Заезды по воскресеньям с 16 июня по 18 августа 2013 года 16 страница

been restored to him.

 

So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and comfortable

appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper, laid there by the

maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the dining-room the table was

clean laid with linen and napery and shiny with glasses and decorated

china. Through an open door he saw into the kitchen, where the fire

was crackling in the stove and the evening meal already well under way.

Out in the small back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog

he had recently purchased, and in the parlor Jessica was playing at the

piano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner of the

comfortable home. Every one, like himself, seemed to have regained his

good spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and beauty, to be inclined

to joy and merry-making. He felt as if he could say a good word all

around himself, and took a most genial glance at the spread table and

polished sideboard before going upstairs to read his paper in the

comfortable armchair of the sitting-room which looked through the open

windows into the street. When he entered there, however, he found his

wife brushing her hair and musing to herself the while.

 

He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that might

still exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs. Hurstwood

said nothing. He seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly in

making himself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. In a

few moments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account of a

baseball game which had taken place between the Chicago and Detroit

teams.

 

The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him casually

through the medium of the mirror which was before her. She noticed his

pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and smiling humor, and it

merely aggravated her the more. She wondered how he could think to

carry himself so in her presence after the cynicism, indifference, and

neglect he had heretofore manifested and would continue to manifest so

long as she would endure it. She thought how she should like to tell

him--what stress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she

should drive over this whole affair until satisfaction should be

rendered her. Indeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but weakly

suspended by a thread of thought.

 

In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning a

stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with a bunco-

steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred and chuckled

to himself. He wished that he might enlist his wife's attention and

read it to her.

 

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

 

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

glance.

 

He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt as if

his good-humor must find some outlet. Julia was probably still out of

humor over that affair of this morning, but that could easily be

straightened. As a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, but he didn't

care. She could go to Waukesha right away if she wanted to. The

sooner the better. He would tell her that as soon as he got a chance,

and the whole thing would blow over.

 

"Did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerning another

item which he had found, "that they have entered suit to compel the

Illinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?" he asked.

 

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

sharply.

 

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

vibrated keenly.

 

"It would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to himself,

half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in that quarter.

He withdrew his attention to his paper very circumspectly, listening

mentally for the little sounds which should show him what was on foot.

 

As a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood--as observant and

sensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his own plane

of thought--would have made the mistake which he did in regard to his

wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been occupied mentally with a

very different train of thought. Had not the influence of Carrie's

regard for him, the elation which her promise aroused in him, lasted

over, he would not have seen the house in so pleasant a mood. It was

not extraordinarily bright and merry this evening. He was merely very

much mistaken, and would have been much more fitted to cope with it had

he come home in his normal state.

 

After he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that he

ought to modify matters in some way or other. Evidently his wife was

not going to patch up peace at a word. So he said:

 

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

 

"I don't know," she snapped.

 

He put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the window.

He did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be persistent and

agreeable, and by a few questions bring around a mild understanding of

some sort.

 

"Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning? he said, at

last. "We needn't quarrel about that. You know you can go to Waukesha

if you want to."

 

"So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" she

exclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was drawn

a sharp and wrathful sneer.

 

He stopped as if slapped in the face. In an instant his persuasive,

conciliatory manner fled. He was on the defensive at a wink and

puzzled for a word to reply.

 

"What do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself and gazing

at the cold, determined figure before him, who paid no attention, but

went on arranging herself before the mirror.

 

"You know what I mean," she said, finally, as if there were a world of

information which she held in reserve--which she did not need to tell.

 

"Well, I don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for what

should come next. The finality of the woman's manner took away his

feeling of superiority in battle.

 

She made no answer.

 

"Hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. It was

the weakest thing he had ever done. It was totally unassured.

 

Mrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of color in it. She turned upon him,

animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow.

 

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

 

He looked at her in amazement. Never before had he seen such a cold,

steely determination in her eye--such a cruel look of indifference.

She seemed a thorough master of her mood-thoroughly confident and

determined to wrest all control from him. He felt that all his

resources could not defend him. He must attack.

 

"What do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "You want! I'd like to know

what's got into you to-night."

 

"Nothing's GOT into me," she said, flaming. "I want that money. You

can do your swaggering afterwards."

 

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

your insinuations, anyhow?"

 

"Where were you last night?" she answered. The words were hot as they

came. "Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard? Who were you

with at the theatre when George saw you? Do you think I'm a fool to be

duped by you? Do you think I'll sit at home here and take your 'too

busys' and 'can't come,' while you parade around and make out that I'm

unable to come? I want you to know that lordly airs have come to an end

so far as I am concerned. You can't dictate to me nor my children.

I'm through with you entirely."

 

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

 

"Lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "you may

call it a lie if you want to, but I know."

 

"It's a lie, I tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice. "You've been

searching around for some cheap accusation for months and now you think

you have it. You think you'll spring something and get the upper hand.

Well, I tell you, you can't. As long as I'm in this house I'm master of

it, and you or any one else won't dictate to me--do you hear?"

 

He crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous. Something

in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as if she were

already master, caused him to feel for the moment as if he could

strangle her.

 

She gazed at him--a pythoness in humor.

 

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

want."

 

The answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took the

wind out of his sails. He could not attack her, he could not ask her

for proofs. Somehow he felt evidence, law, the remembrance of all his

property which she held in her name, to be shining in her glance. He

was like a vessel, powerful and dangerous, but rolling and floundering

without sail.

 

"And I'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recovering himself,

"what you'll not get."

 

"We'll see about it," she said. "I'll find out what my rights are.

Perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me."

 

It was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood fell back

beaten. He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to contend with.

He felt that he was face to face with a dull proposition. What to say

he hardly knew. All the merriment had gone out of the day. He was

disturbed, wretched, resentful. What should he do? "Do as you please,"

he said, at last. "I'll have nothing more to do with you," and out he

strode.

 

 

Chapter XXIII

A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL--ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND

 

When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to

those doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of

decision. She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her

promise, or that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She

went over the whole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discovered

little objections that had not occurred to her in the warmth of the

manager's argument. She saw where she had put herself in a peculiar

light, namely, that of agreeing to marry when she was already

supposedly married. She remembered a few things Drouet had done, and

now that it came to walking away from him without a word, she felt as

if she were doing wrong. Now, she was comfortably situated, and to one

who is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent matter, and

one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments. "You do not know what

will come. There are miserable things outside. People go a-begging.

Women are wretched. You never can tell what will happen. Remember the

time you were hungry. Stick to what you have."

 

Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken a

firm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,

and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on his

part, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from its

seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled mass,

and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This majesty of

passion is possessed by nearly every man once in his life, but it is

usually an attribute of youth and conduces to the first successful

mating.

 

Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain the

fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning.

It was strong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on

Carrie's part, we have seen. She might have been said to be imagining

herself in love, when she was not. Women frequently do this. It flows

from the fact that in each exists a bias toward affection, a craving

for the pleasure of being loved. The longing to be shielded, bettered,

sympathized with, is one of the attributes of the sex. This, coupled

with sentiment and a natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing

difficult. It persuades them that they are in love.

 

Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for

herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never

took the housemaid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one of

the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved it out.

To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed

was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet

put in appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited

and full of determination to know all about her relations with

Hurstwood. Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the

livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He

did not foresee serious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather

hesitated to begin. Carrie was sitting by the window when he came in,

rocking and looking out. "Well," she said innocently, weary of her own

mental discussion and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed

excitement, "what makes you hurry so?"

 

Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what

course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see.

 

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

 

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

 

"You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and I

thought you had gone out."

 

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

 

Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in such

matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the most

flagrant manner until at last she said:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"Oh, nothing--nothing much."

 

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

 

Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner.

He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the

little toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe

that the pretty woman before him was involved in anything so

unsatisfactory to himself. He was very much inclined to feel that it

was all right, after all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the

chambermaid was rankling in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a

straight remark of some sort, but he knew not what.

