 CHAPTER XIX. At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the makeup had been completed and the company settled down as the leader of the small hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain rising strain. Hurstwood ceased talking and went with Druitt and his friends Sagar Morrison around to the box. Now we'll see how the little girl does, he said to Druitt, in a tone which no one else could hear. On the stage six of the characters had already appeared in the opening parlor scene. Druitt and Hurstwood saw at a glance that Carrie was not among them and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part were representing the principal roles in the scene. The professional whose name was Patton had little to recommend him outside of his assurance but this at the present moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan as Pearl was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken and nothing more. It took all the hope and uncritical good nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by the unrest which is the agony of failure. Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it undurable enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterwards. After the first rush of fright however the players got over the danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward losing nearly all the expression which was intended and making the thing dull in the extreme when Carrie came in. One glance at her and both Hurstwood and Druitt saw plainly that she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage saying, And you, sir, we have been looking for you since eight o'clock. But with so little color and in such a feeble voice that it was positively painful. She's frightened, whispered Druitt to Hurstwood. The manager made no answer. She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny. Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill. It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Druitt fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit. There was another place in which Laura was to rise and with a sense of impending disaster say sadly, I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, colonnade by a married name. The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly at least. Druitt looked away from the stage at the audience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotize her into doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry for her. In a few minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a conversation between the professional actor and a character called Snorky, impersonated by a short little American who really developed some humor as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier turned messenger for a living. He bowled his lines out with such defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humor intended, they were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to Pethos, with Carrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wandered through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief. She's too nervous, said Druitt, feeling in the mildness of the remark that he was lying for once, better go back and say a word to her. It was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to the side entrance and was led in by the friendly doorkeeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue. All the snap and nerve gone out of her. Say, Cad, he said, looking at her. You mustn't be nervous. Wake up. Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraid of? I don't know, said Carrie. I just don't seem to be able to do it. Carrie was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone. Come on, said Druitt, brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out there now and do the trick. What do you care? Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous condition. Did I do so very bad? Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed me. Get that toss of your head you had at the other night. Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she could do it. What next, he said, looking at her part, which she had been studying. Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him. Well, now you do that lively, said the drummer. Put in snap. That's the thing. Act as if you didn't care. Your turn next, Miss Medenda, said the prompter. Oh, dear, said Carrie. Well, you're a chump for being afraid, said Druitt. Come on now. Brace up. I'll watch you from right here. Will you? Said Carrie. Yes. Go on now. Don't be afraid. The prompter signaled her. She started out weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially returned. She thought of Druitt looking. Ray, she said gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director at the rehearsal. She's easier, thought her squid to himself. She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct observation from her. They were making fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable in the less trying parts at least. Carrie came off warm and nervous. Well, she said looking at him, was it any better? Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You did that about a thousand percent better than you did the other scene. Now, go on and fire up. You can do it. Knock them. Was it really better? Better, I should say so. What comes next? That ballroom scene. Well, you can do that all right, he said. I don't know, answered Carrie. Why woman, he exclaimed, you did it for me. Now you go out there and do it. It'll be fun for you. Just do it as you did it in the room. If you'll reel it off that way, I'll bet you'll make a hit. Now, what'll you bet? You do it. The drummer usually allowed his ardent good nature to get the better of his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted this particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in public. His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion. When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He began to make her feel as if she had done very well. Old melancholy of desire began to come back as he talked to her, and by the time the situation rolled around, she was running high on feeling, I think I can do this. Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see. On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation against Laura. Carrie listened and caught the infection of something. She did not know what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly. It means, the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, that the society is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you heard of the Siberian wolves? Well, when one of the pack falls through weakness, the others devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is something wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with pretense, and society, which is made up of pretense, will bitterly resent the mockery. At the sound of her stage name, Carrie started. She began to feel the bitterness of the situation. The feeling of the outcast descended upon her. