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"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 recognized 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 marveled 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 localized 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 parlor 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.

 

"There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last.

"There's no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know just

what you can do and what you can't. You can create a lot of trouble if

you want to. I know that all right, but it won't help you to get the

money. Now, I've made up my mind what to do. I've already written

Fitzgerald and Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait until you

hear more from them."

 

All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door,

down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now near

the end where the corridor opened into the large general parlor.

 

"You won't give it up?" said the man.

 

The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his

brain. Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He

didn't want the money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy,

maybe it would be all right again.

 

"See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. I

respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people who

know."

 

"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man.

 

"I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready there'll

be nothing to stop me for."

 

He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an

intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.

 

"Who was it?" asked Carrie.

 

"A friend of mine from Chicago."

 

The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did

after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a

deep gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him most was

the fact that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to see the

nature of that social injustice which sees but one side--often but a

single point in a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one

thing, his taking the money. How and wherefore were but indifferently

dealt with. All the complications which led up to it were unknown. He

was accused without being understood.

 

Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the

money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then

send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would

ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about

writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.

 

For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. He

wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He finally narrowed

it down to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining

friends, had found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the

money out, had accidentally closed it. This act he regretted very much.

He was sorry he had put them to so much trouble. He would undo what he

could by sending the money back--the major portion of it. The

remainder he would pay up as soon as he could. Was there any

possibility of his being restored? This he only hinted at.

 

The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very

construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful

thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him.

He forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and

that if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the

jagged line of separation and reunion would always show. He was always

forgetting something-his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present

situation, or something--and so did not reason clearly. Nevertheless,

he sent the letter, waiting a reply before sending the money.

 

Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting what

joy out of it he could.

 

Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open

windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song in

the air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She seemed the

one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would only love him

wholly--only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which

he had seen her in the little park in Chicago--how happy he would be!

It would repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. He

would not care.

 

"Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are you

going to stay with me from now on?"

 

She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of

the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now, keen

and strong--love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could not help

smiling.

 

"Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make me

worry any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a

nice flat. I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't you

be mine?"

 

Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her, but

the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance of

affection. She felt rather sorry for him--a sorrow born of what had

only recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt

for him. She would have known as much if she could have analyzed her

feelings, but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great

feeling broke down the barriers between them.

 

"You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked.

 

"Yes," she said, nodding her head.

 

He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks.

 

"You must marry me, though," she said. "I'll get a license to-day," he

answered.

 

"How?" she asked.

 

"Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live a new

life. From now on I'm Murdock."

 

"Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie.

 

"Why not?" he said.

 

"I don't like it."

 

"Well, what shall I take?" he asked.

 

"Oh, anything, only don't take that."

 

He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:

 

"How would Wheeler do?"

 

"That's all right," said Carrie.

 

"Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license this afternoon."

 

They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found

convenient.

 

At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He

was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had

come about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not

trouble to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As for

his returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had

not quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think it

over and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and

so on.

 

The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted

the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his doom.

He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they would send,

keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his acquiescence,

explained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day,

took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie to pack her trunk. He

was slightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to

make it, but eventually restored himself. He feared that even yet he

might be seized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements,

but it was scarcely possible. He ordered Carrie's trunk sent to the

depot, where he had it sent by express to New York. No one seemed to

be observing him, but he left at night. He was greatly agitated lest

at the first station across the border or at the depot in New York

there should be waiting for him an officer of the law.

 

Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into the

latter city in the morning. The round green hills sentineling the

broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her attention by their beauty

as the train followed the line of the stream. She had heard of the

Hudson River, the great city of New York, and now she looked out,

filling her mind with the wonder of it.

 

As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east bank

of the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention to the

fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her experience with

Chicago, she expected long lines of cars--a great highway of tracks--

and noted the difference. The sight of a few boats in the Harlem and

more in the East River tickled her young heart. It was the first sign

of the great sea. Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats,

and then the train plunged into the tunnel.

 

"Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few minutes

of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and

gathered up his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension.

With Carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one

approached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the

street entrance. So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie,

who fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed

through the depot proper the strain reached its climax and began to

wane. All at once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed

him. He heaved a great breath and turned, remembering Carrie.

 

"I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said.

