Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

T >> Theodore Dreiser >> Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

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When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.

"You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't
mean to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I
couldn't stay away from you after the first time I saw you."

He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by
the board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no
longer be a factor in their relationship. The money he had
stolen he tried to shut out of his mind.

"Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go
away from me. I am going to get out at the very next station."

She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.

"All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After
all you have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't
want to do you any harm. I'll give you the money to go back with
when you go. I merely want to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop
me from loving you, whatever you may think."

He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply.
"You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do
it willingly. I'm through with my wife. She hasn't any claims
on me. I'll never see her any more. That's why I'm here to-
night. That's why I came and got you."

"You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You
deceived me. You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you
want to force me to run away with you."

She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again.
He let her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.

"Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me
explain. If you will only hear me out you will see where I
stand. I tell you my wife is nothing to me. She hasn't been
anything for years or I wouldn't have ever come near you. I'm
going to get a divorce just as soon as I can. I'll never see her
again. I'm done with all that. You're the only person I want.
If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again."

Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded
sincere enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a
tenseness in Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have
some effect. She did not want anything to do with him. He was
married, he had deceived her once, and now again, and she thought
him terrible. Still there is something in such daring and power
which is fascinating to a woman, especially if she can be made to
feel that it is all prompted by love of her.

The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind.
Carrie could feel that she was being borne a long distance off--
that the engine was making an almost through run to some distant
city. She felt at times as if she could cry out and make such a
row that some one would come to her aid; at other times it seemed
an almost useless thing--so far was she from any aid, no matter
what she did. All the while Hurstwood was endeavouring to
formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike home and
bring her into sympathy with him.

"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."

Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.

"When I say you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided
to put everything else behind me and get you to come away with
me. I'm going off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal
for a while, and then anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in
New York, if you say."

"I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to
get off this train. Where are we going?"

"To Detroit," said Hurstwood.

"Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and
definite a point seemed to increase the difficulty.

"Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great
danger that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but
travel with me. I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see
Montreal and New York, and then if you don't want to stay you can
go back. It will be better than trying to go back to-night."

The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie.
It seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his
opposition if she tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York!
Even now she was speeding toward those great, strange lands, and
could see them if she liked. She thought, but made no sign.

Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He
redoubled his ardour.

"Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to
Chicago any more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if
you don't come with me. You won't go back on me entirely, will
you, Carrie?"

"I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.

Hurstwood kept silent for a while.

Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to
act if she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.

"Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for
me at all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever
you say. I'll marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself
time to think it over. I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I
hadn't loved you. I tell you, Carrie, before God, I can't live
without you. I won't!"

There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which
appealed deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire
which was actuating him now. He was loving her too intensely to
think of giving her up in this, his hour of distress. He
clutched her hand nervously and pressed it with all the force of
an appeal.

The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars
on a side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few
sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining.
Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and
helplessness. Now the train stopped, and she was listening to
his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was still.

She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute
slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading.

"Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she
now had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.

"Of course," he answered, "you know I will."

Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty.
She began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.

The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the
subject.

"Aren't you very tired?" he said.

"No," she answered.

"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"

She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery
she was beginning to notice what she had always felt--his
thoughtfulness.

"Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."

She shook her head.

"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged
his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.

"There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little."
He could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat
beside her and thought a moment.

"I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.

"So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train
swept on frantically through the shadow to a newer world.

The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source
of satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most
temporary relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he
had all of his time to devote to the consideration of his own
error.

His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief.
That sum or any other could never compensate for the state which
he had thus foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his
host of friends, his name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as
he had meant to have her. He was shut out from Chicago--from his
easy, comfortable state. He had robbed himself of his dignity,
his merry meetings, his pleasant evenings. And for what? The
more he thought of it the more unbearable it became. He began to
think that he would try and restore himself to his old state. He
would return the miserable thievings of the night and explain.
Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him and
let him come back.

By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now.
They had probably notified all the police of the big cities, and
detectives would be watching for him. He remembered instances in
which defaulters had been captured. Consequently, he breathed
heavily and paled somewhat. His hands felt as if they must have
something to do. He simulated interest in several scenes without
which he did not feel. He repeatedly beat his foot upon the
floor.

Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea
what it meant or that it was important.

He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on
through to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could
have saved time. He jumped up and sought the conductor.

"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.

"Yes, the next sleeper back does."

He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided
to inquire at the depot.

The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.

"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said
to Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."

He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm
exterior. Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes.
She was drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.

The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked
warily around him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing
nothing that indicated studied observation, he made his way to
the ticket office.

"The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.

"In twenty minutes," said the man.

He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back
to Carrie.

"We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie
looked tired and weary.

"I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.

"You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said.

"I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a
handkerchief."

"You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he
explained. "You can call in a dressmaker."

Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood
breathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run
to the river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely
pulled the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a
sigh.

"It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his
relief. "We get there the first thing in the morning."

Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.

"I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry."

Chapter XXIX

THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL--THE BOATS OF THE SEA

To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath
is invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing
which solaces and delights. Things new are too important to be
neglected, and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory
impressions, succumbs to the flood of objects. Thus lovers are
forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden from view. There is
a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite dramatic
expression--"I am going away."

As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot
that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will
and that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling.
She quite forgot Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away
to homely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with
wondering eyes. It was an interesting world to her. Her life
had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated at all.
Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much.
Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom--who knows?
Perhaps she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the
level of erring. She was saved in that she was hopeful.

The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and
they stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie
wondering at the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long
before, Hurstwood had been here, and now he remembered the name
of the hotel at which he had stopped. As they came out of the
main entrance of the depot he heard it called anew by a busman.

"We'll go right up and get rooms," he said.

