Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising
spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached
the resort anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen
were making the place lively with their conversation. A group of
Cook County politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood
table in the rear portion of the room. Several young merrymakers
were chattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the
theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an
old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end
of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and went into
his office.

About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local
sport and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in
his office came to the door.

"Hello, George!" he exclaimed.

"How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the
sight of him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the
chairs in the little room.

"What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little
glum. Haven't lost at the track, have you?"

"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the
other day."

"Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that."

Hurstwood smiled.

While they were still conferring there, several other of
Hurstwood's friends entered, and not long after eleven, the
theatres being out, some actors began to drop in--among them some
notabilities.

Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common
in American resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off
gilt from those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one
leaning, it was toward notabilities. He considered that, if
anywhere, he belonged among them. He was too proud to toady, too
keen not to strictly observe the plane he occupied when there
were those present who did not appreciate him, but, in situations
like the present, where he could shine as a gentleman and be
received without equivocation as a friend and equal among men of
known ability, he was most delighted. It was on such occasions,
if ever, that he would "take something." When the social flavour
was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking
glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his
turn to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he
ever approached intoxication--or rather that ruddy warmth and
comfortableness which precedes the more sloven state--it was when
individuals such as these were gathered about him, when he was
one of a circle of chatting celebrities. To-night, disturbed as
was his state, he was rather relieved to find company, and now
that notabilities were gathered, he laid aside his troubles for
the nonce, and joined in right heartily.

It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began
to crop up--those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the
major portion of the conversation among American men under such
circumstances.

Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the
company took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most
cordially. He was very roseate physically. He had arrived at
that state where his mind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm
in its fancies. He felt as if his troubles were not very
serious. Going into his office, he began to turn over certain
accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the
cashier, who soon left.

It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were
gone to see that everything was safely closed up for the night.
As a rule, no money except the cash taken in after banking hours
was kept about the place, and that was locked in the safe by the
cashier, who, with the owners, was joint keeper of the secret
combination, but, nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took the
precaution to try the cash drawers and the safe in order to see
that they were tightly closed. Then he would lock his own little
office and set the proper light burning near the safe, after
which he would take his departure.

Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but
to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the
safe. His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door
responded. He was slightly surprised at that, and looking in
found the money cases as left for the day, apparently
unprotected. His first thought was, of course, to inspect the
drawers and shut the door.

"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought.

The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour
before that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring
the lock. He had never failed to do so before. But to-night
Mayhew had other thoughts. He had been revolving the problem of
a business of his own.

"I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money
drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was
quite a superfluous action, which another time might not have
happened at all.

As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as
banks issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they
represented, but paused to view them. Then he pulled out the
second of the cash drawers. In that were the receipts of the
day.

"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way,"
his mind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it."

He looked at the other drawer and paused again.

"Count them," said a voice in his ear.

He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,
letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and
one hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought
he counted ten such.

"Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering.
"What makes me pause here?"

For answer there came the strangest words:

"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?"

Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All
his property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned
that. He was worth more than forty thousand, all told--but she
would get that.

He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the
drawers and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob,
which might so easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he
paused. Finally he went to the windows and pulled down the
curtains. Then he tried the door, which he had previously
locked. What was this thing, making him suspicious? Why did he
wish to move about so quietly. He came back to the end of the
counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and
unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also
opened his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange
thoughts.

"The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least
little crack in it. The lock has not been sprung."

The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the
entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here
was a solution. That money would do it. If he had that and
Carrie. He rose up and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.

"What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand
slowly up and scratched his head.

The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant
proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in
his veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm
view of the situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten
thousand for him. He could see great opportunities with that.
He could get Carrie. Oh, yes, he could! He could get rid of his
wife. That letter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow
morning. He would not need to answer that. He went back to the
safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled the door open
and took the drawer with the money quite out.

With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to
think about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live
quietly with Carrie for years.

Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a
stern hand had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully
around. Not a soul was present. Not a sound. Some one was
shuffling by on the sidewalk. He took the box and the money and
put it back in the safe. Then he partly closed the door again.

To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of
the individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who
trembles in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely
appreciable, unless graphically portrayed. Those who have never
heard that solemn voice of the ghostly clock which ticks with
awful distinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," "thou shalt,"
"thou shalt not," are in no position to judge. Not alone in
sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental conflict
possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire
toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is
proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We
must remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no
knowledge of right is predicated of the animal's instinctive
recoil at evil. Men are still led by instinct before they are
regulated by knowledge. It is instinct which recalls the
criminal--it is instinct (where highly organised reasoning is
absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear
of wrong.

At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind
wavers. The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial.
To those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the
following will appeal on the simple ground of revelation.

When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its
ease and daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone.
No one could tell what he wished to do. He could work this thing
out for himself.

The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was
his brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright,
he was still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely
noticed that the time was passing. He went over his situation
once again, his eye always seeing the money in a lump, his mind
always seeing what it would do. He strolled into his little
room, then to the door, then to the safe again. He put his hand
on the knob and opened it. There was the money! Surely no harm
could come from looking at it!

He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so
smooth, so compact, so portable. How little they made, after
all. He decided he would take them. Yes, he would. He would
put them in his pocket. Then he looked at that and saw they
would not go there. His hand satchel! To be sure, his hand
satchel. They would go in that--all of it would. No one would
think anything of it either. He went into the little office and
took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his
desk and went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not
want to fill it out in the big room.
First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the
day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and
pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.

The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost
inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood
could not bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think
about it--to ponder over it, to decide whether it were best. He
was drawn by such a keen desire for Carrie, driven by such a
state of turmoil in his own affairs that he thought constantly it
would be best, and yet he wavered. He did not know what evil
might result from it to him--how soon he might come to grief.
The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him, and
never would have, under any circumstances.

After he had all the money in the handbag, a revulsion of feeling
seized him. He would not do it--no! Think of what a scandal it
would make. The police! They would be after him. He would have
to fly, and where? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from
justice! He took out the two boxes and put all the money back.
In his excitement he forgot what he was doing, and put the sums
in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door to, he thought he
remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. There were
the two boxes mixed.

He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror
had gone. Why be afraid?

While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung!
Did he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It
had closed. Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.

The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the
sweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He
looked about him and decided instantly. There was no delaying
now.

"Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away,
they'll know who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides,
other things will happen."

At once he became the man of action.

"I must get out of this," he thought.

He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and
hat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned
out all but one light and opened the door. He tried to put on
his old assured air, but it was almost gone. He was repenting
rapidly.

"I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake."

He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman
whom he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city,
and that quickly.

"I wonder how the trains run?" he thought.

Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly
half-past one.

At the first drugstore he stopped, seeing a long-distance
telephone booth inside. It was a famous drugstore, and contained
one of the first private telephone booths ever erected.
"I want to use your 'phone a minute," he said to the night clerk.

The latter nodded.

"Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the
Michigan Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.

"How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked.

The man explained the hours.

"No more to-night?"

"Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There
is a mail train out of here at three o'clock."

"All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to
Detroit?"

He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river
into Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal.
He was relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.

"Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can't
get on my track before noon."

Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if
he got her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into
the nearest cab standing by.

"To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more
if you make good time."

The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop which
was fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to
do. Reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not
spare the bell in waking the servant.

"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked.

"Yes," said the astonished girl.

"Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is
in the hospital, injured, and wants to see her."

The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's
strained and emphatic manner.

"What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her
clothes.

"Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you.
The cab's downstairs."

Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting
everything save the necessities.

"Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you.
Come quickly."

Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.

"Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.

The cabby began to turn the horse around.
"Michigan Central depot," he said, standing up and speaking so
low that Carrie could not hear, "as fast as you can go."