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapped in her own mounting thoughts. She hardly heard anything more save her own rumbling blood. Come, girls, said Mrs. Van Dam solemnly, let us look after our things. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief enters. Cue, said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear. Already she was moving forward with a steady grace born of inspiration. She dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud, shifting with the necessity of the situation to a cold, white, helpless object as the social pack moved away from her scornfully. Hurst would blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiating waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the farthest walls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yet dissolve the world, was here at work. There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling, here to forewandering. Ray, Ray, why do you not come back to her? was the cry of Pearl. Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They moved as she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her. Let us go home, she said. No, answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a penetrating quality which it had never known. Stay with him. She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with a pathos, which struck home because of its utter simplicity, he shall not suffer long. First would realize that he was seeing something extraordinarily good. It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the curtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now that she was beautiful. She had done something which was above his sphere. He felt a keen delight in realizing that she was his. Fine, he said. And then, seized by a sudden impulse arose and went about to the stage door. He came in upon Carrie, she was still with Druitt. His feelings for her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away by the strength and feeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forth his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but here was Druitt, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. The latter was more fascinated, if anything, than Hurst would. At least in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form. Well, well, said Druitt, you did out of sight. That was simply great. I knew you could do it. Ah, but you're a little daisy. Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement. Did I do all right? Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause? There was some faint sound of clapping yet. I thought I got at something like, ah, I felt it. Just then Hurst would came in. Instinctively he felt the change and Druitt. He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie and jealously leaped a light in his bosom, and a flash of thought he reproached himself for having sent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder. He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where he would have to congratulate Carrie as a friend. Nevertheless, the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph. He almost jerked the old subtle light to his eyes. I thought, he said, looking at Carrie, I'd come around and tell you how well you did, Mrs. Druitt. It was delightful. Carrie took the cue and replied, oh, thank you. I was just telling her, put in Druitt, now delighted with his possession, that I thought she did fine. Indeed you did, said Hurstward, turning upon Carrie, eyes in which she read more than words. Carrie laughed luxuriously. If you do as well, in the rest of the play, you'll make us all think you were a born actress. Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstward's position and wished deeply that she could be alone with him. But she did not understand the change in Druitt. Hurstward found that he could not talk, repressed as he was, and grudging Druitt every moment of his presence, he bowed himself out with the elegance of a foust. Outside, he set his teeth in envy. Damn it, he said. Is he always going to be in the way? He was moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking of his wretched situation. As the curtain for the next act rose, Druitt came back. He was very much enlivened and tempered, inclined to whisper, but Hurstward pretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carrie was not there. A short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her entrance. He did not see what was going on, however. He was thinking his own thoughts, and they were wretched. The progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie, from now on, was easily the center of interest. The audience, which had been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after that first gloomy impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where it was not. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented her part with some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the feeling at the end of the long first act. Both Hurstward and Druitt viewed her pretty figure with rising feelings. The fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that she should set it forth under such effective circumstances, framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights of sentiment and personality, heightened her charm for them. She was more than the old Carrie to Druitt. He longed to be at home with her until he could tell her. He waited impatiently the end when they should go home alone. Hurstward, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new attractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the man beside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he would, for once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth. It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers assumed its most effective character. Hurstward listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive. And now Carrie came in alone. It was the first time that Hurstward had had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone. For nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength, the power that had grasped him at the end of the first act, had come back. She seemed to be gaining feeling now that the play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing. Poor Pearl, she said speaking with natural pathos, it is a sad thing to want for happiness. But it is a terrible thing to see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp. She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting listlessly