At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while
the clerk came forward. He was thinking what name he would put
down. With the latter before him he found no time for
hesitation. A name he had seen out of the car window came
swiftly to him. It was pleasing enough. With an easy hand he
wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was the largest concession to
necessity he felt like making. His initials he could not spare.

When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had
secured her a lovely chamber.

"You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you
get ready."

Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood
looked at himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He
had no trunk, no change of linen, not even a hair-brush.

"I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a
hair-brush. Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast.
I'll go for a shave and come back and get you, and then we'll go
out and look for some clothes for you."

He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.

"All right," said Carrie.

She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited
for the boy, who soon knocked.

"Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding
out his hands, but she did not move to take them.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently.

"Don't you care for me at all?"

She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.

"Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking
one of her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once
said you did."

"What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie.

"I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much."

"You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking
cleanly home.

"Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now.
Won't you try and care for me a little?"

He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.

She shook her head negatively.

"Let me start all over again. Be my wife from to-day on."

Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he
slipped his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He
held her quite close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the
all compelling desire. His affection took an ardent form.

"Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him.

"Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?"

Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment
before she had been listening with some complacency, remembering
her old affection for him. He was so handsome, so daring!

Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition,
which rose feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held
close as she was, began to wane. Something else in her spoke.
This man, to whose bosom she was being pressed, was strong; he
was passionate, he loved her, and she was alone. If she did not
turn to him--accept of his love--where else might she go? Her
resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong feeling.

She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What
magnetism there was she could never know. His many sins,
however, were for the moment all forgotten.

He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
opposition was useless.

"Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how.

"This very day," he said, with all delight.

Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold
upon her regretfully.

"You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour."

Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.

Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop.
For the moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over
Carrie seemed to atone for much he had endured during the last
few days. Life seemed worth fighting for. This eastward flight
from all things customary and attached seemed as if it might have
happiness in store. The storm showed a rainbow at the end of
which might be a pot of gold.

He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which
was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him
familiarly. Instantly his heart sank.
"Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are you
doing down here?"

Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend
Kenny, the stock-broker.

"Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his
mind working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man
evidently did not know--he had not read the papers.

"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny
genially. "Stopping here?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on
the register.

"Going to be in town long?"

"No, only a day or so."

"Is that so? Had your breakfast?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a
shave."

"Won't you come have a drink?"

"Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you
later. Are you stopping here?"

"Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added:
"How are things out in Chicago?"

"About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.

"Wife with you?"

"No."

"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for
breakfast. Come in when you're through."

"I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation
was a trial to him. It seemed to add complications with very
word. This man called up a thousand memories. He represented
everything he had left. Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort--
all these were in his greeting and inquiries. And here he was in
this same hotel expecting to confer with him, unquestionably
waiting to have a good time with him. All at once the Chicago
papers would arrive. The local papers would have accounts in
them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the
possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's
eyes, a safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the
barber shop. He decided to escape and seek a more secluded
hotel.

Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,
and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out
by the ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more
inconspicuous place.

Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him.
He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply
dressed, and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some
huge ward politician's. This individual had been evidently
talking with the clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager
keenly.

Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the
type. Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective--that
he was being watched. He hurried across, pretending not to
notice, but in his mind was a world of thoughts. What would
happen now? What could these people do? He began to trouble
concerning the extradition laws. He did not understand them
absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie should
find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be
out of it.

Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked
refreshed--more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had
gone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him.
Love was not blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles
seemed increased. He could not take her in his arms; he did not
even try. Something about her forbade it. In part his opinion
was the result of his own experiences and reflections below
stairs.

"You're ready, are you?" he said kindly.

"Yes," she answered.

"We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal
to me very much."

"All right," said Carrie.

They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual
was standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from
showing that he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in
the fellow's eye was galling. Still they passed, and he
explained to Carrie concerning the city. Another restaurant was
not long in showing itself, and here they entered.

"What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it
solely because it was not like Chicago.

"It Isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you like
it?"

"No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the
great Western city.

"Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood.

"What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit
this town.

"Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort.
There's some pretty scenery about here."

Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much
about her situation which destroyed the possibility of
appreciation.

"We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really
glad to note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as
soon as breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon.
You'll like that. It's a lot more like a city than any place
outside Chicago."

He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what
these detectives would do--what move his employers at Chicago
would make--then he would slip away--down to New York, where it
was easy to hide. He knew enough about that city to know that
its mysteries and possibilities of mystification were infinite.

The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation
became. He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the
ground. The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him--
Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest
him the moment he tried to leave Canada. So he might be
compelled to remain here months, and in what a state!

Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see
the morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his
criminal deed had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a
few moments, and went to secure and scan the dailies. No
familiar or suspicious faces were about, and yet he did not like
reading in the lobby, so he sought the main parlour on the floor
above and, seated by a window there, looked them over. Very
little was given to his crime, but it was there, several "sticks"
in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders, accidents,
marriages, and other news. He wished, half sadly, that he could
undo it all. Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of
safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake.
There could have been an easier way out if he had only known.

He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to
keep them out of the hands of Carrie.

"Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged in
looking out of the window.

"Oh, all right," she answered.

He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her,
when a knock came at their door.

"Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie.

Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual
whom he had so thoroughly suspected.

"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume
of affected shrewdness and assurance.

"Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly
that some of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such
men as these were of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort.
He stepped out and closed the door.

"Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man
confidentially.

"I can guess," said Hurstwood softly.

"Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?"

"That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly.

"You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him
coolly.

"Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't
understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.
Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside.
You'll have to excuse me."
"Well, now, there's no use of your talking that way," said the
man, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make a lot
of trouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in
this house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the
newspapers don't know you're here yet. You might as well be
reasonable."

"What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood.

"Whether you're going to send back that money or not."

Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.

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