Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning
a stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with
a bunco-steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred
and chuckled to himself. He wished that he might enlist his
wife's attention and read it to her.

"Ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny."

Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as
deigning a glance.

He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt
as if his good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probably
still out of humour over that affair of this morning, but that
could easily be straightened. As a matter of fact, she was in
the wrong, but he didn't care. She could go to Waukesha right
away if she wanted to. The sooner the better. He would tell her
that as soon as he got a chance, and the whole thing would blow
over.

"Did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerning
another item which he had found, "that they have entered suit to
compel the Illinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?" he
asked.

She could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say
"No," sharply.

Hurstwood pricked up his ears. There was a note in her voice
which vibrated keenly.

"It would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to
himself, half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in
that quarter. He withdrew his attention to his paper very
circumspectly, listening mentally for the little sounds which
should show him what was on foot.

As a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood--as observant
and sensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his
own plane of thought--would have made the mistake which he did in
regard to his wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been
occupied mentally with a very different train of thought. Had
not the influence of Carrie's regard for him, the elation which
her promise aroused in him, lasted over, he would not have seen
the house in so pleasant a mood. It was not extraordinarily
bright and merry this evening. He was merely very much mistaken,
and would have been much more fitted to cope with it had he come
home in his normal state.

After he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that
he ought to modify matters in some way or other. Evidently his
wife was not going to patch up peace at a word. So he said:

"Where did George get the dog he has there in the yard?"

"I don't know," she snapped.

He put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the
window. He did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be
persistent and agreeable, and by a few questions bring around a
mild understanding of some sort.

"Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning? he
said, at last. "We needn't quarrel about that. You know you can
go to Waukesha if you want to."

"So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" she
exclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was
drawn a sharp and wrathful sneer.

He stopped as if slapped in the face. In an instant his
persuasive, conciliatory manner fled. He was on the defensive at
a wink and puzzled for a word to reply.

"What do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself and
gazing at the cold, determined figure before him, who paid no
attention, but went on arranging herself before the mirror.

"You know what I mean," she said, finally, as if there were a
world of information which she held in reserve--which she did not
need to tell.

"Well, I don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for
what should come next. The finality of the woman's manner took
away his feeling of superiority in battle.

She made no answer.

"Hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. It
was the weakest thing he had ever done. It was totally
unassured.

Mrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. She turned upon
him, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow.

"I want the Waukesha money to-morrow morning," she said.

He looked at her in amazement. Never before had he seen such a
cold, steely determination in her eye--such a cruel look of
indifference. She seemed a thorough master of her mood--
thoroughly confident and determined to wrest all control from
him. He felt that all his resources could not defend him. He
must attack.

"What do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "You want! I'd like to
know what's got into you to-night."

"Nothing's GOT into me," she said, flaming. "I want that money.
You can do your swaggering afterwards."

"Swaggering, eh! What! You'll get nothing from me. What do you
mean by your insinuations, anyhow?"

"Where were you last night?" she answered. The words were hot as
they came. "Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard?
Who were you with at the theatre when George saw you? Do you
think I'm a fool to be duped by you? Do you think I'll sit at
home here and take your 'too busys' and 'can't come,' while you
parade around and make out that I'm unable to come? I want you to
know that lordly airs have come to an end so far as I am
concerned. You can't dictate to me nor my children. I'm through
with you entirely."

"It's a lie," he said, driven to a corner and knowing no other
excuse.

"Lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "you
may call it a lie if you want to, but I know."

"It's a lie, I tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice.
"You've been searching around for some cheap accusation for
months and now you think you have it. You think you'll spring
something and get the upper hand. Well, I tell you, you can't.
As long as I'm in this house I'm master of it, and you or any one
else won't dictate to me--do you hear?"

He crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous.
Something in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as
if she were already master, caused him to feel for the moment as
if he could strangle her.

She gazed at him--a pythoness in humour.

"I'm not dictating to you," she returned; "I'm telling you what I
want."

The answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took
the wind out of his sails. He could not attack her, he could not
ask her for proofs. Somehow he felt evidence, law, the
remembrance of all his property which she held in her name, to be
shining in her glance. He was like a vessel, powerful and
dangerous, but rolling and floundering without sail.

"And I'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recovering
himself, "what you'll not get."

"We'll see about it," she said. "I'll find out what my rights
are. Perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me."

It was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood fell
back beaten. He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to
contend with. He felt that he was face to face with a dull
proposition. What to say he hardly knew. All the merriment had
gone out of the day. He was disturbed, wretched, resentful.
What should he do?
"Do as you please," he said, at last. "I'll have nothing more to
do with you," and out he strode.