upon the polished doorpost. Hurstward began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself. He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a combination of feelings and entanglements, almost eluded by that quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality that it seems ever addressed to one alone. And yet, she can be very happy with him when on the little actress, her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home she turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then she found a seat by a table and turned over some books, devoting a thought to them. With no longings for what I may not have, she breathed in conclusion and it was almost a sigh. My existence, hidden from all, saved too in the wide world and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife. Hurstward was sorry when a character known as Peach Blossom interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. He was charmed by the pale face, the lice-some figure draped in pearl gray with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of protection, and under the fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight. In a moment, Carrie was alone again and was saying, with animation, I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk there. I must go, secretly if I can, openly if I must. There was a sound of horses hooves outside and then Ray's voice saying, no, I shall not ride again. Put him up. He entered and then began a scene which had as much to do with the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstward as anything in his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something of this scene, and now that the queue had come, it began to take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstward and Druid noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded. I thought you had gone with Pearl, she said to her lover. I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road. You and Pearl had no disagreement? No, yes, that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at cloudy and overcast. And whose fault is that? She said easily, not mine, he answered, pettishly. I know, I do all I can. I say all I can. But she, this was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with a grace which was inspiring. But she is your wife, she said, fixing her whole attention upon the stilled actor and softening the quality of her voice until it was again low and musical. Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy. She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly. Hurstward gazed with slightly parted lips. Druid was fidgeting with satisfaction. To be my wife, yes, went on the actor in a manner which was weak by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere which Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that he was wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of wood. The accessories she needed were within her own imagination. The acting of others could not affect them. And you repent already? She said slowly. I lost you, he said, seizing her little hand. And I was at the mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was your fault. You know it was. You did it. Why did you leave me? Carrie turned slowly away and seemed to be mastering some impulse in silence. Then she turned back. Ray, she said, the greatest happiness I've ever felt has been the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a virtuous woman. Your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments. What a revelation do you make to me now. What is it that makes you continually war with your own happiness? The last thing was asked so simply that it came to the audience and the lover as a personal thing. At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, be to me as you used to be. Carrie answered with affecting sweetness, I cannot be that to you. But I can speak in the spirit of Laura who is dead to you forever. Be it as you will, said Patton. Hurst would lean forward. The whole audience was silent and intent. Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain, said Carrie. Her eyes bent sadly upon the lover who had sunk into a seat. Beautiful or homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or refuse, her heart, drew it felt a scratch in his throat. Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments she may sell to you, but her love is the treasure without money and without price. The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as if they were alone and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow over the hopeless, pathetic and yet dainty and appealing woman whom he loved. Druid also was beside himself. He was resolving that he would be to Carrie what he had never been before. He would marry her by George. She was worth it. She only asks in return, said Carrie, scarcely hearing the small scheduled reply of her lover and putting herself even more in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra, that when you look upon her, your eyes shall speak devotion, that when you address her your voice shall be gentle, loving and kind, that you shall not despise her because she cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs. For when misfortune and evil have defeated your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you. You look to the trees, she continued, while hers would restrain his feelings only by the grimaced repression, for strength and grandeur do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is all they have to give. Remember, she concluded tenderly, love is all a woman has to give, and she laid a strange sweet accent on the all. But it is the only thing which God permits us to carry beyond the grave. The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded. They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace, continuing a power which to them was a revelation. Hirst would resolve the thousand things, drew it as well. They joined equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drew it, pounded his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again and started out. As he went, Carrie came out, and seeing an immense basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle towards her, she waited. They were hearstwards. She looked towards the manager's box for a moment, caught his eye, and smiled. He could have leaped out of the box to unfold her. He forgot the need of circumspectness which his married state enforced. He almost forgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him. By the Lord, he would have that lovely girl if it took his all. He would act at once. This should be the end of Drew it, and don't you forget it. He would not wait another day. The drummer should not have her. He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went into the lobby and then into the street thinking. Drew it did not return. In a few minutes, the last act was over, and he was crazy to have Carrie alone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling, bowing, shaming when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when he wanted to whisper to her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopes were futile. He must even take her to supper, shaming. He finally went about and asked how she was getting along. The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying about. Drew it was pilavering himself with the looseness of excitement and passion. The manager mastered himself only by great effort. We're doing supper, of course, he said, with a voice that was a mockery of his heart. Oh, yes, said Carrie, smiling. The little actress was in fine feather. She was realizing now what it was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought after. The independence of success now made its first faint showing. With the tables turned, she was looking down rather than up to her lover. She did not fully realize that this was so, but there was something in condescension coming from her, which was infinitely sweet. When she was ready, they climbed into the waiting coach and drove downtown. Once only did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was when the manager proceeded, drew it in the coach, and sat beside her. Before Drew it was fully in, she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a gentle, impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with affection. He could have sold his soul to be with her alone. Ah, he thought, the agony of it. Drew it hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled by his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die if he did not find affectionate relief. He whispered, tomorrow, passionately to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the drummer and his prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and not regret. Carrie also felt the misery of it. Good night, he said, simulating an easy friendliness. Good night, said the little actress tenderly. The fool, he said, now hating Drew it, the idiot. I'll do him yet, and that quick. We'll see tomorrow. Well, if you aren't a wonder, Drew it was saying complacently, squeezing Carrie's arm, you are the dandyest little girl on earth. End of chapter 19, recording by Bob Sage. Chapter 20 of Sister Carrie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bob Sage. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 20, The Lure of the Spirit, the Flesh in Pursuit. Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. It is no musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to sing outside of Malady's window to languish and repine in the face of difficulties. In the night, he was long getting to sleep because of too much thinking. And in the morning, he was early awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigor. He was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally. For did he not delight in a new manner in his carry, and was not druid in the way? Never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have given anything, it seemed, to have the complication ended. To have Carrie acquiesced to an arrangement which would dispose of druid effectually and forever. What to do? He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence. At breakfast, he found himself without an appetite. The meat to which he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grew cold. While he scanned the paper indifferently, here and there he read a little thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down. His wife sat at one end of the table, revolving thoughts of her own in silence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgot the napkins. On this account, the silence was irritably broken by her reproof. I've told you about this, Maggie, said Mrs. Hearstwood. I'm not going to tell you again. Hearstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now, her manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed to him. Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your vacation? It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at this season of the year. Not yet, he said. I'm very busy just now. Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you? If we're going, she returned. I guess we have a few days yet, he said. She returned. Don't wait until the season's over. She stirred in aggravation as she said this. There you go again, he observed. One would think I never did anything the way you begin. Well, I want to know about it, she reiterated. You've got a few days, he insisted. You'll not want to start before the races are over. He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to have his thoughts for other purposes. Well, we may. Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the races. What do you want with a season ticket then? She said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust, I'll not argue with you. And therewith arose to leave the table. Say, he said, rising, putting a tone of determination in his voice, which caused her to delay her departure. What's the matter with you of late? Can't I talk with you anymore? Certainly you can talk to me, she replied, laying emphasis on the word. Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. Now you want to know when I'll be ready, not for a month yet. Maybe not then. We'll go without you. You will, ah, he sneered. Yes, we will. He was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only irritated him more. Well, we'll see about that. Seems to me you're trying to run things with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settled my affairs for me. Well, you don't. You don't regulate anything that's connected with me. If you want to go, go. But you won't hurry me by any such talk as that. He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he crunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing more. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went out into the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafter arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor. His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in mind. Jessica had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they were supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In her own circle of acquaintances, several young men in whom she was interested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like to go too, and her mother agreed with her. Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however, that her husband was a brute and that under no circumstances would she let this go by unsettled. She would have a more lady-like treatment or she would know why. For his part, the manager was loaded with the cares of this new argument until he reached his office and started from there to meet Carrie. Then the other complications of love, desire and opposition possessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon eagle's wings. He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie face to face. What was the night after all without her? What the day? She must and should be his. For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feelings since she had left him the night before. She had listened to Druitt's enthusiastic wanderings with much regard for that part which concerned herself with very little for that which affected his own game. She kept him at such lengths that she could because her thoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hearstwood's passion as a delightful background to her own achievement and she wondered what he would have to say. She was sorry for him too with that peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the misery of another. She was now experiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks of the suppliance into the lines of the dispensers of charity. She was all in all exceedingly happy. On the morrow however, there was nothing in the papers concerning the event and in view of the flow of common everyday things about it, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Druitt himself was not talking so much of as for her. He felt instinctively that for some reason or other he needed reconstruction in her regard. I think, he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next morning, preparatory to going downtown, that I'll straighten out that little deal of mine this month and then we'll get married. I was talking to Mosier about that yesterday. No you won't, said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint power to jest with the drummer. Yes I will, he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding with the tone of one who pleads, don't you believe what I've told you? Carrie laughed a little. Of course I do, she answered. Druitt's assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mental observation, there was that in the things which had happened which made his little power of analysis useless. Carrie was still with him, but not helpless and pleading. There was a lilt in her voice which was new. She did not study him with eyes expressive of dependence. The drummer was feeling the shadow of something which was coming. It colored his feelings and made him develop those little attentions and say those little words which were mere four foundations against danger. Shortly after he departed and Carrie prepared for her meeting with Hurstwood, she hurried to her toilet which was soon made and hastened down the stairs. At the corner she passed Druitt, but they did not see each other. The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into his house. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room but found only the chambermaid who was cleaning up. Hello, he exclaimed, half to himself. Has Carrie gone? Your wife? Yes, she went out a few minutes ago. That's strange, thought Druitt. She didn't say a word to me. I wonder where she went. He hastened about rummaging in his valise for what he wanted and finally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his fair neighbor who was good looking and kindly disposed towards him. What are you up to? He said, smiling, just cleaning. She replied, stopping and winding a dusting towel about her hand. Tired of it? Not so very. Let me show you something, he said, affably coming over and taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had been issued by a wholesale tobacco company. On this was printed a picture of a pretty girl holding a striped parasol, the colors of which would be changed by means of a revolving disc in the back which showed red, yellow, green, and blue through the little interstices made in the ground occupied by the umbrella top. Isn't that clever? He said, handing it to her and showing her how it worked. You never saw anything like that before. Isn't it nice? She answered. You can have it if you want it, he remarked. That's a pretty ring you have, he said, touching a commonplace setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her. Do you think so? That's right, he answered, making use of a pretense at examination to secure her finger. That's fine. The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation, pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his. She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest against the windowsill. I didn't see you for a long time, she said coquettishly, repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. You must have been away. I was, said Druitt. Do you travel far? Pretty far, yes. Do you like it? Oh, not very well. You'll get tired of it after a while. I wish I could travel, said the girl, gazing idly out of the window. What has become of your friend, Hearstwood? She suddenly asked, be thinking herself of the manager, who from her own observation seemed to contain promising material. He's here in town. What makes you ask about him? Oh, nothing. Only he hasn't been here since you got back. How do you come to know him? Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month? Get out, said the drummer, lightly. He hasn't called more than half a dozen times since we've been here. He hasn't, hey, said the girl, smiling. That's all you know about it. Druitt took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as to whether she was joking or not. Tease, he said. What makes you smile that way? Oh, nothing. Have you seen him recently? Not since you came back, she laughed. Before? Certainly. How often? Why, nearly every day. She was a mischievous newsmonger and was keenly wondering what the effects of her words would be. Who did he come to see? Asked the drummer incredulously, Mrs. Druitt. He looked rather foolish at this answer and then attempted to correct himself so as not to appear a dupe. Well, he said, what of it? Nothing, replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly to one side. He's an old friend, he went on, getting deeper into the mire. He would have gone further with his little flirtation, but the taste for it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when the girl's name was called from below. I've got to go, she said, moving away from him airily. I'll see you later, he said, with a pretence of disturbance of being interrupted. When she was gone, he gave free her play to his feelings. His face, never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and disturbance which he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received so many visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hearstwood lying? What