Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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"How are you?" he said, easily. "I could not resist the
temptation to come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant."

"Yes," said Carrie, halting before him, "I was just preparing to
go for a walk myself."

"Oh, were you?" he said. "Supposing, then, you get your hat and
we both go?"

They crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard,
beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses
set back from the sidewalks. It was a street where many of the
more prosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood
could not help feeling nervous over the publicity of it. They
had gone but a few blocks when a livery stable sign in one of the
side streets solved the difficulty for him. He would take her to
drive along the new Boulevard.

The Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road.
The part he intended showing her was much farther out on this
same West Side, where there was scarcely a house. It connected
Douglas Park with Washington or South Park, and was nothing more
than a neatly MADE road, running due south for some five miles
over an open, grassy prairie, and then due east over the same
kind of prairie for the same distance. There was not a house to
be encountered anywhere along the larger part of the route, and
any conversation would be pleasantly free of interruption.

At the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of
range of either public observation or hearing.

"Can you drive?" he said, after a time.

"I never tried," said Carrie.

He put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms.

"You see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly.

"Not when you have a gentle horse," said Carrie.

"You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little
practice," he added, encouragingly.

He had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation
when he could give it a serious turn. Once or twice he had held
his peace, hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the
colour of his own, but she had lightly continued the subject.
Presently, however, his silence controlled the situation. The
drift of his thoughts began to tell. He gazed fixedly at nothing
in particular, as if he were thinking of something which
concerned her not at all. His thoughts, however, spoke for
themselves. She was very much aware that a climax was pending.

"Do you know," he said, "I have spent the happiest evenings in
years since I have known you?"

"Have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by
the conviction which the tone of his voice carried.

"I was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "but
somehow the opportunity slipped away."

Carrie was listening without attempting to reply. She could
think of nothing worth while to say. Despite all the ideas
concerning right which had troubled her vaguely since she had
last seen him, she was now influenced again strongly in his
favour.

"I came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you just
how I feel--to see if you wouldn't listen to me."

Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He was
capable of strong feelings--often poetic ones--and under a stress
of desire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, his
feelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repression
and pathos which is the essence of eloquence.

"You know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a
strange silence while he formulated words, "that I love you?"
Carrie did not stir at the words. She was bound up completely in
the man's atmosphere. He would have churchlike silence in order
to express his feelings, and she kept it. She did not move her
eyes from the flat, open scene before her. Hurstwood waited for
a few moments, and then repeated the words.

"You must not say that," she said, weakly.

Her words were not convincing at all. They were the result of a
feeble thought that something ought to be said. He paid no
attention to them whatever.

"Carrie," he said, using her first name with sympathetic
familiarity, "I want you to love me. You don't know how much I
need some one to waste a little affection on me. I am
practically alone. There is nothing in my life that is pleasant
or delightful. It's all work and worry with people who are
nothing to me."

As he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state was
pitiful. He had the ability to get off at a distance and view
himself objectively--of seeing what he wanted to see in the
things which made up his existence. Now, as he spoke, his voice
trembled with that peculiar vibration which is the result of
tensity. It went ringing home to his companion's heart.

"Why, I should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes
which were full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very
happy. You know so much of the world."

"That is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "I
know too much of the world."

It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned
and powerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling
the strangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little
a while, the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a
garment, and the city, with all its mystery, taken its place?
Here was this greatest mystery, the man of money and affairs
sitting beside her, appealing to her. Behold, he had ease and
comfort, his strength was great, his position high, his clothing
rich, and yet he was appealing to her. She could formulate no
thought which would be just and right. She troubled herself no
more upon the matter. She only basked in the warmth of his
feeling, which was as a grateful blaze to one who is cold.
Hurstwood glowed with his own intensity, and the heat of his
passion was already melting the wax of his companion's scruples.

"You think," he said, "I am happy; that I ought not to complain?
If you were to meet all day with people who care absolutely
nothing about you, if you went day after day to a place where
there was nothing but show and indifference, if there was not one
person in all those you knew to whom you could appeal for
sympathy or talk to with pleasure, perhaps you would be unhappy
too.

He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in
her own situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who
were indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely
nothing about you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment
quite alone? Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she
could appeal for sympathy? Not one. She was left to herself to
brood and wonder.

"I could be content," went on Hurstwood, "if I had you to love
me. If I had you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I
simply move about from place to place without any satisfaction.
Time hangs heavily on my hands. Before you came I did nothing
but idle and drift into anything that offered itself. Since you
came--well, I've had you to think about."

The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began
to grow in Carrie's mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely
figure. To think that all his fine state should be so barren for
want of her; that he needed to make such an appeal when she
herself was lonely and without anchor. Surely, this was too bad.

"I am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to
her to explain on this score. "You think, probably, that I roam
around, and get into all sorts of evil? I have been rather
reckless, but I could easily come out of that. I need you to
draw me back, if my life ever amounts to anything."

Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels
in its hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need
reclaiming? His errors, what were they, that she could correct?
Small they must be, where all was so fine. At worst, they were
gilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed.
He put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved.

"Is it that way?" she mused.

He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the
heart to draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her
fingers. A breath of soft spring wind went bounding over the
road, rolling some brown twigs of the previous autumn before it.
The horse paced leisurely on, unguided.

"Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me."

Her eyes fell consciously.

"Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?"

She made no answer, but he felt his victory.

"Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips
were near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then
released it to touch her cheek.

"You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own.

For answer, her lips replied.

"Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own
girl, aren't you?"

By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his
shoulder.

Chapter XIV

WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING--ONE INFLUENCE WANES

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 wandered 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.

Chapter XV

THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES--THE MAGIC OF YOUTH

The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the
growth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that
related to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat
at breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own
fancies, which reached far without the realm of their interests.
He read his paper, which was heightened in interest by the
shallowness of the themes discussed by his son and daughter.
Between himself and his wife ran a river of indifference.

Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful
again. There was delight in going down town evenings. When he
walked forth in the short days, the street lamps had a merry
twinkle. He began to experience the almost forgotten feeling
which hastens the lover's feet. When he looked at his fine
clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her eyes were young.

When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice,
when the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams
to a stale practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a
chain which bound his feet.

"George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had
long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we
want you to get us a season ticket to the races."

"Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising
inflection.

"Yes," she answered.

The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on
the South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among
those who did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism.
Mrs. Hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before,
but this year certain considerations decided her to get a box.
For one thing, one of her neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs.
Ramsey, who were possessors of money, made out of the coal
business, had done so. In the next place, her favourite
physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and betting,
had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a two-year-
old in the Derby. In the third place, she wished to exhibit
Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she
hoped to marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in
such things and parade among her acquaintances and common throng
was as much an incentive as anything.

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