Sister Carrie: A Novel
social flavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of
drinking glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing
his turn to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he ever
approached intoxication—or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness
which precedes the more sloven state—it was when individuals such as
these were gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting
celebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather
relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he
laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily.
It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to
crop up—those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion
of the conversation among American men under such circumstances.
Twelve o’clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company
took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very
roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind, though
clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his
troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn
over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the
cashier, who soon left.
It was the manager’s duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone
to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule,
no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about
the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with
the owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but,
nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash
drawers and the safe in order to see that they were tightly closed.
Then he would lock his own little office and set the proper light
burning near the safe, after which he would take his departure.
Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but
to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe.
His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was
slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as
left for the day, apparently unprotected. His first thought was, of
course, to inspect the drawers and shut the door.
“I’ll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow,” he thought.
The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before
that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He
had never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other
thoughts. He had been revolving the problem of a business of his own.
“I’ll look in here,” thought the manager, pulling out the money
drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a
superfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all.
As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks
issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but
paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers.
In that were the receipts of the day.
“I didn’t know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way,” his
mind said to itself. “They must have forgotten it.”
He looked at the other drawer and paused again.
“Count them,” said a voice in his ear.
He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,
letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one
hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he counted
ten such.
“Why don’t I shut the safe?” his mind said to itself, lingering. “What
makes me pause here?”
For answer there came the strangest words:
“Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?”
Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his
property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He
was worth more than forty thousand, all told—but she would get that.
He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers
and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might
so easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he
went to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the
door, which he had previously locked. What was this thing, making him
suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to
the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went
and unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also
opened his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange
thoughts.
“The safe is open,” said a voice. “There is just the least little crack
in it. The lock has not been sprung.”
The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the
entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a
solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up
and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.
“What about it?” his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly
up and scratched his head.
The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant
proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his
veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the
situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him.
He could see great opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh,
yes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. That letter, too, was
waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not need to answer that.
He went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled
the door open and took the drawer with the money quite out.
With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think
about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with
Carrie for years.
Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern
hand had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a
soul was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the
sidewalk. He took the box and the money and put it back in the safe.
Then he partly closed the door again.
To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the
individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles in
the balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless
graphically portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of
the ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, “thou shalt,”
“thou shalt not,” “thou shalt,” “thou shalt not,” are in no position to
judge. Not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a
mental conflict possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn
by desire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is
proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We must
remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of
right is predicated of the animal’s instinctive recoil at evil. Men are
still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It is
instinct which recalls the criminal—it is instinct (where highly
organised reasoning is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of
danger, his fear of wrong.
At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind
wavers. The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To
those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following
will appeal on the simple ground of revelation.
When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease
and daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could
tell what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself.
The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his
brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was
still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the
time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always
seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He
strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe
again. He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money!
Surely no harm could come from looking at it!
He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth,
so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he
would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then
he looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel! To
be sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that—all of it would. No
one would think anything of it either. He went into the little office
and took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk
and went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill
it out in the big room. First he brought the bills and then the loose
receipts of the day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers
back and pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it
meditating.
The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost
inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not
bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it—to ponder
over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen
desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs
that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did
not know what evil might result from it to him—how soon he might come
to grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him,
and never would have, under any circumstances.
After he had all the money in the handbag, a revulsion of feeling
seized him. He would not do it—no! Think of what a scandal it would
make. The police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and
where? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out the
two boxes and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what
he was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the
door to, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door
again. There were the two boxes mixed.
He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had
gone. Why be afraid?
While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did he
do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed.
Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.
The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat
burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him
and decided instantly. There was no delaying now.
“Supposing I do lay it on the top,” he said, “and go away, they’ll know
who took it. I’m the last to close up. Besides, other things will
happen.”
At once he became the man of action.
“I must get out of this,” he thought.
He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat,
locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but
one light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air,
but it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.
“I wish I hadn’t done that,” he said. “That was a mistake.”
He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom he
knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that
quickly.
“I wonder how the trains run?” he thought.
Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past
one.
At the first drugstore he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone
booth inside. It was a famous drugstore, and contained one of the first
private telephone booths ever erected. “I want to use your ’phone a
minute,” he said to the night clerk.
The latter nodded.
“Give me 1643,” he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan
Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.
“How do the trains leave here for Detroit?” he asked.