Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband’s moral defections,
though she might readily have suspected his tendencies, which she well
understood. She was a woman upon whose action under provocation you
could never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not the slightest idea of
what she would do under certain circumstances. He had never seen her
thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a
passion. She had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were
erring. She was too calculating to jeopardize any advantage she might
gain in the way of information by fruitless clamour. Her wrath would
never wreak itself in one fell blow. She would wait and brood, studying
the details and adding to them until her power might be commensurate
with her desire for revenge. At the same time, she would not delay to
inflict any injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her
revenge and still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She
was a cold, self-centred woman, with many a thought of her own which
never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye.
Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not actually
perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and some satisfaction. He did
not fear her in the least—there was no cause for it. She still took a
faint pride in him, which was augmented by her desire to have her
social integrity maintained. She was secretly somewhat pleased by the
fact that much of her husband’s property was in her name, a precaution
which Hurstwood had taken when his home interests were somewhat more
alluring than at present. His wife had not the slightest reason to feel
that anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet the
shadows which run before gave her a thought of the good of it now and
then. She was in a position to become refractory with considerable
advantage, and Hurstwood conducted himself circumspectly because he
felt that he could not be sure of anything once she became
dissatisfied.
It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and Drouet
were in the box at McVickar’s, George, Jr., was in the sixth row of the
parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the third partner of a
wholesale dry-goods house of that city. Hurstwood did not see his son,
for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible, leaving himself
just partially visible, when he bent forward, to those within the first
six rows in question. It was his wont to sit this way in every
theatre—to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it
would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.
He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct being
misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him and counted
the cost of every inch of conspicuity.
The next morning at breakfast his son said:
“I saw you, Governor, last night.”
“Were you at McVickar’s?” said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the
world.
“Yes,” said young George.
“Who with?”
“Miss Carmichael.”
Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could
not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual
look into the theatre which was referred to.
“How was the play?” she inquired.
“Very good,” returned Hurstwood, “only it’s the same old thing, ‘Rip
Van Winkle.’”
“Whom did you go with?” queried his wife, with assumed indifference.
“Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy’s, visiting
here.”
Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as this
would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for granted
that his situation called for certain social movements in which she
might not be included. But of late he had pleaded office duty on
several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any evening
entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening in question
only the morning before.
“I thought you were going to be busy,” she remarked, very carefully.
“So I was,” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t help the interruption, but I made
up for it afterward by working until two.”
This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a residue
of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time at which the
claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily pushed. For
years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial devotion, and
found her company dull. Now that a new light shone upon the horizon,
this older luminary paled in the west. He was satisfied to turn his
face away entirely, and any call to look back was irksome.
She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything less
than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship, though
the spirit might be wanting.
“We are coming down town this afternoon,” she remarked, a few days
later. “I want you to come over to Kinsley’s and meet Mr. Phillips and
his wife. They’re stopping at the Tremont, and we’re going to show them
around a little.”
After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though the
Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could make
them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when he left
the house.
“I’ll put a stop to this,” he thought. “I’m not going to be bothered
fooling around with visitors when I have work to do.”
Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar proposition,
only it was to a matinée this time.
“My dear,” he returned, “I haven’t time. I’m too busy.”
“You find time to go with other people, though,” she replied, with
considerable irritation.
“Nothing of the kind,” he answered. “I can’t avoid business relations,
and that’s all there is to it.”
“Well, never mind,” she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling of
mutual antagonism was increased.
On the other hand, his interest in Drouet’s little shop-girl grew in an
almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the stress of
her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed effectively.
She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks emancipation. The glow
of a more showy life was not lost upon her. She did not grow in
knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of desire. Mrs. Hale’s
extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and position taught her
to distinguish between degrees of wealth. Mrs. Hale loved to drive in
the afternoon in the sun when it was fine, and to satisfy her soul with
a sight of those mansions and lawns which she could not afford. On the
North Side had been erected a number of elegant mansions along what is
now known as the North Shore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and
granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid out,
the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the
houses were thoroughly new and imposing. When the winter season had
passed and the first fine days of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale
secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first
through Lincoln Park and on far out towards Evanston, turning back at
four and arriving at the north end of the Shore Drive at about five
o’clock. At this time of year the days are still comparatively short,
and the shadows of the evening were beginning to settle down upon the
great city. Lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance
which seems almost watery and translucent to the eye. There was a
softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling
to the flesh as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely
day. She was ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they
drove along the smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw
one stop and the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who
seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. Across
the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps faintly
glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a table, now
an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her as almost
nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had had of fairy
palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imagined that across
these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed and crystalled
lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained and designed panes of
glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire. She was perfectly
certain that here was happiness. If she could but stroll up yon broad
walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to her was of the beauty of a
jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to possession and command—oh! how
quickly would sadness flee; how, in an instant, would the heartache
end. She gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting, longing, and all the
while the siren voice of the unrestful was whispering in her ear.