 

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

 

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

 

"Sure you did?" he asked.

 

"Yes, what makes you ask?"

 

She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she

drew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched

slightly.

 

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

most useless manner.

 

Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. She

saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition

realized that there was no occasion for great alarm.

 

"What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty

forehead. "You act so funny to-night."

 

"I feel funny," he answered. They looked at one another for a moment,

and then Drouet plunged desperately into his subject.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

mean?"

 

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

every night."

 

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

 

She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not

catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the

room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with

denials.

 

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

 

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

 

Drouet paused for a moment and thought.

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carrie, recovering herself.

 

"If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I wouldn't

have anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know."

 

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

 

"Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he

was delivering a telling blow.

 

"Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed several

shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and without

herself in a half-dazed way.

 

"Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of

order and exceedingly incriminating.

 

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

 

Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a most

miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which

were anything but crumbling cowardice.

 

"I thought I told you," he added.

 

"No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice.

"You didn't do anything of the kind."

 

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

 

"I thought I did," he said.

 

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

window.

 

"You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet in an

injured tone, "after all I've done for you."

 

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

 

Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings-shame at

exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet's deception,

the mockery he had made at her. Now one clear idea came into her head.

He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring

Hurstwood out--Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her?

Never mind now about Hurstwood's perfidy--why had he done this? Why

hadn't he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable

breach of confidence and talking about what he had done for her!

 

"Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realizing the fire his

remark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal."

 

"You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me--that's what you've

done. You've brought your old friends out here under false pretences.

You've made me out to be--Oh," and with this her voice broke and she

pressed her two little hands together tragically.

 

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

 

"No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. "No, of

course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You couldn't have

told me in the first place, could you? You had to make me out wrong

until it was too late. Now you come sneaking around with your

information and your talk about what you have done."

 

Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was alive

with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole body

sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.

 

"Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, but

certain that he was wronged.

 

"You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward, that's

what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn't

have thought of doing any such thing."

 

The drummer stared.

 

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

men, anyway?"

 

"Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men--you know better than that.

I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn't you bring

him here? You told him yourself that he should come out here and take

me out. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that I oughtn't

to go with him and that he's a married man."

 

She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. The

knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife. "Oh," she

sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyes dry. "Oh,

oh!"

 

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

away," insisted Drouet.

 

"Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's

peculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what would be

to your satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me--a plaything.

Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to do with

you at all. You can take your old things and keep them," and

unfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon

the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the things which

belonged to her.

 

By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He

looked at her in amazement, and finally said:

 

"I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of this

thing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after all

I did for you."

 

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

and her lips parted.

 

"I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around.

"I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've taken you

everywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, and more

too."

 

Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so

far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received.

She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not placated.

She felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably.

 

"Did I ask you to?" she returned.

 

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

 

"You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You stand

there and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old things.

I'll not have them. You take them to-night and do what you please with

them. I'll not stay here another minute."

 

"That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his

own approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walk off.

That's just like a woman. I take you when you haven't got anything,

and then when some one else comes along, why I'm no good. I always

thought it'd come out that way."

 

He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if he

saw no way of obtaining justice.

 

"It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else. You

have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate you, I

tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're a big,

insulting"--here she hesitated and used no word at all--"or you

wouldn't talk that way."

 

She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over her

little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from the

bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot, red

cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes were

full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet. She was

distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an aim or

conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the whole

difficulty would end.

 

"Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out, eh?

You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood or

you wouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn't

pull out for me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, you

haven't done me right."

 

"I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live with you.

You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here."

 

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

 

Carrie walked over to the door.

 

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

 

"Let me out," she said.

 

"Where are you going?" he repeated.

 

He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering out,

he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.

 

Carrie merely pulled at the door.

 

The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She made

one more vain effort and then burst into tears.

 

"Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want to

rush out for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stay here

now and be quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stay here any