Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious—this going to a depot—but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she imagined.
“How have you been?” asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed easier.
“Very well,” said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous to reach Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood contemplated her and felt this. He was not disturbed that it should be so. He did not trouble because she was moved sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the qualities in her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how he should explain. Even this was not the most 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 realise 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 signalled 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 wood-land 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 to-night. That’s why I came and got you.”
“You said Charlie was hurt,” said Carrie, savagely. “You deceived me. You’ve been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to run away with you.”
She was so excit
ed that she got up and tried to get by him again. He let her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.
“Don’t run away from me, Carrie,” he said gently. “Let me explain. If you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my wife is nothing to me. She hasn’t been anything for years or I wouldn’t have ever come near you. I’m going to get a divorce just as soon as I can. I’ll never see her again. I’m done with all that. You’re the only person I want. If I can have you I won’t ever think of another woman again.”
Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in Hurstwood’s voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there is something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman, especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love of her.
The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie could feel that she was being borne a long distance off—that the engine was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt at times as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would come to her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing—so far was she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the while Hurstwood was endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike home and bring her into sympathy with him.
“I was simply put where I didn’t know what else to do.”
Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.
“When I saw you wouldn’t come unless I could marry you, I decided to put everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I’m going off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while, and then anywhere you want to. We’ll go and live in New York, if you say.”
“I’ll not have anything to do with you,” said Carrie. “I want to get off this train. Where are we going?”
“To Detroit,” said Hurstwood.
“Oh!” said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite a point seemed to increase the difficulty.
“Won’t you come along with me?” he said, as if there was great danger that she would not. “You won’t need to do anything but travel with me. I’ll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New York, and then if you don’t want to stay you can go back. It will be better than trying to go back to-night.”
The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if she tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was speeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. She thought, but made no sign.
Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled his ardour.
“Think,” he said, “what I’ve given up. I can’t go back to Chicago any more. I’ve got to stay away and live alone now, if you don’t come with me. You won’t go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?”
“I don’t want you to talk to me,” she answered forcibly.
Hurstwood kept silent for a while.
Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act if she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.
“Don’t think of going, Carrie,” he said. “If you ever cared for me at all, come along and let’s start right. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll marry you, or I’ll let you go back. Give yourself time to think it over. I wouldn’t have wanted you to come if I hadn’t loved you. I tell you, Carrie, before God, I can’t live without you. I won’t!”
There was the tensity of fierceness in the man’s plea which appealed deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and pressed it with all the force of an appeal.
The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on a side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining. Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and helplessness. Now the train stopped, and she was listening to his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was still.
She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading.
“Will you let me come back if I want to?” she asked, as if she now had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.
“Of course,” he answered, “you know I will.”
Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.
The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.
“Aren’t you very tired?” he said.
“No,” she answered.
“Won’t you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?”
She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she was beginning to notice what she had always felt—his thoughtfulness.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “you will feel so much better.”
She shook her head.
“Let me fix my coat for you, anyway,” and he arose and arranged his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.
“There,” he said tenderly, “now see if you can’t rest a little.” He could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside her and thought a moment.
“I believe we’re in for a heavy rain,” he said.
“So it looks,” said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on frantically through the shadow to a newer world.
The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his time to devote to the consideration of his own error.
His condition was bitter in the extrem -, 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 w
e get off.”
He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior. Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.
The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily around him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that indicated studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.
“The next train for Montreal leaves when?” he asked.
“In twenty minutes,” said the man.
He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to Carrie.
“We go right out again,” he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie looked tired and weary.
“I wish I was out of all this,” she exclaimed gloomily.
“You’ll feel better when we reach Montreal,” he said.
“I haven’t an earthly thing with me,” said Carrie; “not even a handkerchief.”
“You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest,” he explained. “You can call in a dressmaker.”
Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood breathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.
“It won’t be so very long now,” he said, remembering her in his relief. “We get there the first thing in the morning.”
Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.
“I’ll see if there is a dining-car,” he added. “I’m hungry.”
CHAPTER XXIX
THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL:
THE BOATS OF THE SEA
To THE UNTRAVELLED, TERRITORY other than their own familiar heath is invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden from view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite dramatic expression—“I am going away.”
As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot Hurstwood’s presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting world to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated at all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much. Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom—who knows? Perhaps she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level of erring. She was saved in that she was hopeful.
Sister Carrie (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 30