Chapter XXVIII

A PILGRIM, AN OUTLAW--THE SPIRIT DETAINED

The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling
herself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:

"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"

"It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He
was very much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he
had Carrie with him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of
the law. Therefore he was in no mood for anything save such
words as would further his plans distinctly.

Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled
between her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her
agitation. The one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.

"Where is he?"

"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take
the train. It's the quickest way."

Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness
of the city by night held her attention. She looked at the long
receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.

"How did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the nature
of his injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more
than necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of
danger.

"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go
and get you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need
for alarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you."

The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
wondering.

Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one
in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only
think of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly
away. Carrie seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated
himself.

In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he
handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.

"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the
waiting-room, "while I get the tickets."

"Have I much time to catch that train for Detroit?" he asked of
the agent.

"Four minutes," said the latter.

He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.

"Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.

"Not very," he said. "We must get right in."

He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the
ticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she
could not see, and then hurried after.

There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or
two common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made
up and few passengers were expected, there were only one or two
brakemen waiting. They entered the rear day coach and sat down.
Almost immediately, "All aboard," resounded faintly from the
outside, and the train started.

Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to
a depot--but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the
natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she
imagined.

"How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed
easier.

"Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not
bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still
nervous to reach Drouet and see what could be the matter.
Hurstwood contemplated her and felt this. He was not disturbed
that it should be so. He did not trouble because she was moved
sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the qualities in
her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how he
should explain. Even this was not the most serious thing in his
mind, however. His own deed and present flight were the great
shadows which weighed upon him.

"What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a
mistake!"

In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had
been done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive
from justice. He had often read of such things, and had thought
they must be terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he
only sat and looked into the past. The future was a thing which
concerned the Canadian line. He wanted to reach that. As for
the rest he surveyed his actions for the evening, and counted
them parts of a great mistake.

"Still," he said, "what could I have done?"

Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to
do so by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a
fruitless, harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal
with the proposition he had in the presence of Carrie.

The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran
rather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were
visible without. The engine gave short calls with its whistle,
and frequently the bell rang. Several brakemen came through,
bearing lanterns. They were locking the vestibules and putting
the cars in order for a long run.

Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent
streets flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began
its whistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger
to important crossings.

"Is it very far?" asked Carrie.
"Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could hardly repress a smile
at her simplicity. He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but
he also wanted to be well out of Chicago.

In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie
that it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.

"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far
beyond the city limits, and the train was scudding across the
Indiana line at a great rate.

"No," he said, "not where we are going."

There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in
an instant.

Her pretty brow began to contract.

"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.

He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come
now as later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle
negative.

"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of
the errand being different from what she had thought.

He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.

"Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice
showing the quality of fright.

"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come
along with me to another city,"

"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me
off. I don't want to go with you."

She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something
which had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought
now was to get off and away. If only the flying train could be
stopped, the terrible trick would be amended.

She arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. She
knew she had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on
her.

"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any
good to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll
do. Wait a moment."

She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No
one saw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the
car, and they were attempting to doze.

"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against
her will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large
tears began to gather in her eyes.

Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and
ceased to think of his own situation. He must do something with
this girl, or she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of
persuasion with all his powers aroused.

"Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I
didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything
to make you feel bad."

"Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh--oo--o!"

"There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to
me? Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do
this thing. I couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't
you listen?"

Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear
a word he said.

"Won't you listen?" he asked.

"No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me
out of this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you.
It's a shame," and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for
expression.

Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had
just cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he
could straighten this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor
would come through for the tickets. He wanted no noise, no
trouble of any kind. Before everything he must make her quiet.

"You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said
Hurstwood. "It won't be very long until we reach another
station. You can get out then if you want to. I won't stop you.
All I want you to do is to listen a moment. You'll let me tell
you, won't you?"

Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the
window, where outside all was black. The train was speeding with
steady grace across the fields and through patches of wood. The
long whistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely
woodland crossings were approached.

Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two
fares that had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood,
who handed out the tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie
made no move. She did not look about.

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