Заезды по воскресеньям с 16 июня по 18 августа 2013 года 20 страница

serious thing in his mind, however. His own deed and present flight

were the great shadows which weighed upon him.

 

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

mistake!"

 

In his sober senses, he could scarcely realize that the thing had been

done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from justice.

He had often read of such things, and had thought they must be

terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and looked

into the past. The future was a thing which concerned the Canadian

line. He wanted to reach that. As for the rest he surveyed his

actions for the evening, and counted them parts of a great mistake.

 

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

 

Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do so

by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless,

harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the

proposition he had in the presence of Carrie.

 

The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran

rather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible

without. The engine gave short calls with its whistle, and frequently

the bell rang. Several brakemen came through, bearing lanterns. They

were locking the vestibules and putting the cars in order for a long

run.

 

Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent streets

flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its whistle-

calls of four parts, with which it signaled danger to important

crossings.

 

"Is it very far?" asked Carrie. "Not so very," said Hurstwood. He

could hardly repress a smile at her simplicity. He wanted to explain

and conciliate her, but he also wanted to be well out of Chicago.

 

In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie that it

was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.

 

"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond the

city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at a

great rate.

 

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

 

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

instant.

 

Her pretty brow began to contract.

 

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

 

He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come now as

later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle negative.

 

"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the

errand being different from what she had thought.

 

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

 

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

quality of fright.

 

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

with me to another city,"

 

"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off. I

don't want to go with you."

 

She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something which

had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was to

get off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the

terrible trick would be amended.

 

She arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. She knew she

had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her.

 

"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any good to

get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a

moment."

 

She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one saw

this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and they

were attempting to doze.

 

"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her

will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears began to

gather in her eyes.

 

Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and ceased

to think of his own situation. He must do something with this girl, or

she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion with all

his powers aroused.

 

"Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I didn't

mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to make you

feel bad."

 

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

 

"There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me?

Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do this thing.

I couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?"

 

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

word he said.

 

"Won't you listen?" he asked.

 

"No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me out of

this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's a shame,"

and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression.

 

Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had just

cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could

straighten this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would come

through for the tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind.

Before everything he must make her quiet.

 

"You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said Hurstwood.

"It won't be very long until we reach another station. You can get out

then if you want to. I won't stop you. All I want you to do is to

listen a moment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?"

 

Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the

window, where outside all was black. The train was speeding with

steady grace across the fields and through patches of wood. The long

whistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland crossings

were approached.

 

Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares that

had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handed out the

tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. She did not

look about.

 

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 tonight. 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 endeavoring 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 ardor.

 

"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 untraveled, 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 traveling. She quite forgot

Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and

cozy 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 endeavored 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 recognized 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?"