Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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His thoughts burst into words.

"She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed, and
gone out this morning and never said a word."

He scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was still
frowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who
was now looking after another chamber. She had on a white
dusting cap, beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly.
Drouet almost forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling
on him. He put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only
to greet her in passing.

"Got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined.

"I'm not mad," he answered.

"I thought you were," she said, smiling.

"Quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way.
"Were you serious?"

"Certainly," she answered. Then, with an air of one who did not
intentionally mean to create trouble, "He came lots of times. I
thought you knew."

The game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to
simulate indifference further.

"Did he spend the evenings here?" he asked.

"Sometimes. Sometimes they went out."

"In the evening?"

"Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though."

"I'm not," he said. "Did any one else see him?"

"Of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in
particular.

"How long ago was this?"

"Just before you came back."

The drummer pinched his lip nervously.

"Don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm a
gentle squeeze.

"Certainly not," she returned. "I wouldn't worry over it."

"All right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once,
and yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a
most excellent impression upon the chambermaid.

"I'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately,
feeling that he had been unduly wronged. "I'll find out,
b'George, whether she'll act that way or not."

Chapter XXI

THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT--THE FLESH IN PURSUIT

When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His
blood was warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the
woman who had stirred him so profoundly the night before.

"Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his
limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself.

"Yes," said Carrie.

They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while
Hurstwood drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of
her pretty skirt was like music to him.

"Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the
night before.

"Are you?"

He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.

"It was wonderful."

Carrie laughed ecstatically.

"That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," he
added.

He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the
evening before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence
inspired now.

Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for
her. Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She
felt his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice.

"Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a
moment or two. "They were beautiful."

"Glad you liked them," he answered, simply.

He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was
being delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own
feelings. All was ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He
wanted to plunge in and expostulate with her, and yet he found
himself fishing for words and feeling for a way.

"You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his
tune modifying itself to one of self-commiseration.

"Yes," said Carrie, easily.

He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and
fixing her with his eye.

She felt the flood of feeling.

"How about me?" he asked.

This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the flood-
gates were open. She didn't know exactly what to answer.
"I don't know," she answered.

He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then
let it go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with
his toe. He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance.

"Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely.

"I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and
finding nothing at which to catch.

As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here
was a man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence
over her, sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that
she was possessed of a lively passion for him. She was still the
victim of his keen eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes.
She looked and saw before her a man who was most gracious and
sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a feeling that was a
delight to observe. She could not resist the glow of his
temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from
feeling what he felt.

And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What
did he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his
eyes, or what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she
softened, and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was
asking herself if Drouet had told him they were not married.
There was never anything at all convincing about what Drouet
said.

And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of
bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently
sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what
he said. What should she do? She went on thinking this,
answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether
drifting, until she was on a borderless sea of speculation.

"Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "I will arrange
for you whatever--"

"Oh, don't," said Carrie.

"Don't what?" he asked. "What do you mean?"

There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was
wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was
struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was
outside the pale of marriage.

He himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged
in. He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not
see. He went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly
awakened, intensely enlisted in his plan.

"Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more
reverent feeling. "You know I can't do without you--you know it--
it can't go on this way--can it?"

"I know," said Carrie.

"I wouldn't ask if I--I wouldn't argue with you if I could help
it. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't
want to stay away from me, do you?"

She shook her head as if in deep thought.
"Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?"

"I don't know," said Carrie.

"Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment
me. Be serious."

"I am," said Carrie, softly.

"You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I
love you. Look at last night."

His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His
face and body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and
they flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole
intensity of the man's nature was distilling itself.

Carrie made no answer.

"How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time.
"You love me, don't you?"

He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was
overwhelmed. For the moment all doubts were cleared away.

"Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly.

"Well, then you'll come, won't you--come to-night?"

Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.

"I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood. "If that is too
soon, come Saturday."

"When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in
her difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be
Drouet's wife.

The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more
difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that
flashed like messages to his mind.

"Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his
present delight with this miserable problem.

"Saturday?" asked Carrie.

He nodded his head.

"Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go."