Chapter XXIII

A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL--ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND

When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to
those doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack
of decision. She could not persuade herself as to the
advisability of her promise, or that now, having given her word,
she ought to keep it. She went over the whole ground in
Hurstwood's absence, and discovered little objections that had
not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager's argument. She
saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light, namely, that
of agreeing to marry when she was already supposedly married.
She remembered a few things Drouet had done, and now that it came
to walking away from him without a word, she felt as if she were
doing wrong. Now, she was comfortably situated, and to one who
is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent matter,
and one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments. "You do not
know what will come. There are miserable things outside. People
go a-begging. Women are wretched. You never can tell what will
happen. Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to what you
have."

Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not
taken a firm hold on her understanding. She was listening,
smiling, approving, and yet not finally agreeing. This was due
to a lack of power on his part, a lack of that majesty of passion
that sweeps the mind from its seat, fuses and melts all arguments
and theories into a tangled mass, and destroys for the time being
the reasoning power. This majesty of passion is possessed by
nearly every man once in his life, but it is usually an attribute
of youth and conduces to the first successful mating.

Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain
the fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and
unreasoning. It was strong enough to induce the leaning toward
him which, on Carrie's part, we have seen. She might have been
said to be imagining herself in love, when she was not. Women
frequently do this. It flows from the fact that in each exists a
bias toward affection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved.
The longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is one of
the attributes of the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and a
natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult. It
persuades them that they are in love.

Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms
for herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture
she never took the housemaid's opinion. That young woman
invariably put one of the rocking-chairs in the corner, and
Carrie as regularly moved it out. To-day she hardly noticed that
it was in the wrong place, so absorbed was she in her own
thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet put in
appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited
and full of determination to know all about her relations with
Hurstwood. Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his
mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished it
over with. He did not foresee serious consequences of any sort,
and yet he rather hesitated to begin. Carrie was sitting by the
window when he came in, rocking and looking out.
"Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion
and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what
makes you hurry so?"

Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as
to what course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither
read nor see.

"When did you get home?" he asked foolishly.

"Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?"

"You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and
I thought you had gone out."

"So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk."

Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in
such matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in
the most flagrant manner until at last she said:

"What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking."

"Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his
attitude.

"Oh, nothing--nothing much."

"Well, then, what makes you look so?"

Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic
manner. He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting
with the little toilet pieces which were nearest him. He
hesitated to believe that the pretty woman before him was
involved in anything so unsatisfactory to himself. He was very
much inclined to feel that it was all right, after all. Yet the
knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling in his
mind. He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some
sort, but he knew not what.

"Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly.

"Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie.

"Sure you did?" he asked.

"Yes, what makes you ask?"

She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly
she drew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks
blanched slightly.

"I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in
the most useless manner.

Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted.
She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's
intuition realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.

"What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty
forehead. "You act so funny to-night."

"I feel funny," he answered.
They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged
desperately into his subject.

"What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked.

"Me and Hurstwood--what do you mean?"

"Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?"

"A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do you
mean?"

"Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came
here every night."

"No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told you
that?"

She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did
not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light
of the room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended
herself with denials.

"Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?"

"Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came."

Drouet paused for a moment and thought.

"I know what you told me," he said finally.

He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.

"Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that,"
said Carrie, recovering herself.

"If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I
wouldn't have anything to do with him. He's a married man, you
know."

"Who--who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word.

"Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that
he was delivering a telling blow.

"Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed
several shades since this announcement was made. She looked
within and without herself in a half-dazed way.

"Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was
out of order and exceedingly incriminating.

"Why, I know it. I've always known it," said Drouet.

Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a
most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within
her which were anything but crumbling cowardice.

"I thought I told you," he added.

"No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her
voice. "You didn't do anything of the kind."

Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.

"I thought I did," he said.

Carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the
window.

"You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet
in an injured tone, "after all I've done for you."

"You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?"

Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings--
shame at exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at
Drouet's deception, the mockery he had made at her. Now one
clear idea came into her head. He was at fault. There was no
doubt about it. Why did he bring Hurstwood out--Hurstwood, a
married man, and never say a word to her? Never mind now about
Hurstwood's perfidy--why had he done this? Why hadn't he warned
her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of
confidence and talking about what he had done for her!

"Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire
his remark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal."

"You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me--that's what
you've done. You've brought your old friends out here under
false pretences. You've made me out to be--Oh," and with this
her voice broke and she pressed her two little hands together
tragically.

"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer
quaintly.

"No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth.
"No, of course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You
couldn't have told me in the first place, could you? You had to
make me out wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking
around with your information and your talk about what you have
done."

Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was
alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her
whole body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her
wrath.

"Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his
part, but certain that he was wronged.

"You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward,
that's what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you
wouldn't have thought of doing any such thing."

The drummer stared.

"I'm not a coward," he said. "What do you mean by going with
other men, anyway?"

"Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men--you know better than
that. I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it?
Didn't you bring him here? You told him yourself that he should
come out here and take me out. Now, after it's all over, you
come and tell me that I oughtn't to go with him and that he's a
married man."

She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her
hands. The knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a
knife.
"Oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her
eyes dry. "Oh, oh!"

"Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was
away," insisted Drouet.

"Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's
peculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what
would be to your satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of
me--a plaything. Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have
nothing more to do with you at all. You can take your old things
and keep them," and unfastening a little pin he had given her,
she flung it vigorously upon the floor and began to move about as
if to gather up the things which belonged to her.

By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more.
He looked at her in amazement, and finally said:

"I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of
this thing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right
after all I did for you."

"What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head
thrown back and her lips parted.

"I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking
around. "I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I?
I've taken you everywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much
as I've had, and more too."

Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her.
In so far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits
received. She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath
was not placated. She felt that the drummer had injured her
irreparably.

"Did I ask you to?" she returned.

"Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it."

"You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You
stand there and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old
things. I'll not have them. You take them to-night and do what
you please with them. I'll not stay here another minute."

"That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of
his own approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then
walk off. That's just like a woman. I take you when you haven't
got anything, and then when some one else comes along, why I'm no
good. I always thought it'd come out that way."

He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as
if he saw no way of obtaining justice.

"It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else.
You have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I
hate you, I tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another
minute. You're a big, insulting"--here she hesitated and used no
word at all--"or you wouldn't talk that way."

She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over
her little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened
from the bands at the side of her head and were straggling over
her hot, red cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken.
Her large eyes were full of the anguish of tears, but her lids
were not yet wet. She was distracted and uncertain, deciding and
doing things without an aim or conclusion, and she had not the
slightest conception of how the whole difficulty would end.

"Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull
out, eh? You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with
Hurstwood or you wouldn't act like that. I don't want the old
rooms. You needn't pull out for me. You can have them for all I
care, but b'George, you haven't done me right."

"I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live
with you. You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've
been here."

"Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered.

Carrie walked over to the door.

"Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her
off.

"Let me out," she said.

"Where are you going?" he repeated.

He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering
out, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.

Carrie merely pulled at the door.

The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She
made one more vain effort and then burst into tears.

"Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want
to rush out for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not
stay here now and be quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to
stay here any longer."

Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so
overcome she could not speak.

"Be reasonable now," he said. "I don't want to hold you. You
can go if you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord
knows, I don't want to stop you."

He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the
influence of his plea.

"You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last.

Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was
shaken loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She
was stirred by this thought, angered by that--her own injustice,
Hurstwood's, Drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and
favour, the threat of the world outside, in which she had failed
once before, the impossibility of this state inside, where the
chambers were no longer justly hers, the effect of the argument
upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass of jangling
fibres--an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could do
absolutely nothing but drift.

"Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with
a new idea, and putting his hand upon her.

"Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her
handkerchief from her eyes.
"Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here
until the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what
you want to do. Eh?"

Carrie made no answer.

"You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing up
now. You can't go anywhere."

Still he got nothing for his words.

"If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll
get out."

Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the
window.

"Will you do that?" he asked.

Still no answer.

"Will you?" he repeated.

She only looked vaguely into the street.

"Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?"

"I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer.

"Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking
about it. It'll be the best thing for you."

Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer
reasonably. She felt that the man was gentle, and that his
interest in her had not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of
regret. She was in a most helpless plight.

As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover.
Now his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at
losing Carrie, misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in
some way or other, and yet his rights included the retaining of
Carrie, the making her feel her error.

"Will you?" he urged.

"Well, I'll see," said Carrie.

This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It
looked as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get
some way of talking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and
Drouet aggrieved. He pretended to take up the task of packing
some things in a valise.

Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain
sound thoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what
had she done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism.
Throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh. On the
other hand, there was Hurstwood--a greater deceiver than he. He
had pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was
lying to her all the while. Oh, the perfidy of men! And she had
loved him. There could be nothing more in that quarter. She
would see Hurstwood no more. She would write him and let him
know what she thought. Thereupon what would she do? Here were
these rooms. Here was Drouet, pleading for her to remain.
Evidently things could go on here somewhat as before, if all were
arranged. It would be better than the street, without a place to
lay her head.

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