Sister Carrie: A Novel
He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how
really futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this
easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply letting
things drift because he preferred the free round of his present state
to any legal trammellings.
In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy
manner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her what
her true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care.
“Oh, no,” she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own
success and more of her helplessness, “you never will.”
“Well, you wait a little while and see,” he concluded. “I’ll marry you
all right.”
Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for something
which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light, airy
disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully promised to
marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise.
“Say,” he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the
marriage question, “I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to
the theatre with him.”
Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid
notice.
“When?” she asked, with assumed indifference.
“Wednesday. We’ll go, won’t we?”
“If you think so,” she answered, her manner being so enforcedly
reserved as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something but he
thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk about
marriage. “He called once, he said.”
“Yes,” said Carrie, “he was out here Sunday evening.”
“Was he?” said Drouet. “I thought from what he said that he had called
a week or so ago.”
“So he did,” answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what
conversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea mentally,
and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what she would
answer.
“Oh, then he called twice?” said Drouet, the first shade of
misunderstanding showing in his face.
“Yes,” said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must have
mentioned but one call.
Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did not
attach particular importance to the information, after all.
“What did he have to say?” he queried, with slightly increased
curiosity.
“He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn’t been
in there so long he wondered what had become of you.”
“George is a fine fellow,” said Drouet, rather gratified by his
conception of the manager’s interest. “Come on and we’ll go out to
dinner.”
When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to Carrie,
saying:
“I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not say
how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything you
may have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and,
darling, I must see you. Let me know if you can’t meet me at Jackson
and Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. I want to speak
with you before we meet at the theatre.”
Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West Side
branch of the post-office, and answered at once.
“I said you called twice,” she wrote. “He didn’t seem to mind. I will
try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be getting
very bad. It’s wrong to act as I do, I know.”
Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score.
“You mustn’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “Just as soon as he goes on
the road again we will arrange something. We’ll fix it so that you
won’t have to deceive any one.”
Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not
directly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the best
of the situation until Drouet left again.
“Don’t show any more interest in me than you ever have,” Hurstwood
counselled concerning the evening at the theatre.
“You mustn’t look at me steadily then,” she answered, mindful of the
power of his eyes.
“I won’t,” he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance
she had just cautioned against.
“There,” she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.
“The show hasn’t begun yet,” he returned.
He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth and
prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.
At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood’s favour. If he
had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now. His
grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium. Carrie
watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot poor
Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host.
Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change.
He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and
yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in
favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his heart. If
anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not
cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.
Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to
Drouet alone.
The scene was one in “The Covenant,” in which the wife listened to the
seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.
“Served him right,” said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen
expiation of her error. “I haven’t any pity for a man who would be such
a chump as that.”
“Well, you never can tell,” returned Hurstwood gently. “He probably
thought he was right.”
“Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he
wants to keep her.”
They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy
crush about the entrance way.
“Say, mister,” said a voice at Hurstwood’s side, “would you mind giving
me the price of a bed?”
Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.
“Honest to God, mister, I’m without a place to sleep.”
The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the
picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to see. He
handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart.
Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.
Chapter XV. THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES: THE MAGIC OF YOUTH
The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the growth
of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related to his
family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at breakfast with his
wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far
without the realm of their interests. He read his paper, which was
heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by
his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife ran a river of
indifference.
Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.
There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth in
the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to
experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover’s feet.
When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes—and her
eyes were young.
When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife’s voice, when the
insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale
practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which bound
his feet.
“George,” said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long
since come to be associated in his mind with demands, “we want you to
get us a season ticket to the races.”
“Do you want to go to all of them?” he said with a rising inflection.
“Yes,” she answered.
The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the
South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those who
did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs. Hurstwood had
never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain
considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing, one of her
neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were possessors of
money, made out of the coal business, had done so. In the next place,
her favourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and
betting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a
two-year-old in the Derby. In the third place, she wished to exhibit
Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to
marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in such things and
parade among her acquaintances and common throng was as much an
incentive as anything.
Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering.
They were in the sitting room on the second floor, waiting for supper.
It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie and Drouet to see “The
Covenant,” which had brought him home to make some alterations in his
dress.
“You’re sure separate tickets wouldn’t do as well?” he asked,
hesitating to say anything more rugged.
“No,” she replied impatiently.
“Well,” he said, taking offence at her manner, “you needn’t get mad
about it. I’m just asking you.”
“I’m not mad,” she snapped. “I’m merely asking you for a season
ticket.”
“And I’m telling you,” he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her,
“that it’s no easy thing to get. I’m not sure whether the manager will
give it to me.”
He had been thinking all the time of his “pull” with the race-track
magnates.
“We can buy it then,” she exclaimed sharply.
“You talk easy,” he said. “A season family ticket costs one hundred and
fifty dollars.”
“I’ll not argue with you,” she replied with determination. “I want the
ticket and that’s all there is to it.”
She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.
“Well, you get it then,” he said grimly, though in a modified tone of
voice.
As usual, the table was one short that evening.
The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the ticket
was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not mind
giving his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he did not
like to be forced to provide against his will.
“Did you know, mother,” said Jessica another day, “the Spencers are
getting ready to go away?”
“No. Where, I wonder?”
“Europe,” said Jessica. “I met Georgine yesterday and she told me. She
just put on more airs about it.”
“Did she say when?”
“Monday, I think. They’ll get a notice in the papers again—they always
do.”
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, “we’ll go one of these
days.”
Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.
“‘We sail for Liverpool from New York,’” Jessica exclaimed, mocking her
acquaintance. “‘Expect to spend most of the “summah” in France,’—vain
thing. As if it was anything to go to Europe.”
“It must be if you envy her so much,” put in Hurstwood.
It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.
“Don’t worry over them, my dear,” said Mrs. Hurstwood.
“Did George get off?” asked Jessica of her mother another day, thus
revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.
“Where has he gone?” he asked, looking up. He had never before been
kept in ignorance concerning departures.
“He was going to Wheaton,” said Jessica, not noticing the slight put
upon her father.
“What’s out there?” he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to think
that he should be made to pump for information in this manner.
“A tennis match,” said Jessica.
“He didn’t say anything to me,” Hurstwood concluded, finding it
difficult to refrain from a bitter tone.
“I guess he must have forgotten,” exclaimed his wife blandly. In the
past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect, which was a
compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in part still
existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As it was, it