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hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need reclaiming? His

errors, what were they, that she could correct? Small they must be,

where all was so fine. At worst, they were gilded affairs, and with

what leniency are gilded errors viewed. He put himself in such a lonely

light that she was deeply moved.

 

"Is it that way?" she mused.

 

He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart to

draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. A breath of

soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some brown twigs

of the previous autumn before it. The horse paced leisurely on,

unguided.

 

"Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me."

 

Her eyes fell consciously.

 

"Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?"

 

She made no answer, but he felt his victory.

 

"Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips were

near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it to

touch her cheek.

 

"You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own.

 

For answer, her lips replied.

 

"Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own girl,

aren't you?"

 

By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder.

 

 

Chapter XIV

WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING--ONE INFLUENCE WANES

 

Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and

mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for Hurstwood and

his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting

Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of enforced

secrecy, that she should come down town and meet him, though, after

all, the need of it was the cause.

 

Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.

 

"Um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man when

her husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her."

 

The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought on

this score. The housemaid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her opinion

also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took to be

cold and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the merry

and easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now and then,

and in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard which he had

for all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved and critical

in his manner. He did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the

same pleasant way. She wondered that he came so frequently, that Mrs.

Drouet should go out with him this afternoon when Mr. Drouet was

absent. She gave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook

was. As a result, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the

house in that secret manner common to gossip.

 

Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to confess

her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards him.

Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of the

dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection for her.

On the first evening, she did little but go over the details of the

afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had ever been

thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on her character. She

had some power of initiative, latent before, which now began to exert

itself. She looked more practically upon her state and began to see

glimmerings of a way out. Hurstwood seemed a drag in the direction of

honor. Her feelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they

constructed out of these recent developments something which conquered

freedom from dishonor. She had no idea what Hurstwood's next word

would be. She only took his affection to be a fine thing, and appended

better, more generous results accordingly.

 

As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without

responsibility. He did not feel that he was doing anything to

complicate his life. His position was secure, his home-life, if not

satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty rather

untrammelled. Carrie's love represented only so much added pleasure.

He would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowance of

pleasure. He would be happy with her and his own affairs would go on

as they had, undisturbed.

 

On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected in

East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was then a

pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th Street.

In the process of his declaration he soon realized that Carrie took his

love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept him at a

distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those tender

tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced lover.

Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and

deferred pressing his suit too warmly.

 

Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he had

to carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a little

distance. How far he could not guess.

 

They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:

 

"When will I see you again?"

 

"I don't know," she answered, wondering herself.

 

"Why not come down to The Fair," he suggested, "next Tuesday?"

 

She shook her head.

 

"Not so soon," she answered.

 

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he added. "I'll write you, care of this

West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?"

 

Carrie assented.

 

The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.

 

"Good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away.

 

Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet

returned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next

afternoon when he saw Drouet enter.

 

"Why, hello, Charles," he called affably; "back again?"

 

"Yes," smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.

 

Hurstwood arose.

 

"Well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?"

 

They began talking of the people they knew and things that had

happened.

 

"Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood.

 

"No, I am going, though," said Drouet.

 

"I remembered the little girl out there," said Hurstwood, "and called

once. Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone."

 

"Right you are," agreed Drouet. "How is she?"

 

"Very well," said Hurstwood. "Rather anxious about you though. You'd

better go out now and cheer her up."

 

"I will," said Drouet, smilingly.

 

"Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me Wednesday,"

concluded Hurstwood at parting.

 

"Thanks, old man," said his friend, "I'll see what the girl says and

let you know."

 

They separated in the most cordial manner.

 

"There's a nice fellow," Drouet thought to himself as he turned the

corner towards Madison.

 

"Drouet is a good fellow," Hurstwood thought to himself as he went back

into his office, "but he's no man for Carrie."

 

The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein,

and he wandered how he would get ahead of the drummer.

 

When Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms as

usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremor of opposition.

 

"Well," he said, "I had a great trip."

 

"Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were telling

me about?"

 

"Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,

representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn't in

it. I made him look like nothing at all."

 

As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to washing

his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip. Carrie

could not help listening with amusement to his animated descriptions.

 

"I tell you," he said, "I surprised the people at the office. I've sold

more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on the

road. I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La Crosse."

 

He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he

rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him

with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was

still wiping his face, when he continued:

 

"I'm going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it,

as much business as I turn in. I'll get it too, don't you forget."

 

"I hope you do," said Carrie.

 

"And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goes through,

we'll get married," he said with a great show of earnestness, the while

he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his hair.

 

"I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie," Carrie said

ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her courage

to say this.

 

"Oh, yes I do--course I do--what put that into your head?"

 

He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over to

her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from him.

 

"But you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with her

pretty face upturned into his.

 

"Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to.

Now, when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things all

right, and I'll do it. Now, don't you worry, girlie."

 

He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how

really futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this

easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply letting

things drift because he preferred the free round of his present state

to any legal trammelings.

 

In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy

manner of putting her off. He sympathized with her and showed her what

her true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care.

 

"Oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own

success and more of her helplessness, "you never will."

 

"Well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded. "I'll marry you

all right."

 

Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for something

which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light, airy

disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully promised

to marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise.

 

"Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the

marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to

the theatre with him."

 

Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid

notice.

 

"When?" she asked, with assumed indifference.

 

"Wednesday. We'll go, won't we?"

 

"If you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedly

reserved as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something but

he thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk about

marriage. "He called once, he said."

 

"Yes," said Carrie, "he was out here Sunday evening."

 

"Was he?" said Drouet. "I thought from what he said that he had called

a week or so ago."

 

"So he did," answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what

conversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea mentally,

and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what she would

answer.

 

"Oh, then he called twice?" said Drouet, the first shade of

misunderstanding showing in his face.