 

"I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he

answered.

 

Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.

 

"How large is New York?" she asked.

 

"Oh a million or more," said Hurstwood.

 

He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.

 

For the first time in years the thought that he must count these little

expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.

 

He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a

flat. Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.

 

"We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said.

 

Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more

important hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew.

He stood up and spoke to the driver.

 

"Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less frequented by

those whom he knew. Then he sat down.

 

"Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the tall

five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.

 

"Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. "There are

no lawns in New York. All these are houses."

 

"Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have a

few opinions of her own.

 

 

Chapter XXX

THE KINGDOM OF GREATNESS--THE PILGRIM A DREAM

 

Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very evident

that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like New York.

In Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000, millionaires

were not numerous. The rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to

drown all moderate incomes in obscurity. The attention of the

inhabitants was not so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic,

artistic, social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned

man from view. In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics

and trade. In New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and

each had been diligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were

numerous. The sea was already full of whales. A common fish must needs

disappear wholly from view--remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood

was nothing.

 

There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which,

though not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the

world. The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the

small. This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the

magnificent residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops,

restaurants, resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the

wines; drink of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious

content, of the glances which gleam like light from defiant spears;

feel the quality of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of

strides born of place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of

the high and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the

kingdom of greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and

the human heart views this as the one desirable realm which it must

attain, so long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of

greatness. So long, also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its

desperate results in the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent.

One day of it, like one drop of the other, will so affect and discolor

the views, the aims, the desire of the mind, that it will thereafter

remain forever dyed. A day of it to the untried mind is like opium to

the untried body. A craving is set up which, if gratified, shall

eternally result in dreams and death. Aye! dreams unfulfilled--

gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which beckon and lead, beckon and lead,

until death and dissolution dissolve their power and restore us blind

to nature's heart.

 

A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the

illusions and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the strength

of hope which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth. Such an

atmosphere could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of eighteen,

but in so far as they were excited, the lack of hope made them

proportionately bitter. He could not fail to notice the signs of

affluence and luxury on every hand. He had been to New York before and

knew the resources of its folly. In part it was an awesome place to

him, for here gathered all that he most respected on this earth--

wealth, place, and fame. The majority of the celebrities with whom he

had tipped glasses in his day as manager hailed from this self-centered

and populous spot. The most inviting stories of pleasure and luxury

had been told of places and individuals here. He knew it to be true

that unconsciously he was brushing elbows with fortune the livelong

day; that a hundred or five hundred thousand gave no one the privilege

of living more than comfortably in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp

required more ample sums, so that the poor man was nowhere. All this

he realized, now quite sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his

friends, despoiled of his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced

to begin the battle for place and comfort all over again. He was not

old, but he was not so dull but that he could feel he soon would be.

Of a sudden, then, this show of fine clothes, place, and power took on

peculiar significance. It was emphasized by contrast with his own

distressing state.

 

And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of arrest

was not the sine qua non of his existence. That danger dissolved, the

next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry sum of thirteen

hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of rent, clothing,

food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle little calculated

to induce peace of mind in one who had been accustomed to spend five

times that sum in the course of a year. He thought upon the subject

rather actively the first few days he was in New York, and decided that

he must act quickly. As a consequence, he consulted the business

opportunities advertised in the morning papers and began investigations

on his own account.

 

That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he went

looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in Seventy-eighth Street

near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story building, and their flat

was on the third floor. Owing to the fact that the street was not yet

built up solidly, it was possible to see east to the green tops of the

trees in Central Park and west to the broad waters of the Hudson, a

glimpse of which was to be had out of the west windows. For the

privilege of six rooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they

were compelled to pay thirty-five dollars a month--an average, and yet

exorbitant, rent for a home at the time. Carrie noticed the difference

between the size of the rooms here and in Chicago and mentioned it.

 

"You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless you go

into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any of

these conveniences."

 

Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright wood-

work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat, which

was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water, dumb-

waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her very

much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take great

satisfaction in these things.

 

Hurstwood made arrangements with one of the installment houses whereby

they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and

ten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G.

W. Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It

sounded exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the

janitor, but in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as

her own.

 

These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the advertised

opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing down-town

bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not stomach

the commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a number of

days looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did, however,

gain considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence