That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the Palmer
House for a bed after his work was through. He was in a fevered state
of mind, owing to the blight his wife’s action threatened to cast upon
his entire future. While he was not sure how much significance might be
attached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if
long continued, would cause him no end of trouble. She was determined,
and had worsted him in a very important contest. How would it be from
now on? He walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his
room, putting one thing and another together to no avail.
Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her advantage
by inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow
up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of which would make her
word _law_ in the future. He would have to pay her the money which she
would now regularly demand or there would be trouble. It did not matter
what he did. She really did not care whether he came home any more or
not. The household would move along much more pleasantly without him,
and she could do as she wished without consulting any one. Now she
proposed to consult a lawyer and hire a detective. She would find out
at once just what advantages she could gain.
Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of his
situation. “She has that property in her name,” he kept saying to
himself. “What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What a fool move that
was.”
He also thought of his managerial position. “If she raises a row now
I’ll lose this thing. They won’t have me around if my name gets in the
papers. My friends, too!” He grew more angry as he thought of the talk
any action on her part would create. How would the papers talk about
it? Every man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain and
deny and make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer
with him and there would be the devil to pay.
Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this,
and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything—not a loophole
left.
Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the
approaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he did
not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout
of trouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be
glad to wait, if necessary. He would see how things turned out
to-morrow, and then he would talk to her. They were going to meet as
usual. He saw only her pretty face and neat figure and wondered why
life was not arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be
steadily maintained. How much more pleasant it would be. Then he would
take up his wife’s threat again, and the wrinkles and moisture would
return.
In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but
there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he
felt as if something might come that way, and was relieved when all the
envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began to
feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the
office, and decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop
in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While
the danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with
him no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time to
think, perhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely, this thing
would not drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out.
His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and
waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for an hour
or more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. Could something
have happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached
by his wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Drouet that it never
once occurred to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless
as he ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had
not been able to get away this morning. That was why no letter
notifying him had come. He would get one to-day. It would probably be
on his desk when he got back. He would look for it at once.
After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison
car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with
little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the
east, and by the time he reached his office it was threatening to
drizzle all afternoon.
He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie.
Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his
stars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when
he needed to think so much. He walked the floor again, pretending to be
in an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of
words.
At one-thirty he went to Rector’s for lunch, and when he returned a
messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a
feeling of doubt.
“I’m to bring an answer,” said the boy.
Hurstwood recognised his wife’s writing. He tore it open and read
without a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was
sharply and coldly worded throughout.
“I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry
out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn’t matter in
the least. But I must have some money. So don’t delay, but send it by
the boy.”
When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity
of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also—the deepest
element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words
in reply—“Go to the devil!”—but he compromised by telling the boy that
there would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed
without seeing, contemplating the result of his work. What would she do
about that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him
into submission? He would go up there and have it out with her, that’s
what he would do. She was carrying things with too high a hand. These
were his first thoughts.
Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to be
done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well
enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow
it up. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer’s hands at once.
“Damn her!” he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, “I’ll make it
hot for her if she causes me trouble. I’ll make her change her tone if
I have to use force to do it!”
He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The
long drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers
at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless;
umbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth
roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a
noisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they
could. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was forever confronting his
wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he
worked her bodily harm.
At four o’clock another note came, which simply said that if the money
was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before
Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get
it.
Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.
Yes, he would send her the money. He’d take it to her—he would go up
there and have a talk with her, and that at once.
He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have
some arrangement of this thing.
He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North
Side. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the
case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she’d got hold of
Carrie, who knows—or—or Drouet. Perhaps she really had evidence, and
was prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush. She
was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good
grounds?
He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other—that he
had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and
see, anyhow. He would have no row. By the time he reached his own
street he was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and
wished over and over that some solution would offer itself, that he
could see his way out. He alighted and went up the steps to the front
door, but it was with a nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out
his key and tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside. He
shook at the knob, but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No
answer. He rang again—this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it
fiercely several times in succession, but without avail. Then he went
below.
There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,
protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars.
When he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the
kitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and
then waited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went
back to his cab.
“I guess they’ve gone out,” he said apologetically to the individual
who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin raincoat.
“I saw a young girl up in that winder,” returned the cabby.
Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily
into the cab, relieved and distressed.
So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well, by
the Lord, that did beat all!