 

"Yes," said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must have

mentioned but one call.

 

Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did not

attach particular importance to the information, after all.

 

"What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased

curiosity.

 

"He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn't been

in there so long he wondered what had become of you."

 

"George is a fine fellow," said Drouet, rather gratified by his

conception of the manager's interest. "Come on and we'll go out to

dinner."

 

When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to Carrie,

saying:

 

"I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not say

how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything you

may have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and,

darling, I must see you. Let me know if you can't meet me at Jackson

and Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I want to speak

with you before we meet at the theatre."

 

Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West Side

branch of the post-office, and answered at once.

 

"I said you called twice," she wrote. "He didn't seem to mind. I will

try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be

getting very bad. It's wrong to act as I do, I know."

 

Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score.

 

"You mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said. "Just as soon as he goes on

the road again we will arrange something. We'll fix it so that you

won't have to deceive any one."

 

Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not

directly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the best

of the situation until Drouet left again.

 

"Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have," Hurstwood

counseled concerning the evening at the theatre.

 

"You mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of the

power of his eyes.

 

"I won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance

she had just cautioned against.

 

"There," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.

 

"The show hasn't begun yet," he returned.

 

He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth and

prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.

 

At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favor. If he

had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now. His

grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium. Carrie

watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot poor

Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host.

 

Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change.

He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and

yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in

favor may so secretly practice before the mistress of his heart. If

anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not

cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.

 

Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to

Drouet alone.

 

The scene was one in "The Covenant," in which the wife listened to the

seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.

 

"Served him right," said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen

expiation of her error. "I haven't any pity for a man who would be

such a chump as that."

 

"Well, you never can tell," returned Hurstwood gently. "He probably

thought he was right."

 

"Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he

wants to keep her."

 

They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy

crush about the entrance way.

 

"Say, mister," said a voice at Hurstwood's side, "would you mind giving

me the price of a bed?"

 

Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.

 

"Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep."

 

The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the

picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to see.

He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart.

Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.

 

Chapter XV

THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES--THE MAGIC OF YOUTH

 

The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the

growth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related

to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at breakfast

with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached

far without the realm of their interests. He read his paper, which was

heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by

his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife ran a river of

indifference.

 

Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.

There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth in

the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to

experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's feet.

When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her

eyes were young.

 

When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when the

insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale

practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which

bound his feet.

 

"George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long

since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we want you to

get us a season ticket to the races."

 

"Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising inflection.

 

"Yes," she answered.

 

The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the

South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those who

did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs. Hurstwood had

never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain

considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing, one of her

neighbors, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were possessors of money,

made out of the coal business, had done so. In the next place, her

favorite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and

betting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a two-

year old in the Derby. In the third place, she wished to exhibit

Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to

marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in such things and

parade among her acquaintances and common throng was as much an

incentive as anything.

 

Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering.

They were in the sitting room on the second floor, waiting for supper.

It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie and Drouet to see "The

Covenant," which had brought him home to make some alterations in his

dress.

 

"You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked,

hesitating to say anything more rugged.

 

"No," she replied impatiently.

 

"Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get mad

about it. I'm just asking you."

 

"I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a season

ticket."

 

"And I'm telling you," he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her,

"that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the manager will

give it to me."

 

He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the racetrack

magnates.

 

"We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply.

 

"You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs one hundred

and fifty dollars."

 

"I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "I want the

ticket and that's all there is to it."

 

She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.

 

"Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified tone of

voice.

 

As usual, the table was one short that evening.

 

The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the ticket

was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not mind

giving his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he did not

like to be forced to provide against his will.

 

"Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencers are

getting ready to go away?"

 

"No. Where, I wonder?"

 

"Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she told me.

She just put on more airs about it."

 

"Did she say when?"

 

"Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again--they

always do."

 

"Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of these

days."

 

Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.

 

"'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed, mocking her

acquaintance. "'Expect to spend most of the "summah" in France,'--vain

thing. As If it was anything to go to Europe."

 

"It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood.

 

It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.

 

"Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood.

 

"Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day, thus

revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.

 

"Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. He had never before been

kept in ignorance concerning departures.

 

"He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight put

upon her father.

 

"What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to think

that he should be made to pump for information in this manner.

 

"A tennis match," said Jessica.

 

"He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding it

difficult to refrain from a bitter tone.

 

"I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly. In the

past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect, which was a

compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in part still

existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As it was, it

did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The TONE was always

modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection, and now he

saw that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledge was no

longer intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did

not. He heard of their doings occasionally, more often not. Some days

he found that he was all at sea as to what they were talking about--

things they had arranged to do or that they had done in his absence.

More affecting was the feeling that there were little things going on

of which he no longer heard. Jessica was beginning to feel that her

affairs were her own. George, Jr., flourished about as if he were a

man entirely and must needs have private matters. All this Hurstwood

could see, and it left a trace of feeling, for he was used to being

considered--in his official position, at least--and felt that his

importance should not begin to wane here. To darken it all, he saw the

same indifference and independence growing in his wife, while he looked

on and paid the bills.

 

He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he was

not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house, but

he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into her

comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such

delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when Drouet

was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in cozy little

quarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby Drouet would be

led to inform Carrie concerning his married state, he felt hopeful.

Things were going so smoothly that he believed they would not change.

Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would be satisfactory.

 

The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly-a

letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He was not

literary by any means, but experience of the world and his growing

affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at his

office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of

delicately colored and scented writing paper in monogram, which he kept

locked in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the cleric

and very official-looking nature of his position. The five bartenders

viewed with respect the duties which could call a man to do so much

desk-work and penmanship.

 

Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law which

governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began to feel

those subtleties which he could find words to express. With every

expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings which