Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and
mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for Hurstwood and
his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting
Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of enforced secrecy,
that she should come down town and meet him, though, after all, the
need of it was the cause.
Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.
“Um,” she thought to herself, “she goes riding with another man when
her husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her.”
The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought on
this score. The housemaid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her opinion
also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took to be cold
and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the merry and
easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now and then, and
in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard which he had for
all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved and critical in his
manner. He did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the same
pleasant way. She wondered that he came so frequently, that Mrs. Drouet
should go out with him this afternoon when Mr. Drouet was absent. She
gave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook was. As a
result, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the house in
that secret manner common to gossip.
Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to confess
her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards him.
Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of the
dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection for her.
On the first evening, she did little but go over the details of the
afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had ever been
thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on her character. She
had some power of initiative, latent before, which now began to exert
itself. She looked more practically upon her state and began to see
glimmerings of a way out. Hurstwood seemed a drag in the direction of
honour. Her feelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they
constructed out of these recent developments something which conquered
freedom from dishonour. She had no idea what Hurstwood’s next word
would be. She only took his affection to be a fine thing, and appended
better, more generous results accordingly.
As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without
responsibility. He did not feel that he was doing anything to
complicate his life. His position was secure, his home-life, if not
satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty rather
untrammelled. Carrie’s love represented only so much added pleasure. He
would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowance of
pleasure. He would be happy with her and his own affairs would go on as
they had, undisturbed.
On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected in
East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was then a
pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th Street.
In the process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrie took his
love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept him at a
distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those tender
tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced lover.
Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and
deferred pressing his suit too warmly.
Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he had
to carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a little
distance. How far he could not guess.
They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:
“When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, wondering herself.
“Why not come down to The Fair,” he suggested, “next Tuesday?”
She shook her head.
“Not so soon,” she answered.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he added. “I’ll write you, care of this
West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?”
Carrie assented.
The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.
“Good-night,” he whispered, as the cab rolled away.
Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet
returned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next
afternoon when he saw Drouet enter.
“Why, hello, Charles,” he called affably; “back again?”
“Yes,” smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.
Hurstwood arose.
“Well,” he said, looking the drummer over, “rosy as ever, eh?”
They began talking of the people they knew and things that had
happened.
“Been home yet?” finally asked Hurstwood.
“No, I am going, though,” said Drouet.
“I remembered the little girl out there,” said Hurstwood, “and called
once. Thought you wouldn’t want her left quite alone.”
“Right you are,” agreed Drouet. “How is she?”
“Very well,” said Hurstwood. “Rather anxious about you though. You’d
better go out now and cheer her up.”
“I will,” said Drouet, smilingly.
“Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me Wednesday,”
concluded Hurstwood at parting.
“Thanks, old man,” said his friend, “I’ll see what the girl says and
let you know.”
They separated in the most cordial manner.
“There’s a nice fellow,” Drouet thought to himself as he turned the
corner towards Madison.
“Drouet is a good fellow,” Hurstwood thought to himself as he went back
into his office, “but he’s no man for Carrie.”
The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein,
and he wondered how he would get ahead of the drummer.
When Drouet entered Carrie’s presence, he caught her in his arms as
usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition.
“Well,” he said, “I had a great trip.”
“Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were telling
me about?”
“Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,
representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn’t in
it. I made him look like nothing at all.”
As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to washing
his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip. Carrie
could not help listening with amusement to his animated descriptions.
“I tell you,” he said, “I surprised the people at the office. I’ve sold
more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on the
road. I sold three thousand dollars’ worth in La Crosse.”
He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he
rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him
with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was
still wiping his face, when he continued:
“I’m going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it, as
much business as I turn in. I’ll get it too, don’t you forget.”
“I hope you do,” said Carrie.
“And then if that little real estate deal I’ve got on goes through,
we’ll get married,” he said with a great show of earnestness, the while
he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his hair.
“I don’t believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie,” Carrie said
ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her courage
to say this.
“Oh, yes I do—course I do—what put that into your head?”
He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over to
her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from him.
“But you’ve been saying that so long,” she said, looking with her
pretty face upturned into his.
“Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to. Now,
when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things all
right, and I’ll do it. Now, don’t you worry, girlie.”
He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how
really futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this
easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply letting
things drift because he preferred the free round of his present state
to any legal trammellings.
In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy
manner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her what
her true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care.
“Oh, no,” she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own
success and more of her helplessness, “you never will.”
“Well, you wait a little while and see,” he concluded. “I’ll marry you
all right.”
Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for something
which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light, airy
disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully promised to
marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise.
“Say,” he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the
marriage question, “I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to
the theatre with him.”
Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid
notice.
“When?” she asked, with assumed indifference.
“Wednesday. We’ll go, won’t we?”
“If you think so,” she answered, her manner being so enforcedly
reserved as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something but he
thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk about
marriage. “He called once, he said.”
“Yes,” said Carrie, “he was out here Sunday evening.”
“Was he?” said Drouet. “I thought from what he said that he had called
a week or so ago.”
“So he did,” answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what
conversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea mentally,
and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what she would
answer.
“Oh, then he called twice?” said Drouet, the first shade of
misunderstanding showing in his face.
“Yes,” said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must have
mentioned but one call.
Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did not
attach particular importance to the information, after all.
“What did he have to say?” he queried, with slightly increased
curiosity.
“He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn’t been
in there so long he wondered what had become of you.”
“George is a fine fellow,” said Drouet, rather gratified by his
conception of the manager’s interest. “Come on and we’ll go out to
dinner.”
When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to Carrie,
saying:
“I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not say
how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything you
may have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and,
darling, I must see you. Let me know if you can’t meet me at Jackson
and Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. I want to speak
with you before we meet at the theatre.”
Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West Side
branch of the post-office, and answered at once.
“I said you called twice,” she wrote. “He didn’t seem to mind. I will
try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be getting
very bad. It’s wrong to act as I do, I know.”
Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score.
“You mustn’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “Just as soon as he goes on
the road again we will arrange something. We’ll fix it so that you
won’t have to deceive any one.”
Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not
directly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the best
of the situation until Drouet left again.
“Don’t show any more interest in me than you ever have,” Hurstwood
counselled concerning the evening at the theatre.
“You mustn’t look at me steadily then,” she answered, mindful of the
power of his eyes.
“I won’t,” he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance
she had just cautioned against.
“There,” she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.
“The show hasn’t begun yet,” he returned.
He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth and
prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.
At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood’s favour. If he
had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now. His
grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium. Carrie
watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot poor
Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host.
Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change.
He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and
yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in
favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his heart. If
anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not
cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.
Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to
Drouet alone.
The scene was one in “The Covenant,” in which the wife listened to the
seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.
“Served him right,” said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen
expiation of her error. “I haven’t any pity for a man who would be such
a chump as that.”
“Well, you never can tell,” returned Hurstwood gently. “He probably
thought he was right.”
“Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he
wants to keep her.”
They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy
crush about the entrance way.
“Say, mister,” said a voice at Hurstwood’s side, “would you mind giving
me the price of a bed?”
Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.
“Honest to God, mister, I’m without a place to sleep.”
The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the
picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to see. He
handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart.
Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.