Sister Carrie: A Novel
and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything—not a loophole
left.
Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the
approaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he did
not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout
of trouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be
glad to wait, if necessary. He would see how things turned out
to-morrow, and then he would talk to her. They were going to meet as
usual. He saw only her pretty face and neat figure and wondered why
life was not arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be
steadily maintained. How much more pleasant it would be. Then he would
take up his wife’s threat again, and the wrinkles and moisture would
return.
In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but
there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he
felt as if something might come that way, and was relieved when all the
envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began to
feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the
office, and decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop
in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While
the danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with
him no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time to
think, perhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely, this thing
would not drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out.
His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and
waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for an hour
or more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. Could something
have happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached
by his wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Drouet that it never
once occurred to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless
as he ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had
not been able to get away this morning. That was why no letter
notifying him had come. He would get one to-day. It would probably be
on his desk when he got back. He would look for it at once.
After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison
car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with
little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the
east, and by the time he reached his office it was threatening to
drizzle all afternoon.
He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie.
Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his
stars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when
he needed to think so much. He walked the floor again, pretending to be
in an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of
words.
At one-thirty he went to Rector’s for lunch, and when he returned a
messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a
feeling of doubt.
“I’m to bring an answer,” said the boy.
Hurstwood recognised his wife’s writing. He tore it open and read
without a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was
sharply and coldly worded throughout.
“I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry
out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn’t matter in
the least. But I must have some money. So don’t delay, but send it by
the boy.”
When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity
of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also—the deepest
element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words
in reply—“Go to the devil!”—but he compromised by telling the boy that
there would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed
without seeing, contemplating the result of his work. What would she do
about that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him
into submission? He would go up there and have it out with her, that’s
what he would do. She was carrying things with too high a hand. These
were his first thoughts.
Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to be
done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well
enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow
it up. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer’s hands at once.
“Damn her!” he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, “I’ll make it
hot for her if she causes me trouble. I’ll make her change her tone if
I have to use force to do it!”
He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The
long drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers
at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless;
umbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth
roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a
noisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they
could. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was forever confronting his
wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he
worked her bodily harm.
At four o’clock another note came, which simply said that if the money
was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before
Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get
it.
Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.
Yes, he would send her the money. He’d take it to her—he would go up
there and have a talk with her, and that at once.
He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have
some arrangement of this thing.
He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North
Side. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the
case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she’d got hold of
Carrie, who knows—or—or Drouet. Perhaps she really had evidence, and
was prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush. She
was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good
grounds?
He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other—that he
had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and
see, anyhow. He would have no row. By the time he reached his own
street he was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and
wished over and over that some solution would offer itself, that he
could see his way out. He alighted and went up the steps to the front
door, but it was with a nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out
his key and tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside. He
shook at the knob, but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No
answer. He rang again—this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it
fiercely several times in succession, but without avail. Then he went
below.
There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,
protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars.
When he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the
kitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and
then waited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went
back to his cab.
“I guess they’ve gone out,” he said apologetically to the individual
who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin raincoat.
“I saw a young girl up in that winder,” returned the cabby.
Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily
into the cab, relieved and distressed.
So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well, by
the Lord, that did beat all!
Chapter XXV. ASHES OF TINDER: THE LOOSING OF STAYS
When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater
quandary than ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into? How
could things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? He could
hardly realise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous,
unnatural, unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him
without his let or hindrance.
Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could be the
trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of any kind, and
yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to meet him that
morning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off—where? He saw
that in the excitement of recent events he had not formulated a plan
upon that score. He was desperately in love, and would have taken great
chances to win her under ordinary circumstances, but now—now what?
Supposing she had found out something? Supposing she, too, wrote him
and told him that she knew all—that she would have nothing more to do
with him? It would be just like this to happen as things were going
now. Meanwhile he had not sent the money.
He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in
his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was getting some
vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill
which affected him. Every once in a while he would clinch his fingers
and tap his foot—signs of the stirring mental process he was
undergoing. His whole nature was vigorously and powerfully shaken up,
and he was finding what limits the mind has to endurance. He drank more
brandy and soda than he had any evening in months. He was altogether a
fine example of great mental perturbation.
For all his study nothing came of the evening except this—he sent the
money. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the
most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an
envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up.
Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.
“You take this to this address,” he said, handing him the envelope,
“and give it to Mrs. Hurstwood.”
“Yes, sir,” said the boy.
“If she isn’t there bring it back.”
“Yes, sir”
“You’ve seen my wife?” he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy
turned to go.
“Oh, yes, sir. I know her.”
“All right, now. Hurry right back.”
“Any answer?”
“I guess not.”
The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now he had
done it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten for
to-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, the
wretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting the boy
at the door and smiling sardonically. She would take the envelope and
know that she had triumphed. If he only had that letter back he
wouldn’t send it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his
face.
For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who
were drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it
was not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to his home and
see the scene being therein enacted. All the time he was wondering what
she would say when the boy handed her the envelope.
In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He had evidently
delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking
anything out of his pocket.
“Well?” said Hurstwood.
“I gave it to her.”
“My wife?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any answer?”
“She said it was high time.”
Hurstwood scowled fiercely.
There was no more to be done upon that score that night. He went on
brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to
the Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and
slept anything but soundly upon it. Next day he went again to the
office and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents. No
word from Carrie. Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant.
The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it worked
to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done it