“If we could have such a home as that,” said Mrs. Hale sadly, “how
delightful it would be.”
“And yet they do say,” said Carrie, “that no one is ever happy.”
She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox.
“I notice,” said Mrs. Hale, “that they all try mighty hard, though, to
take their misery in a mansion.”
When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive they
were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had had,
but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors was
still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears.
What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she thought
it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park
toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland avenues. She was too
wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock
and sing. Some old tunes crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her
heart sank. She longed and longed and longed. It was now for the old
cottage room in Columbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive,
now the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene. She
was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally,
it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness,
and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the lip. She hummed and
hummed as the moments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and
was therein as happy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would
be.
While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought
up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour asking to see
Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.
“I guess he doesn’t know that Charlie is out of town,” thought Carrie.
She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter, but
had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another,
principally by the strong impression he had made. She was quite
disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied
herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.
Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn’t heard that Drouet
was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and
devoted himself to the more general topics which would interest Carrie.
It was surprising—the ease with which he conducted a conversation. He
was like every man who has had the advantage of practice and knows he
has sympathy. He knew that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and,
without the least effort, he fell into a train of observation which
absorbed her fancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to
such a degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confined
himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and pleasures. He
had been here and there, he had seen this and that. Somehow he made
Carrie wish to see similar things, and all the while kept her aware of
himself. She could not shut out the consciousness of his individuality
and presence for a moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling
emphasis of something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would
draw out, with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her
hand for emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an
atmosphere which suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute,
and seemed to make her clever. At least, she brightened under his
influence until all her best side was exhibited. She felt that she was
more clever with him than with others. At least, he seemed to find so
much in her to applaud. There was not the slightest touch of patronage.
Drouet was full of it.
There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting
between them, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent, that
Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense of difficulty. She
was no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts in fluent order. It
was always a matter of feeling with her, strong and deep. Each time
there had been no sentence of importance which she could relate, and as
for the glances and sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such
things had never been between her and Drouet. As a matter of fact, they
could never be. She had been dominated by distress and the enthusiastic
forces of relief which Drouet represented at an opportune moment when
she yielded to him. Now she was persuaded by secret current feelings
which Drouet had never understood. Hurstwood’s glance was as effective
as the spoken words of a lover, and more. They called for no immediate
decision, and could not be answered.
People in general attach too much importance to words. They are under
the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter of fact,
words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. They
but dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which lie
behind. When the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart
listens.
In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices of the
things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of his
appearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! The
growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand.
She did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she did
not need to worry over what other people would say—what she herself
would say—because it had no tangibility. She was being pleaded with,
persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet
there were no words to prove it. Such conversation as was indulged in
held the same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain
that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident which
it is used to cover.
“Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North Side?”
asked Hurstwood.
“Why, I was just over there this afternoon—Mrs. Hale and I. Aren’t they
beautiful?”
“They’re very fine,” he answered.
“Oh, me,” said Carrie, pensively. “I wish I could live in such a
place.”
“You’re not happy,” said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.
He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He
assumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to say
a word in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his
steady gaze. He felt the critical character of the period. She
endeavoured to stir, but it was useless. The whole strength of a man’s
nature was working. He had good cause to urge him on. He looked and
looked, and the longer the situation lasted the more difficult it
became. The little shop-girl was getting into deep water. She was
letting her few supports float away from her.
“Oh,” she said at last, “you mustn’t look at me like that.”
“I can’t help it,” he answered.
She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him strength.
“You are not satisfied with life, are you?”
“No,” she answered, weakly.
He saw he was the master of the situation—he felt it. He reached over
and touched her hand.
“You mustn’t,” she exclaimed, jumping up.
“I didn’t intend to,” he answered, easily.
She did not run away, as she might have done. She did not terminate the
interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of thought with the
readiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and she felt that he was
in power. “You mustn’t feel bad,” he said, kindly; “things will
straighten out in the course of time.”
She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.
“We are good friends, aren’t we?” he said, extending his hand.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Not a word, then, until I see you again.”
He retained a hold on her hand.
“I can’t promise,” she said, doubtfully.
“You must be more generous than that,” he said, in such a simple way
that she was touched.
“Let’s not talk about it any more,” she returned.
“All right,” he said, brightening.
He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door and
ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the
mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently
bought.
“I’m getting terrible,” she said, honestly affected by a feeling of
trouble and shame. “I don’t seem to do anything right.”
She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown
waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.
“I don’t know,” she murmured at last, “what I can do.”
“Well,” said Hurstwood as he rode away, “she likes me all right; that I
know.”
The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his
office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.