of her; that
he needed to make such an appeal when she herself was lonely and
without anchor. Surely, this was too bad.
“I am not very bad,” he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to her
to explain on this score. “You think, probably, that I roam around, and
get into all sorts of evil? I have been rather reckless, but I could
easily come out of that. I need you to draw me back, if my life ever
amounts to anything.”
Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels in its
hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need reclaiming? His
errors, what were they, that she could correct? Small they must be,
where all was so fine. At worst, they were gilded affairs, and with
what leniency are gilded errors viewed. He put himself in such a lonely
light that she was deeply moved.
“Is it that way?” she mused.
He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart to
draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. A breath of
soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some brown twigs
of the previous autumn before it. The horse paced leisurely on,
unguided.
“Tell me,” he said, softly, “that you love me.”
Her eyes fell consciously.
“Own to it, dear,” he said, feelingly; “you do, don’t you?”
She made no answer, but he felt his victory.
“Tell me,” he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips were
near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it to
touch her cheek.
“You do?” he said, pressing his lips to her own.
For answer, her lips replied.
“Now,” he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, “you’re my own girl,
aren’t you?”
By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder.
Chapter XIV. WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING: ONE INFLUENCE WANES
Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and
mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for Hurstwood and
his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting
Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of enforced secrecy,
that she should come down town and meet him, though, after all, the
need of it was the cause.
Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.
“Um,” she thought to herself, “she goes riding with another man when
her husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her.”
The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought on
this score. The housemaid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her opinion
also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took to be cold
and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the merry and
easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now and then, and
in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard which he had for
all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved and critical in his
manner. He did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the same
pleasant way. She wondered that he came so frequently, that Mrs. Drouet
should go out with him this afternoon when Mr. Drouet was absent. She
gave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook was. As a
result, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the house in
that secret manner common to gossip.
Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to confess
her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards him.
Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of the
dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection for her.
On the first evening, she did little but go over the details of the
afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had ever been
thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on her character. She
had some power of initiative, latent before, which now began to exert
itself. She looked more practically upon her state and began to see
glimmerings of a way out. Hurstwood seemed a drag in the direction of
honour. Her feelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they
constructed out of these recent developments something which conquered
freedom from dishonour. She had no idea what Hurstwood’s next word
would be. She only took his affection to be a fine thing, and appended
better, more generous results accordingly.
As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without
responsibility. He did not feel that he was doing anything to
complicate his life. His position was secure, his home-life, if not
satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty rather
untrammelled. Carrie’s love represented only so much added pleasure. He
would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowance of
pleasure. He would be happy with her and his own affairs would go on as
they had, undisturbed.
On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected in
East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was then a
pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th Street.
In the process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrie took his
love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept him at a
distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those tender
tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced lover.
Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and
deferred pressing his suit too warmly.
Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he had
to carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a little
distance. How far he could not guess.
They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, wondering herself.
“Why not come down to The Fair,” he suggested, “next Tuesday?”
She shook her head.
“Not so soon,” she answered.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he added. “I’ll write you, care of this
West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?”
Carrie assented.
The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.
“Good-night,” he whispered, as the cab rolled away.
Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet
returned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next
afternoon when he saw Drouet enter.
“Why, hello, Charles,” he called affably; “back again?”
“Yes,” smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.
Hurstwood arose.
“Well,” he said, looking the drummer over, “rosy as ever, eh?”
They began talking of the people they knew and things that had
happened.
“Been home yet?” finally asked Hurstwood.
“No, I am going, though,” said Drouet.
“I remembered the little girl out there,” said Hurstwood, “and called
once. Thought you wouldn’t want her left quite alone.”
“Right you are,” agreed Drouet. “How is she?”
“Very well,” said Hurstwood. “Rather anxious about you though. You’d
better go out now and cheer her up.”
“I will,” said Drouet, smilingly.
“Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me Wednesday,”
concluded Hurstwood at parting.
“Thanks, old man,” said his friend, “I’ll see what the girl says and
let you know.”
They separated in the most cordial manner.
“There’s a nice fellow,” Drouet thought to himself as he turned the
corner towards Madison.
“Drouet is a good fellow,” Hurstwood thought to himself as he went back
into his office, “but he’s no man for Carrie.”
The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein,
and he wondered how he would get ahead of the drummer.
When Drouet entered Carrie’s presence, he caught her in his arms as
usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition.
“Well,” he said, “I had a great trip.”
“Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were telling
me about?”
“Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,
representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn’t in
it. I made him look like nothing at all.”
As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to washing
his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip. Carrie
could not help listening with amusement to his animated descriptions.
“I tell you,” he said, “I surprised the people at the office. I’ve sold
more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on the
road. I sold three thousand dollars’ worth in La Crosse.”
He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he
rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him
with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was
still wiping his face, when he continued:
“I’m going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it, as
much business as I turn in. I’ll get it too, don’t you forget.”
“I hope you do,” said Carrie.
“And then if that little real estate deal I’ve got on goes through,
we’ll get married,” he said with a great show of earnestness, the while
he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his hair.
“I don’t believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie,” Carrie said
ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her courage
to say this.
“Oh, yes I do—course I do—what put that into your head?”
He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over to
her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from him.
“But you’ve been saying that so long,” she said, looking with her
pretty face upturned into his.
“Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to. Now,
when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things all
right, and I’ll do it. Now, don’t you worry, girlie.”