Sister Carrie: A Novel
dispiriting. She took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in
three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the West Side
branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to receive
Hurstwood’s letters. There was one there now, written Saturday, which
she tore open and read with mingled feelings. There was so much warmth
in it and such tense complaint at her having failed to meet him, and
her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied the man. That he loved
her was evident enough. That he had wished and dared to do so, married
as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the thing deserved an answer,
and consequently decided that she would write and let him know that she
knew of his married state and was justly incensed at his deception. She
would tell him that it was all over between them.
At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time,
for she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.
“You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you,” she
wrote in part. “How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me
to have anything more to do with you. I wouldn’t under any
circumstances. Oh, how could you act so?” she added in a burst of
feeling. “You have caused me more misery than you can think. I
hope you will get over your infatuation for me. We must not meet
any more. Good-bye.”
She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it
reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she
should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.
This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young
women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was
asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.
“What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are
you experienced?”
At The Fair, See and Company’s, and all the great stores it was much
the same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later,
possibly they would like to have her.
When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His umbrella
and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other things, but
could not be sure. Everything had not been taken.
So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?
Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a
day or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together
in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears
gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,
very much alone.
Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from
that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify his
return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his
wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.
Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie out.
He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood
and would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting to hear her
foot on the stair.
When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just
come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would explain his
need of his clothes and find out how things stood.
Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering around
among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival he changed
to looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the
rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow restless and lit a
cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he looked out of the window
and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an appointment at three. He
began to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his
umbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. It
would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others.
He would find out how things stood.
As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. There
was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the
little jacket he had first bought her—her face a little more wistful
than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and looked
into the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.
“You didn’t do me right, Cad,” he said, as if he were addressing her in
the flesh.
Then he went to the door, took a good look around and went out.
Chapter XXVII. WHEN WATERS ENGULF US WE REACH FOR A STAR
It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets,
after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that
Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He
thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it
open.
“Then,” he thought, “she loves me or she would not have written to me
at all.”
He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few
minutes, but soon recovered. “She wouldn’t write at all if she didn’t
care for me.”
This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He
could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he
thought he knew.
There was really something exceedingly human—if not pathetic—in his
being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so long
remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for
comfort—and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they
bind us all.
The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from
McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could
get out of the whole entanglement—perhaps it would not matter. He
wouldn’t care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose
Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of
a life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart.
It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for
consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and
the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping
away. It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have
gone home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the
last fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the
thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.
It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself.
He was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility
of persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly.
Their mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only
away!
While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some
clean linen in the morning.
This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the
Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the
stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had
changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.
“Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?” he asked of the clerk.
“I think he is,” said the latter, consulting his private registry list.
“Yes.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his
astonishment. “Alone?” he added.
“Yes,” said the clerk.
Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and
conceal his feelings.
“How’s that?” he thought. “They’ve had a row.”
He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As
he did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had
gone to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call
at once.
“I know what I’ll do,” he thought. “I’ll go to the door and ask if Mr.
Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and
where Carrie is.”
He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He
decided to go immediately after supper.
On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see
if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely
eat, however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting
he thought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to
his hotel.
“Has Mr. Drouet gone out?” he asked of the clerk.
“No,” answered the latter, “he’s in his room. Do you wish to send up a
card?”
“No, I’ll call around later,” answered Hurstwood, and strolled out.
He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place this time walking
boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock.
“Is Mr. Drouet in?” said Hurstwood blandly.
“He is out of the city,” said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this
to Mrs. Hale.
“Is Mrs. Drouet in?”
“No, she has gone to the theatre.”
“Is that so?” said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if
burdened with something important, “You don’t know to which theatre?”
The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking
Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: “Yes, Hooley’s.”
“Thank you,” returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly, went
away.
“I’ll look in at Hooley’s,” thought he, but as a matter of fact he did
not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought
the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he
longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not
wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do so—in
the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him.
This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising
spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the
resort anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making
the place lively with their conversation. A group of Cook County
politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear
portion of the room. Several young merrymakers were chattering at the
bar before making a belated visit to the theatre. A shabbily-genteel
individual, with a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet
glass of ale alone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the
politicians and went into his office.
About ten o’clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport
and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office
came to the door.
“Hello, George!” he exclaimed.
“How are you, Frank?” said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of
him. “Sit down,” and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little
room.
“What’s the matter, George?” asked Taintor. “You look a little glum.
Haven’t lost at the track, have you?”
“I’m not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other
day.”
“Take whiskey, George,” said Taintor. “You ought to know that.”
Hurstwood smiled.
While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood’s
friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out,
some actors began to drop in—among them some notabilities.
Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in
American resorts where the would-be _gilded_ attempt to rub off gilt
from those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it
was toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged
among them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe
the plane he occupied when there were those present who did not
appreciate him, but, in situations like the present, where he could
shine as a gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend
and equal among men of known ability, he was most delighted. It was on
such occasions, if ever, that he would “take something.” When the