Sister Carrie: A Novel
he hardly knew. All the merriment had gone out of the day. He was
disturbed, wretched, resentful. What should he do? “Do as you please,”
he said, at last. “I’ll have nothing more to do with you,” and out he
strode.
Chapter XXIII. A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL: ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND
When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to those
doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of decision.
She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her promise,
or that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She went over
the whole ground in Hurstwood’s absence, and discovered little
objections that had not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager’s
argument. She saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light,
namely, that of agreeing to marry when she was already supposedly
married. She remembered a few things Drouet had done, and now that it
came to walking away from him without a word, she felt as if she were
doing wrong. Now, she was comfortably situated, and to one who is more
or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent matter, and one which
puts up strange, uncanny arguments. “You do not know what will come.
There are miserable things outside. People go a-begging. Women are
wretched. You never can tell what will happen. Remember the time you
were hungry. Stick to what you have.”
Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken a
firm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,
and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on his
part, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from its
seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled mass,
and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This majesty of
passion is possessed by nearly every man once in his life, but it is
usually an attribute of youth and conduces to the first successful
mating.
Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain the
fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning. It
was strong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on Carrie’s
part, we have seen. She might have been said to be imagining herself in
love, when she was not. Women frequently do this. It flows from the
fact that in each exists a bias toward affection, a craving for the
pleasure of being loved. The longing to be shielded, bettered,
sympathised with, is one of the attributes of the sex. This, coupled
with sentiment and a natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing
difficult. It persuades them that they are in love.
Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for
herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never
took the housemaid’s opinion. That young woman invariably put one of
the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved it out.
To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed
was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet put
in appearance at five o’clock. The drummer was flushed and excited and
full of determination to know all about her relations with Hurstwood.
Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the livelong
day, he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He did not
foresee serious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated
to begin. Carrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and
looking out. “Well,” she said innocently, weary of her own mental
discussion and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement,
“what makes you hurry so?”
Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what
course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see.
“When did you get home?” he asked foolishly.
“Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?”
“You weren’t here,” he said, “when I came back this morning, and I
thought you had gone out.”
“So I did,” said Carrie simply. “I went for a walk.”
Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in such
matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the most
flagrant manner until at last she said:
“What makes you stare at me so? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “I was just thinking.”
“Just thinking what?” she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude.
“Oh, nothing—nothing much.”
“Well, then, what makes you look so?”
Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner. He
had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the little
toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe that the
pretty woman before him was involved in anything so unsatisfactory to
himself. He was very much inclined to feel that it was all right, after
all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling
in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some
sort, but he knew not what.
“Where did you go this morning?” he finally asked weakly.
“Why, I went for a walk,” said Carrie.
“Sure you did?” he asked.
“Yes, what makes you ask?”
She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she drew
herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched slightly.
“I thought maybe you didn’t,” he said, beating about the bush in the
most useless manner.
Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. She
saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman’s intuition
realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.
“What makes you talk like that?” she asked, wrinkling her pretty
forehead. “You act so funny to-night.”
“I feel funny,” he answered. They looked at one another for a moment,
and then Drouet plunged desperately into his subject.
“What’s this about you and Hurstwood?” he asked.
“Me and Hurstwood—what do you mean?”
“Didn’t he come here a dozen times while I was away?”
“A dozen times,” repeated Carrie, guiltily. “No, but what do you mean?”
“Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here
every night.”
“No such thing,” answered Carrie. “It isn’t true. Who told you that?”
She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not
catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the
room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with
denials.
“Well, some one,” he said. “You’re sure you didn’t?”
“Certainly,” said Carrie. “You know how often he came.”
Drouet paused for a moment and thought.
“I know what you told me,” he said finally.
He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.
“Well, I know that I didn’t tell you any such thing as that,” said
Carrie, recovering herself.
“If I were you,” went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, “I wouldn’t
have anything to do with him. He’s a married man, you know.”
“Who—who is?” said Carrie, stumbling at the word.
“Why, Hurstwood,” said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he
was delivering a telling blow.
“Hurstwood!” exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed several
shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and without
herself in a half-dazed way.
“Who told you this?” she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of
order and exceedingly incriminating.
“Why, I know it. I’ve always known it,” said Drouet.
Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a most
miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which
were anything but crumbling cowardice.
“I thought I told you,” he added.
“No, you didn’t,” she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. “You
didn’t do anything of the kind.”
Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.
“I thought I did,” he said.
Carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the
window.
“You oughtn’t to have had anything to do with him,” said Drouet in an
injured tone, “after all I’ve done for you.”
“You,” said Carrie, “you! What have you done for me?”
Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings—shame at
exposure, shame at Hurstwood’s perfidy, anger at Drouet’s deception,
the mockery he had made at her. Now one clear idea came into her head.
He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring
Hurstwood out—Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her?
Never mind now about Hurstwood’s perfidy—why had he done this? Why
hadn’t he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable
breach of confidence and talking about what he had done for her!
“Well, I like that,” exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his
remark had generated. “I think I’ve done a good deal.”
“You have, eh?” she answered. “You’ve deceived me—that’s what you’ve
done. You’ve brought your old friends out here under false pretences.
You’ve made me out to be—Oh,” and with this her voice broke and she
pressed her two little hands together tragically.
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” said the drummer quaintly.
“No,” she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. “No, of
course you don’t see. There isn’t anything you see. You couldn’t have
told me in the first place, could you? You had to make me out wrong
until it was too late. Now you come sneaking around with your
information and your talk about what you have done.”
Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie’s nature. She was alive
with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole body
sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.
“Who’s sneaking?” he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, but
certain that he was wronged.
“You are,” stamped Carrie. “You’re a horrid, conceited coward, that’s
what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn’t have
thought of doing any such thing.”
The drummer stared.
“I’m not a coward,” he said. “What do you mean by going with other men,
anyway?”
“Other men!” exclaimed Carrie. “Other men—you know better than that. I
did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn’t you bring him
here? You told him yourself that he should come out here and take me
out. Now, after it’s all over, you come and tell me that I oughtn’t to
go with him and that he’s a married man.”
She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. The
knowledge of Hurstwood’s perfidy wounded her like a knife. “Oh,” she
sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyes dry. “Oh,
oh!”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d be running around with him when I was
away,” insisted Drouet.
“Didn’t think!” said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man’s
peculiar attitude. “Of course not. You thought only of what would be to
your satisfaction. You thought you’d make a toy of me—a plaything.
Well, I’ll show you that you won’t. I’ll have nothing more to do with
you at all. You can take your old things and keep them,” and
unfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon
the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the things which
belonged to her.
By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He
looked at her in amazement, and finally said:
“I don’t see where your wrath comes in. I’ve got the right of this
thing. You oughtn’t to have done anything that wasn’t right after all I
did for you.”
“What have you done for me?” asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown back
and her lips parted.
“I think I’ve done a good deal,” said the drummer, looking around.
“I’ve given you all the clothes you wanted, haven’t I? I’ve taken you
everywhere you wanted to go. You’ve had as much as I’ve had, and more
too.”
Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so
far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received. She