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
called anew by a busman.
“We’ll go right up and get rooms,” he said.
At the clerk’s office Hurstwood swung the register about while the
clerk came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down. With
the latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name he had
seen out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing enough.
With an easy hand he wrote, “G. W. Murdock and wife.” It was the
largest concession to necessity he felt like making. His initials he
could not spare.
When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had secured
her a lovely chamber.
“You have a bath there,” said he. “Now you can clean up when you get
ready.”
Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked at
himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk, no
change of linen, not even a hair-brush.
“I’ll ring for soap and towels,” he said, “and send you up a
hair-brush. Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I’ll go for
a shave and come back and get you, and then we’ll go out and look for
some clothes for you.”
He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.
“All right,” said Carrie.
She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited for
the boy, who soon knocked.
“Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll go now,” he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding out his
hands, but she did not move to take them.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” he asked softly.
“Oh, no!” she answered, rather indifferently.
“Don’t you care for me at all?”
She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.
“Don’t you think you could love me a little?” he pleaded, taking one of
her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. “You once said you did.”
“What made you deceive me so?” asked Carrie.
“I couldn’t help it,” he said, “I wanted you too much.”
“You didn’t have any right to want me,” she answered, striking cleanly
home.
“Oh, well, Carrie,” he answered, “here I am. It’s too late now. Won’t
you try and care for me a little?”
He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.
She shook her head negatively.
“Let me start all over again. Be my wife from to-day on.”
Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he slipped
his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held her quite
close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the all compelling desire.
His affection took an ardent form.
“Let me go,” said Carrie, who was folded close to him.
“Won’t you love me?” he said. “Won’t you be mine from now on?”
Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment before she
had been listening with some complacency, remembering her old affection
for him. He was so handsome, so daring!
Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which rose
feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she was,
began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose bosom
she was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved her, and
she was alone. If she did not turn to him—accept of his love—where else
might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong
feeling.
She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What
magnetism there was she could never know. His many sins, however, were
for the moment all forgotten.
He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
opposition was useless.
“Will you marry me?” she asked, forgetting _how_.
“This very day,” he said, with all delight.
Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon her
regretfully.
“You get ready now, will you,” he said, “at once?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“I’ll be back in three-quarters of an hour.”
Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.
Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop. For the
moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie seemed
to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life seemed
worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things customary and
attached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. The storm
showed a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold.
He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was
fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly.
Instantly his heart sank. “Why, hello, George, old man!” said the
voice. “What are you doing down here?”
Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the
stock-broker.
“Just attending to a little private matter,” he answered, his mind
working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently did
not know—he had not read the papers.
“Well, it seems strange to see you way up here,” said Mr. Kenny
genially. “Stopping here?”
“Yes,” said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the
register.
“Going to be in town long?”
“No, only a day or so.”
“Is that so? Had your breakfast?”
“Yes,” said Hurstwood, lying blandly. “I’m just going for a shave.”
“Won’t you come have a drink?”
“Not until afterwards,” said the ex-manager. “I’ll see you later. Are
you stopping here?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added: “How are
things out in Chicago?”
“About the same as usual,” said Hurstwood, smiling genially.
“Wife with you?”
“No.”
“Well, I must see more of you to-day. I’m just going in here for
breakfast. Come in when you’re through.”
“I will,” said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a
trial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. This man
called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left.
Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort—all these were in his greeting
and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer
with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. All at
once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers would have
accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in
the possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man’s
eyes, a safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the barber
shop. He decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.
Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear, and
hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by the
ladies’ entrance. They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous
place.
Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. He was
of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and
with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward
politician’s. This individual had been evidently talking with the
clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly.
Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.
Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective—that he was being
watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind
was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could these people
do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. He did not
understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie
should find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be
out of it.
Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked
refreshed—more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had gone
she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love was not
blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. He
could not take her in his arms; he did not even try. Something about
her forbade it. In part his opinion was the result of his own
experiences and reflections below stairs.
“You’re ready, are you?” he said kindly.
“Yes,” she answered.
“We’ll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn’t appeal to me
very much.”
