Chapter XV

by Theodore Dreiser

　　THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES--THE MAGIC OF YOUTHThe complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with thegrowth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all thatrelated to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He satat breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his ownfancies, which reached far without the realm of their interests.He read his paper, which was heightened in interest by theshallowness 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 blissfulagain. There was delight in going down town evenings. When hewalked forth in the short days, the street lamps had a merrytwinkle. He began to experience the almost forgotten feelingwhich hastens the lover's feet. When he looked at his fineclothes, 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 dreamsto a stale practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was achain which bound his feet."George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which hadlong since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "wewant you to get us a season ticket to the races.""Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a risinginflection."Yes," she answered.The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, onthe South Side, and were considered quite society affairs amongthose 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 neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs.Ramsey, who were possessors of money, made out of the coalbusiness, had done so. In the next place, her favouritephysician, 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 exhibitJessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom shehoped to marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about insuch things and parade among her acquaintances and common throngwas as much an incentive as anything.Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments withoutanswering. They were in the sitting room on the second floor,waiting for supper. It was the evening of his engagement withCarrie and Drouet to see "The Covenant," which had brought himhome 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 getmad about it. I'm just asking you.""I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a seasonticket.""And I'm telling you," he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye onher, "that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether themanager will give it to me."He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the race-track magnates."We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply."You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs onehundred and fifty dollars.""I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "Iwant 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 modifiedtone of voice.As usual, the table was one short that evening.The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later theticket was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He didnot 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 Spencersare getting ready to go away?""No. Where, I wonder?""Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she toldme. She just put on more airs about it.""Did she say when?""Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again--theyalways do.""Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one ofthese 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 beforebeen kept in ignorance concerning departures."He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slightput upon her father."What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined tothink that he should be made to pump for information in thismanner."A tennis match," said Jessica."He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding itdifficult to refrain from a bitter tone."I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly. Inthe past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect,which was a compound of appreciation and awe. The familiaritywhich in part still existed between himself and his daughter hehad courted. As it was, it did not go beyond the lightassumption of words. The TONE was always modest. Whatever hadbeen, however, had lacked affection, and now he saw that he waslosing track of their doings. His knowledge was no longerintimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did not.He heard of their doings occasionally, more often not. Some dayshe found that he was all at sea as to what they were talkingabout--things they had arranged to do or that they had done inhis absence. More affecting was the feeling that there werelittle things going on of which he no longer heard. Jessica wasbeginning to feel that her affairs were her own. George, Jr.,flourished about as if he were a man entirely and must needs haveprivate matters. All this Hurstwood could see, and it left atrace of feeling, for he was used to being considered--in hisofficial position, at least--and felt that his importance shouldnot begin to wane here. To darken it all, he saw the sameindifference and independence growing in his wife, while helooked 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 athis house, but he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eyehe looked into her comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he hadspent several such delightful evenings, and thought how charmingit would be when Drouet was disposed of entirely and she waswaiting evenings in cosey little quarters for him. That no causewould come up whereby Drouet would be led to inform Carrieconcerning his married state, he felt hopeful. Things were goingso smoothly that he believed they would not change. Shortly nowhe 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 andhis growing affection gave him somewhat of a style. This heexercised at his office desk with perfect deliberation. Hepurchased a box of delicately coloured and scented writing paperin monogram, which he kept locked in one of the drawers. Hisfriends now wondered at the cleric and very official-lookingnature of his position. The five bartenders viewed with respectthe duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work andpenmanship.Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural lawwhich governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. Hebegan to feel those subtleties which he could find words toexpress. With every expression came increased conception. Thoseinmost breathings which there found words took hold upon him. Hethought Carrie worthy of all the affection he could thereexpress.Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are tocommand that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom.Experience had not yet taken away that freshness of the spiritwhich is the charm of the body. Her soft eyes contained in theirliquid lustre no suggestion of the knowledge of disappointment.She had been troubled in a way by doubt and longing, but thesehad made no deeper impression than could be traced in a certainopen wistfulness of glance and speech. The mouth had theexpression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who mightbe upon the verge of tears. It was not that grief was thus everpresent. The pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lipsthis peculiarity of formation--a formation as suggestive andmoving as pathos itself.There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught herdomination--superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly powerof some women. Her longing for consideration was notsufficiently powerful to move her to demand it. Even now shelacked self-assurance, but there was that in what she had alreadyexperienced which left her a little less than timid. She wantedpleasure, she wanted position, and yet she was confused as towhat these things might be. Every hour the kaleidoscope of humanaffairs threw a new lustre upon something, and therewith itbecame for her the desired--the all. Another shift of the box,and some other had become the beautiful, the perfect.On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such anature well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many aspectacle--an uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and thehelpless. She was constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men who slopped desperately by her in a sort ofwretched mental stupor. The poorly clad girls who went blowingby her window evenings, hurrying home from some of the shops ofthe West Side, she pitied from the depths of her heart. Shewould stand and bite her lips as they passed, shaking her littlehead and wondering. They had so little, she thought. It was sosad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded clothes pained hereyes."And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment.On the street sometimes she would see men working--Irishmen withpicks, coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busyabout some work which was a mere matter of strength--and theytouched her fancy. Toil, now that she was free of it, seemedeven a more desolate thing than when she was part of it. She sawit through a mist of fancy--a pale, sombre half-light, which wasthe essence of poetic feeling. Her old father, in his flour-dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in memory,revived by a face in a window. A shoemaker pegging at his last,a blastman seen through a narrow window in some basement whereiron was being melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in somewindow, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up; these took her backin fancy to the details of the mill. She felt, though she seldomexpressed them, sad thoughts upon this score. Her sympathieswere ever with that under-world of toil from which she had sorecently sprung, and which she best understood.Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whosefeelings were as tender and as delicate as this. He did notknow, but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. Henever attempted to analyse the nature of his affection. It wassufficient that there was tenderness in her eye, weakness in hermanner, good nature and hope in her thoughts. He drew near thislily, which had sucked its waxen beauty and perfume from below adepth of waters which he had never penetrated, and out of oozeand mould which he could not understand. He drew near because itwas waxen and fresh. It lightened his feelings for him. It madethe morning worth while.In a material way, she was considerably improved. Herawkwardness had all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaintresidue which was as pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoesnow fitted her smartly and had high heels. She had learned muchabout laces and those little neckpieces which add so much to awoman's appearance. Her form had filled out until it wasadmirably plump and well-rounded.Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him inJefferson Park, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy tocall any more, even when Drouet was at home.The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, andhad found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bushwhich bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of theyear when the fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. Ata little pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailingwhite canvas boats. In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttonedofficer of the law was resting, his arms folded, his club at restin his belt. An old gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair ofpruning shears, looking after some bushes. High overhead was theclean blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness of theshiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busysparrows.Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling muchof the same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, therebeing no need to write. He had come away to this place with thelightness of heart which characterises those who put wearinessbehind. Now, in the shade of this cool, green bush, he lookedabout him with the fancy of the lover. He heard the carts golumbering by upon the neighbouring streets, but they were faroff, and only buzzed upon his ear. The hum of the surroundingcity was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music. Helooked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned hispresent fixed condition not at all. He got back in fancy to theold Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solidposition for life. He remembered the light spirit in which heonce looked after the girls--how he had danced, escorted themhome, hung over their gates. He almost wished he was back thereagain--here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were whollyfree.At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy andclean. She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the seasonwith a band of pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of arich blue material, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin-stripe of blue upon a snow-white ground--stripes that were asfine as hairs. Her brown shoes peeped occasionally from beneathher skirt. She carried her gloves in her hand.Hurstwood looked up at her with delight."You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her andtaking her hand."Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?""I didn't know," he replied.He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk.Then he took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefsand touched her face here and there."Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right."They were happy in being near one another--in looking into eachother's eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had subsided, he said:"When is Charlie going away again?""I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to dofor the house here now."Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. Helooked up after a time to say:"Come away and leave him."He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the requestwere of little importance."Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rollingher gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree."Where do you want to go?" he enquired.There was something in the tone in which he said this which madeher feel as if she must record her feelings against any localhabitation."We can't stay in Chicago," she replied.He had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removalwould be suggested."Why not?" he asked softly."Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to."He listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant.It had no serious ring to it. The question was not up forimmediate decision."I would have to give up my position," he said.The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved onlyslight consideration. Carrie thought a little, the whileenjoying the pretty scene."I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said,thinking of Drouet."It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be asgood as moving to another part of the country to move to theSouth Side."He had fixed upon that region as an objective point."Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as longas he is here. I wouldn't want to run away."The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He sawclearly that this was her idea--he felt that it was not to begotten over easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowythoughts for a moment. He wondered for the life of him how itwould all come out. He could not see that he was making anyprogress save in her regard. When he looked at her now, hethought her beautiful. What a thing it was to have her love him,even if it be entangling! She increased in value in his eyesbecause of her objection. She was something to struggle for, andthat was everything. How different from the women who yieldedwillingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind."And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood,quietly.She shook her head.He sighed."You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after afew moments, looking up into her eyes.She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was prideat what seemed his admiration--affection for the man who couldfeel this concerning her."No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?"Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into thestreet."I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don'tlike to be away from you this way. What good is there inwaiting? You're not any happier, are you?""Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that.""Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting ourdays. If you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and writeto you the biggest part of the time. I'll tell you what,Carrie," he exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression intohis voice and fixing her with his eyes, "I can't live withoutyou, and that's all there is to it. Now," he concluded, showingthe palm of one of his white hands in a sort of at-an-end,helpless expression, "what shall I do?"This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. Thesemblance of the load without the weight touched the woman'sheart."Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'lltry and find out when he's going.""What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain offeeling."Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere."She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she wasgetting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a womanyields.Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to bepersuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. Hebegan to wonder how far her affection for him would carry her.He was thinking of some question which would make her tell.Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions whichoften disguise our own desires while leading us to anunderstanding of the difficulties which others make for us, andso discover for us a way. It had not the slightest connectionwith anything intended on his part, and was spoken at randombefore he had given it a moment's serious thought."Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a seriouslook which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you nextweek, or this week for that matter--to-night say--and tell you Ihad to go away--that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn'tcoming back any more--would you come with me?"His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, heranswer ready before the words were out of his mouth."Yes," she said."You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?""Not if you couldn't wait."He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thoughtwhat a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week ortwo. He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brushaway her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was toodelightful. He let it stand."Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, anafterthought striking him."If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of thejourney it would be all right.""I meant that," he said."Yes."The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wonderedwhatever could have put such a thought into his head. Impossibleas it was, he could not help smiling at its cleverness. Itshowed how she loved him. There was no doubt in his mind now,and he would find a way to win her."Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of theseevenings," and then he laughed."I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me,"Carrie added reflectively."I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand.She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved himthe more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him,the marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinkingthat with such affection there could be no bar to his eventualhappiness."Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all thelovely park."All right," said Carrie.They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them withenvious eyes."'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must berich."