The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome,
so difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His
passion had gotten to that stage now where it was no longer
coloured with reason. He did not trouble over little barriers of
this sort in the face of so much loveliness. He would accept the
situation with all its difficulties; he would not try to answer
the objections which cold truth thrust upon him. He would
promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to disentangle
him. He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be the
result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty
of statement, all abandonment of truth.

Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon
his shoulder, so delightful did it all seem.
"Well," she said, "I'll try and get ready then."

Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little
shadows of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen
anything more lovely.

"I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll
talk over the plans."

He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had
been the result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection
upon her, though there was but here and there a word. After a
half-hour he began to realise that the meeting must come to an
end, so exacting is the world.

"To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding
wonderfully to his brave demeanour.

"Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.

There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was
believing herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of
her handsome adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She
would go, and they would be happy.

Chapter XXII

THE BLAZE OF THE TINDER--FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH

The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact
that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it.
Mrs. Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent
influences could transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still
worthy, in a physical sense, of the affection his wife had once
bestowed upon him, but in a social sense he fell short. With his
regard died his power to be attentive to her, and this, to a
woman, is much greater than outright crime toward another. Our
self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in
another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her
husband's indifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and
phrases which sprung only from a faded appreciation of her
presence.

As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy
that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little
amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her
notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She
could see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the
matter of his personal appearance that his interest in life had
abated not a jot. Every motion, every glance had something in it
of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit
of pleasure lent to his days. Mrs. Hurstwood felt something,
sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off.

This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more
potent nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what
irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer
contained any amusement of satisfaction for him, and the open
snarls with which, more recently, he resented her irritating
goads. These little rows were really precipitated by an
atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. That it would
shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunderclouds, would
scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the
breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank
declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood
encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely
arranging her hair. Hurstwood had already left the house.

"I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she
said, addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket.
"Now here the things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten."

Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed
to feel the fag end of the storm.

"I'm not hungry," she answered.

"Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,
instead of keeping her waiting all morning?"

"She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly.

"Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow,
I don't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put
on such an air with your mother."

"Oh, mamma, don't row,"; answered Jessica. "What's the matter
this morning, anyway?"

"Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think
because I indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody
waiting. I won't have it."

"I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply,
stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. "I
said I wasn't hungry. I don't want any breakfast."

"Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now;
I'll not have it!"

Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a
toss of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of
the independence and indifference she felt. She did not propose
to be quarrelled with.

Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a
growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish.
George, Jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration
in the matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all
feel that he was a man with a man's privileges--an assumption
which, of all things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth
of nineteen.

Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it
irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and
more by a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a
lessening understanding.

Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start
to Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He
was being made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a
sharp temper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering
him out of his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick,
such as a sneer or a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his
temper. He flew into hardly repressed passion, and wished
himself clear of the whole household. It seemed a most
irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities.

For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and
control, even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her
display of temper and open assertion of opposition were based
upon nothing more than the feeling that she could do it. She had
no special evidence wherewith to justify herself--the knowledge
of something which would give her both authority and excuse. The
latter was all that was lacking, however, to give a solid
foundation to what, in a way, seemed groundless discontent. The
clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to
convert the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath.

An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come.
Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the
neighbourhood, met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days
after Hurstwood and Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington
Boulevard. Dr. Beale, coming east on the same drive, had
recognised Hurstwood, but not before he was quite past him. He
was not so sure of Carrie--did not know whether it was
Hurstwood's wife or daughter.

"You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving,
do you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.

"If I see them, I do. Where was I?"

"On Washington Boulevard." he answered, expecting her eye to
light with immediate remembrance.

She shook her head.

"Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband."

"I guess you're mistaken," she answered. Then, remembering her
husband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a
host of young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign.

"I know I saw your husband," he went on. "I wasn't so sure about
you. Perhaps it was your daughter."

"Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that
such was not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for
weeks. She had recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know
more of the details.

"Was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air
of acquaintanceship with the matter.

"Yes, about two or three."

"It must have been Jessica," said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to
seem to attach any importance to the incident.

The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the
matter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least.

Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought
during the next few hours, and even days. She took it for
granted that the doctor had really seen her husband, and that he
had been riding, most likely, with some other woman, after
announcing himself as BUSY to her. As a consequence, she
recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had refused to go to
places with her, to share in little visits, or, indeed, take part
in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion of
her existence. He had been seen at the theatre with people whom
he called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most
likely, would have an excuse for that. Perhaps there were others
of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so
indifferent, of late? In the last six weeks he had become
strangely irritable--strangely satisfied to pick up and go out,
whether things were right or wrong in the house. Why?

She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at
her now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in
his eye. Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her
to be getting old and uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles,
perhaps. She was fading, while he was still preening himself in
his elegance and youth. He was still an interested factor in the
merry-makings of the world, while she--but she did not pursue the
thought. She only found the whole situation bitter, and hated
him for it thoroughly.

Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it
did not seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only
the atmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened,
precipitating every now and then little sprinklings of irritable
conversation, enlivened by flashes of wrath. The matter of the
Waukesha outing was merely a continuation of other things of the
same nature.

The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs.
Hurstwood visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her
acquaintance, Mr. Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local
house-furnishing establishment. They had driven out early, and,
as it chanced, encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all
Elks, and two of whom had attended the performance the evening
before. A thousand chances the subject of the performance had
never been brought up had Jessica not been so engaged by the
attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as
possible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood to extend the
perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short
conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long
ones. It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily
that this interesting intelligence came.

"I see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the
most attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his
shoulder, "that you did not get over to our little entertainment
last evening."

"No?" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he
should be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had
not been to something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips
to say, "What was it?" when he added, "I saw your husband."

Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of
suspicion.

"Yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? He did not tell me
much about it."

"Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever
attended. There was one actress who surprised us all."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood.

"It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry
to hear you weren't feeling well."

Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after
him open-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her
mingled impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly:

"Yes, it is too bad."

"Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?"
the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.

The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no
opportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to
think for herself, and wondering what new deception was this
which caused him to give out that she was ill when she was not.
Another case of her company not wanted, and excuses being made.
She resolved to find out more.

"Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next
of Hurstwood's friends who greeted her as she sat in her box.

"Yes. You didn't get around."

"No," she answered, "I was not feeling very well."

"So your husband told me," he answered. "Well, it was really
very enjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected."

"Were there many there?"

"The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a
number of your friends--Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs.
Collins."

"Quite a social gathering."

"Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much."

Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.

"So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I
am sick and cannot come."

She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was
something back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason.

By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself
into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She
wanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported. She
was certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard,
and evil curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of
her wrath of the morning. She, impending disaster itself, walked
about with gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary
muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her mouth.

On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home
in the sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie
had raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one
who sings joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his
success, proud of Carrie. He could have been genial to all the
world, and he bore no grudge against his wife. He meant to be
pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the atmosphere of
youth and pleasure which had been restored to him.

So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and
comfortable appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper,
laid there by the maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the
dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and
shiny with glasses and decorated china. Through an open door he
saw into the kitchen, where the fire was crackling in the stove
and the evening meal already well under way. Out in the small
back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had
recently purchased, and in the parlour Jessica was playing at the
piano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner
of the comfortable home. Every one, like himself, seemed to have
regained his good spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and
beauty, to be inclined to joy and merry-making. He felt as if he
could say a good word all around himself, and took a most genial
glance at the spread table and polished sideboard before going
upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable armchair of the
sitting-room which looked through the open windows into the
street. When he entered there, however, he found his wife
brushing her hair and musing to herself the while.

He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that
might still exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs.
Hurstwood said nothing. He seated himself in the large chair,
stirred lightly in making himself comfortable, opened his paper,
and began to read. In a few moments he was smiling merrily over
a very comical account of a baseball game which had taken place
between the Chicago and Detroit teams.

The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him
casually through the medium of the mirror which was before her.
She noticed his pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and
smiling humour, and it merely aggravated her the more. She
wondered how he could think to carry himself so in her presence
after the cynicism, indifference, and neglect he had heretofore
manifested and would continue to manifest so long as she would
endure it. She thought how she should like to tell him--what
stress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she should
drive over this whole affair until satisfaction should be
rendered her. Indeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but
weakly suspended by a thread of thought.

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