“All right,” said Carrie.
They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual was
standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing
that he knew of this chap’s presence. The insolence in the fellow’s eye
was galling. Still they passed, and he explained to Carrie concerning
the city. Another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here
they entered.
“What a queer town this is,” said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely
because it was not like Chicago.
“It isn’t as lively as Chicago,” said Hurstwood. “Don’t you like it?”
“No,” said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great
Western city.
“Well, it isn’t as interesting,” said Hurstwood.
“What’s here?” asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this
town.
“Nothing much,” returned Hurstwood. “It’s quite a resort. There’s some
pretty scenery about here.”
Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much about her
situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.
“We won’t stay here long,” said Hurstwood, who was now really glad to
note her dissatisfaction. “You pick out your clothes as soon as
breakfast is over and we’ll run down to New York soon. You’ll like
that. It’s a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago.”
He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these
detectives would do—what move his employers at Chicago would make—then
he would slip away—down to New York, where it was easy to hide. He knew
enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of
mystification were infinite.
The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became.
He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm
would probably employ detectives to watch him—Pinkerton men or agents
of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to
leave Canada. So he might be compelled to remain here months, and in
what a state!
Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the
morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed
had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went
to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious faces were
about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so he sought the
main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a window there, looked
them over. Very little was given to his crime, but it was there,
several “sticks” in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders,
accidents, marriages, and other news. He wished, half sadly, that he
could undo it all. Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of
safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake. There
could have been an easier way out if he had only known.
He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep them
out of the hands of Carrie.
“Well, how are you feeling?” he asked of her. She was engaged in
looking out of the window.
“Oh, all right,” she answered.
He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a
knock came at their door.
“Maybe it’s one of my parcels,” said Carrie.
Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual whom
he had so thoroughly suspected.
“You’re Mr. Hurstwood, are you?” said the latter, with a volume of
affected shrewdness and assurance.
“Yes,” said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that some
of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as these were
of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped out and closed
the door.
“Well, you know what I am here for, don’t you?” said the man
confidentially.
“I can guess,” said Hurstwood softly.
“Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?”
“That’s my affair,” said Hurstwood grimly.
“You can’t do it, you know,” said the detective, eyeing him coolly.
“Look here, my man,” said Hurstwood authoritatively, “you don’t
understand anything about this case, and I can’t explain to you.
Whatever I intend to do I’ll do without advice from the outside. You’ll
have to excuse me.”
“Well, now, there’s no use of your talking that way,” said the man,
“when you’re in the hands of the police. We can make a lot of trouble
for you if we want to. You’re not registered right in this house, you
haven’t got your wife with you, and the newspapers don’t know you’re
here yet. You might as well be reasonable.”
“What do you want to know?” asked Hurstwood.
“Whether you’re going to send back that money or not.”
Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.
“There’s no use explaining to you about this,” he said at last.
“There’s no use of your asking me. I’m no fool, you know. I know just
what you can do and what you can’t. You can create a lot of trouble if
you want to. I know that all right, but it won’t help you to get the
money. Now, I’ve made up my mind what to do. I’ve already written
Fitzgerald and Moy, so there’s nothing I can say. You wait until you
hear more from them.”
All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door,
down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now near the
end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour.
“You won’t give it up?” said the man.
The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his brain.
Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn’t want
the money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy, maybe it
would be all right again.
“See here,” he said, “there’s no use my talking about this at all. I
respect your power all right, but I’ll have to deal with the people who
know.”
“Well, you can’t get out of Canada with it,” said the man.
“I don’t want to get out,” said Hurstwood. “When I get ready there’ll
be nothing to stop me for.”
He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an
intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.
“Who was it?” asked Carrie.
“A friend of mine from Chicago.”
The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did
after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a
deep gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him most was the
fact that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to see the nature
of that social injustice which sees but one side—often but a single
point in a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one thing, his
taking the money. How and wherefore were but indifferently dealt with.
All the complications which led up to it were unknown. He was accused
without being understood.
Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the
money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then
send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would
ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about
writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.
For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. He
wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn’t. He finally narrowed
it down to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining
friends, had found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the
money out, had accidentally closed it. This act he regretted very much.
