The Essential Writings of Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser
she could not find any one. “The Old Homestead” was running there, but the person to whom she was referred was not to be found.
These little expeditions took up her time until quite four o’clock, when she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she ought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too dispiriting. She took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the West Side branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to receive Hurstwood’s letters. There was one there now, written Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled feelings. There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied the man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished and dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would write and let him know that she knew of his married state and was justly incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all over between them.
At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time, for she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.
“You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you,” she wrote in part. “How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me to have anything more to do with you. I wouldn’t under any circumstances. Oh, how could you act so?” she added in a burst of feeling. “You have caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get over your infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye.”
She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.
This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.
“What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are you experienced?”
At The Fair, See and Company’s, and all the great stores it was much the same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later, possibly they would like to have her.
When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His umbrella and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other things, but could not be sure. Everything had not been taken.
So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now? Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a day or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone, very much alone.
Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.
Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie out. He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood and would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting to hear her foot on the stair.
When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would explain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood.
Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering around among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow restless and lit a cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an appointment at three. He began to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his umbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. It would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others. He would find out how things stood.
As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. There was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the little jacket he had first bought her — her face a little more wistful than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and looked into the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.
“You didn’t do me right, Cad,” he said, as if he were addressing her in the flesh.
Then he went to the door, took a good look around and went out.
Chapter XXVII
When Waters Engulf Us We Reach for a Star
It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets, after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it open.
“Then,” he thought, “she loves me or she would not have written to me at all.”
He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few minutes, but soon recovered. “She wouldn’t write at all if she didn’t care for me.”
This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he thought he knew.
There was really something exceedingly human — if not pathetic — in his being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for comfort — and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they bind us all.
The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could get out of the whole entanglement — perhaps it would not matter. He wouldn’t care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart.
It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away. It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.
It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away!
While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some clean linen in the morning.
This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.
“Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?” he asked of the clerk.
“I think he is,” said the latter, consulting his private registry list. “Yes.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his astonishment. “Alone?” he added.
“Yes,” said the clerk.
Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal his feelings.
“How’s that?” he thought. “They’ve had a row.”
He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As he did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie