Sister Carrie: A Novel
“All right,” he said, “but you’ll hear me out, won’t you? After all you
have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don’t want to do you
any harm. I’ll give you the money to go back with when you go. I merely
want to tell you, Carrie. You can’t stop me from loving you, whatever
you may think.”
He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply. “You think I have
deceived you badly, but I haven’t. I didn’t do it willingly. I’m
through with my wife. She hasn’t any claims on me. I’ll never see her
any more. That’s why I’m here to-night. That’s why I came and got you.”
“You said Charlie was hurt,” said Carrie, savagely. “You deceived me.
You’ve been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to
run away with you.”
She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He
let her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.
“Don’t run away from me, Carrie,” he said gently. “Let me explain. If
you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my
wife is nothing to me. She hasn’t been anything for years or I wouldn’t
have ever come near you. I’m going to get a divorce just as soon as I
can. I’ll never see her again. I’m done with all that. You’re the only
person I want. If I can have you I won’t ever think of another woman
again.”
Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere
enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in
Hurstwood’s voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did
not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived her
once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there is
something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,
especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love
of her.
The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie
could feel that she was being borne a long distance off—that the engine
was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt at
times as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would
come to her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing—so
far was she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the while
Hurstwood was endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it
would strike home and bring her into sympathy with him.
“I was simply put where I didn’t know what else to do.”
Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.
“When I say you wouldn’t come unless I could marry you, I decided to
put everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I’m
going off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while,
and then anywhere you want to. We’ll go and live in New York, if you
say.”
“I’ll not have anything to do with you,” said Carrie. “I want to get
off this train. Where are we going?”
“To Detroit,” said Hurstwood.
“Oh!” said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite a
point seemed to increase the difficulty.
“Won’t you come along with me?” he said, as if there was great danger
that she would not. “You won’t need to do anything but travel with me.
I’ll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New York, and
then if you don’t want to stay you can go back. It will be better than
trying to go back to-night.”
The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It
seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if
she tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was
speeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she
liked. She thought, but made no sign.
Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled
his ardour.
“Think,” he said, “what I’ve given up. I can’t go back to Chicago any
more. I’ve got to stay away and live alone now, if you don’t come with
me. You won’t go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?”
“I don’t want you to talk to me,” she answered forcibly.
Hurstwood kept silent for a while.
Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act if
she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.
“Don’t think of going, Carrie,” he said. “If you ever cared for me at
all, come along and let’s start right. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll
marry you, or I’ll let you go back. Give yourself time to think it
over. I wouldn’t have wanted you to come if I hadn’t loved you. I tell
you, Carrie, before God, I can’t live without you. I won’t!”
There was the tensity of fierceness in the man’s plea which appealed
deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating
him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in
this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and pressed
it with all the force of an appeal.
The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on a
side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few sprinkles on
the window began to indicate that it was raining. Carrie hung in a
quandary, balancing between decision and helplessness. Now the train
stopped, and she was listening to his plea. The engine backed a few
feet and all was still.
She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute slipped
by and still she hesitated, he pleading.
“Will you let me come back if I want to?” she asked, as if she now had
the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.
“Of course,” he answered, “you know I will.”
Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She
began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.
The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.
“Aren’t you very tired?” he said.
“No,” she answered.
“Won’t you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?”
She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she
was beginning to notice what she had always felt—his thoughtfulness.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “you will feel so much better.”
She shook her head.
“Let me fix my coat for you, anyway,” and he arose and arranged his
light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.
“There,” he said tenderly, “now see if you can’t rest a little.” He
could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside her
and thought a moment.
“I believe we’re in for a heavy rain,” he said.
“So it looks,” said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the sound
of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on
frantically through the shadow to a newer world.
The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of
satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary
relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his
time to devote to the consideration of his own error.
His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum or
any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus
foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends, his
name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have her. He
was shut out from Chicago—from his easy, comfortable state. He had
robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant
evenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more unbearable
it became. He began to think that he would try and restore himself to
his old state. He would return the miserable thievings of the night and
explain. Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him
and let him come back.
By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They had
probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives
would be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters
had been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled
somewhat. His hands felt as if they must have something to do. He
simulated interest in several scenes without which he did not feel. He
repeatedly beat his foot upon the floor.
Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what it
meant or that it was important.
He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on through
to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have saved time.
He jumped up and sought the conductor.
“Does any part of this train go to Montreal?” he asked.
“Yes, the next sleeper back does.”
He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to
inquire at the depot.
The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.
“I think we had better go right on through to Montreal,” he said to
Carrie. “I’ll see what the connections are when we get off.”
He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior.
Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was drifting
mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.
The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily
around him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that
indicated studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.
“The next train for Montreal leaves when?” he asked.
“In twenty minutes,” said the man.
He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to
Carrie.
“We go right out again,” he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie looked
tired and weary.
“I wish I was out of all this,” she exclaimed gloomily.
“You’ll feel better when we reach Montreal,” he said.
“I haven’t an earthly thing with me,” said Carrie; “not even a
handkerchief.”
“You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest,” he
explained. “You can call in a dressmaker.”
Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood
breathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the
river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the
train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.
“It won’t be so very long now,” he said, remembering her in his relief.
“We get there the first thing in the morning.”
Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.
“I’ll see if there is a dining-car,” he added. “I’m hungry.”
Chapter XXIX. THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL: THE BOATS OF THE SEA
To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is
invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces
and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind,
which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the
flood of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death
hidden from view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the
trite dramatic expression—“I am going away.”
As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she
had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she
was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot
Hurstwood’s presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and
cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting
world to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself
defeated at all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held
much. Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom—who knows?
Perhaps she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level
of erring. She was saved in that she was hopeful.
The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they
stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering at
the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood had
been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had
stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it