He was sorry he had put them to so much trouble. He would undo what he
could by sending the money back—the major portion of it. The remainder
he would pay up as soon as he could. Was there any possibility of his
being restored? This he only hinted at.
The troubled state of the man’s mind may be judged by the very
construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful
thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him.
He forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and
that if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the
jagged line of separation and reunion would always show. He was always
forgetting something—his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present
situation, or something—and so did not reason clearly. Nevertheless, he
sent the letter, waiting a reply before sending the money.
Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting what
joy out of it he could.
Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open
windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song in the
air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She seemed the one
ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would only love him
wholly—only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which
he had seen her in the little park in Chicago—how happy he would be! It
would repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. He would
not care.
“Carrie,” he said, getting up once and coming over to her, “are you
going to stay with me from now on?”
She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of
the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now, keen
and strong—love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could not help
smiling.
“Let me be everything to you from now on,” he said. “Don’t make me
worry any more. I’ll be true to you. We’ll go to New York and get a
nice flat. I’ll go into business again, and we’ll be happy. Won’t you
be mine?”
Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her, but
the drift of things and this man’s proximity created a semblance of
affection. She felt rather sorry for him—a sorrow born of what had only
recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt for him.
She would have known as much if she could have analysed her feelings,
but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great feeling broke
down the barriers between them.
“You’ll stay with me, won’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, nodding her head.
He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks.
“You must marry me, though,” she said.
“I’ll get a license to-day,” he answered.
“How?” she asked.
“Under a new name,” he answered. “I’ll take a new name and live a new
life. From now on I’m Murdock.”
“Oh, don’t take that name,” said Carrie.
“Why not?” he said.
“I don’t like it.”
“Well, what shall I take?” he asked.
“Oh, anything, only don’t take that.”
He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:
“How would Wheeler do?”
“That’s all right,” said Carrie.
“Well, then, Wheeler,” he said. “I’ll get the license this afternoon.”
They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found
convenient.
At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy’s dictation. He
was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had
come about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not
trouble to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As for
his returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had
not quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think it
over and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and
so on.
The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted
the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his doom. He
decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they would send,
keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his acquiescence,
explained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day,
took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie to pack her trunk. He
was slightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to
make it, but eventually restored himself. He feared that even yet he
might be seized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements,
but it was scarcely possible. He ordered Carrie’s trunk sent to the
depot, where he had it sent by express to New York. No one seemed to be
observing him, but he left at night. He was greatly agitated lest at
the first station across the border or at the depot in New York there
should be waiting for him an officer of the law.
Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into the
latter city in the morning. The round green hills sentinelling the
broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her attention by their beauty
as the train followed the line of the stream. She had heard of the
Hudson River, the great city of New York, and now she looked out,
filling her mind with the wonder of it.
As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east bank
of the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention to the
fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her experience with
Chicago, she expected long lines of cars—a great highway of tracks—and
noted the difference. The sight of a few boats in the Harlem and more
in the East River tickled her young heart. It was the first sign of the
great sea. Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and
then the train plunged into the tunnel.
“Grand Central Station!” called the trainman, as, after a few minutes
of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and
gathered up his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension.
With Carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one
approached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the
street entrance. So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie, who
fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed through the
depot proper the strain reached its climax and began to wane. All at
once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. He heaved
a great breath and turned, remembering Carrie.
“I thought you were going to run off and leave me,” she said.
“I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey,” he
answered.
Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.
“How large is New York?” she asked.
“Oh a million or more,” said Hurstwood.
He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.
For the first time in years the thought that he must count these little
expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.
He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a
flat. Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.
“We’ll look to-day, if you want to,” she said.
Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more
important hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew.
He stood up and spoke to the driver.
“Take me to the Belford,” he said, knowing it to be less frequented by
those whom he knew. Then he sat down.
“Where is the residence part?” asked Carrie, who did not take the tall
five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.
“Everywhere,” said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. “There are
no lawns in New York. All these are houses.”
“Well, then, I don’t like it,” said Carrie, who was coming to have a
few opinions of her own.