Sister Carrie: A Novel
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.