did the chamber made mean by it anyway? He had thoughts there was something odd about Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look so disturbed when he asked her how many times Hearstwood had called? By George, he remembered now there was something strange about the whole thing. He sat down in a rocking chair to think the better, drawing up one leg on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a great rate. And yet, Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be by George that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why, even last night, she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and Hearstwood too. Look how they acted. He could hardly believe they would try to deceive him. His thoughts burst into words. She did act sort of funny at times. He or she had dressed and gone out this morning and never said a word. He scratched his head and prepared to go downtown. He was still frowning. As he came into the hall, he encountered the girl who was now looking after another chamber. She had a white dusting cap on, beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Druitt almost forgot his worry and the fact that she was smiling on him. He put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing. Got over being mad, she said, still mischievously inclined. I'm not mad, he answered. I thought you were. She said, smiling. Quit your fooling around, he said in an offhand way. Were you serious? Certainly, she answered. Then with an air of one who did not intentionally mean to create trouble, he came lots of times. I thought you knew. The game of deception was up with Druitt. He did not try to simulate indifference further. Did he spend evenings here, he asked. Sometimes, sometimes they went out. In the evening? Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though. I'm not, he said. Did anyone else see him? Of course, said the girl, as if after all, it were nothing in particular. How long ago was this? Just before you came back. The drummer pinched his lip nervously. Don't say anything, will you? He asked, giving the girl's arm a gentle squeeze. Certainly not, she returned. I wouldn't worry over it. All right, he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most excellent impression on the chambermaid. I'll see her about that, he said to himself. Passionately feeling that he had been unduly wronged. I'll find out by George whether she'll act that way or not. End of chapter 20, recording by Bob Sage. Chapter 21 of Sister Carrie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bob Sage. Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 21, the lure of the spirit, the flesh in pursuit. When Carrie came, Hurst would have been waiting many minutes. His blood was warm. His nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman who had stirred him so profoundly the night before. Here you are, he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself. Yes, said Carrie. They walked on, as if bound for some objective point, while Hurst would drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty skirt was like music to him. Are you satisfied? He asked, thinking of how well she did the night before. Are you? He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him. It was wonderful. Carrie laughed ecstatically. That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time, he added. He was dwelling on her attractiveness, as he had felt at the evening before, and mingling it with feeling her presence inspired now. Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere, which this man created for her. Already, she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice. Those were such nice flowers you sent me, she said after a moment or two. They were beautiful. Glad you liked them, he answered simply. He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. All was ripe for it. His carry was beside him. He wanted to plunge in and expostulate with her. And yet he found himself fishing for words and feeling for a way. You got home all right, he said, gloomily of a sudden, his tone modifying itself to one of self-commiseration. Yes, said Carrie easily. He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her with his eyes. She felt the flood of feeling. How about me, he asked. This confused Carrie considerably for she realized the floodgates were open. She didn't know exactly what to answer. I don't know, she answered. He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment and then let it go. He stopped by the walkside and kicked the grass with his toe. He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance. Won't you come away with me, he asked intensely. I don't know, returned Carrie, still illogically drifting finding nothing at which to catch. As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her, sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed of a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before her a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the glow of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from feeling what she felt. And yet, she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did he know? What had Druitt told him? Was she a wife in his eyes or what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked and she softened and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if Druitt had told him they were not married. There was never anything at all convincing about what Druitt said. And yet, she was not grieved at Hearstwood's love. No strain of bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently sincere, his passion was real and warm. There was power in what he said. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting until she was on a borderless sea of speculation. Why don't you come away? He said tenderly, I will arrange for you whatever. Oh, don't, said Carrie. Don't what? He asked, what do you mean? There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of marriage. He himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in. He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He went on beating, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely enlisted in his plan. Won't you come? He said, beginning over and with more reverent feeling. You know, I can't do without you. You know it. It can't go on this way, can it? I know, said Carrie. I wouldn't ask if I wouldn't argue with you if I could help it. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't wanna stay away from me, do you? She shook her head as if in deep thought. Then why not settle the whole thing once and for all? I don't know, said Carrie. Don't know. Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment me. Be serious. I am. Said Carrie softly. You can't be dearest and say that. Not when you know I love you. Look at last night. His manner, as he said this, was the most quiet imaginable. His face and body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them, the whole intensity of the man's nature was distilling itself. Carrie made no answer. How can you act this way, dearest? He inquired after a time. You love me, don't you? He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed for the moment all doubts were cleared away. Yes, she answered, frankly and tenderly. Well, then you'll come, won't you? Come tonight. Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress. I can't wait any longer, urged Hurstwood. If that is too soon, come Saturday. When will we be married? She asked, diffidently, forgetting in her difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Druitt's wife. The manager started, as he was by a problem which was more difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to his mind. Any time you say, he said, with ease, refusing to discolor his present delight with his miserable problem. Saturday, asked Carrie, he nodded his head. Well, if you will marry me, then, she said, I'll go. The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had gotten to that stage now, where it was no longer colored with reason. He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its difficulties. He would not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, and trust the fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for paradise, whatever might be the result. He would be happy by the Lord if it cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth. Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his shoulder, so delightful did it all seem. Well, she said, I'll try and get ready then. Hurst would look into her pretty face, cross with the little shadows of wonder and misgiving. I thought he had never seen anything more lovely. I'll see you again tomorrow, he said joyously, and we'll talk over our plans. He walked on with her. He laid it beyond words. So delightful had been the result, he impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though there was but here and there a word. After a half hour, he began to realize that the meeting must come to an end. So exacting is the world. Tomorrow, he said at parting, a gaiety of manner adding wonderfully to his brave demeanor. Yes, said Carrie, tripping elatedly away. There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome adorer. She would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they would be happy. End of Chapter 21. Recording by Bob Sage. Chapter 22 of Sister Carrie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bob Sage. Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 22. The Blaze of the Tender, Flesh Wars with the Flesh. The misfortune of the Hearstwood household was due to the fact that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs. Hearstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences can transform it into hate. Hearstwood was still worthy, in a physical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him. But in a social sense, he fell short. With his regard, died his power to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright crime toward another. Our self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hearstwood, it discolored the very hue of her husband's indifferent nature. She saw a design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from faded appreciation of her presence. As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of the married relation on his part, served to give her notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She could see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. Every motion, every glance, had something in it of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days. Mrs. Hearstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger, a far off. This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent nature on the part of Hearstwood. We have seen with what irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement or satisfaction for him. And the open snarls with which more recently he resented her irritating goads. These little rows were really precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. That it would shower with the sky so full of blackening thunder clouds would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration of indifference to her plans, Mrs. Hearstwood encountered Jessica in her dressing room, very leisurely arranging her hair. Hearstwood had already left the house. I wish she wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast, she said, addressing Jessica while making for her crochet basket. Now, here the things are quite cold and you haven't eaten. Her natural composure was sadly ruffled and Jessica was doomed to feel the fag end of the storm. I'm not hungry, she answered. Then why don't you say so and let the girl put away the things instead of keeping her waiting all morning? She doesn't mind, answered Jessica coolly. Well, I do if she doesn't return the mother. And anyhow, I don't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such an air with your mother. Oh, mama, don't row, answered Jessica. What's the matter this morning anyway? Nothing's the matter and I'm not rowing. You must think because I indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I won't have it. I'm not keeping anybody waiting, returned Jessica sharply, stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defense. I said I wasn't hungry. I don't want breakfast. Mind how you address me, Missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now. I'll not have it. Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room with a toss of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the independence and indifference she felt. She did not propose to be quarreled with. Such little arguments were all too frequent and the result of a growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish. George Jr. manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in the matter of his individual rights and attempted to make all feel that he was a man with a man's privileges and assumption which of all things is most groundless and pointless in a youth of 19. Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling and it irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more by a world upon which he had no hold and of which he had a lessening understanding. Now, when such little things such as the proposed earlier start to walkisha came up they made clear to him his position. He was being made to follow, was not leading. When in addition a sharp temper was manifested and to the process of shouldering him out of his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick such as a sneer or a cynical laugh he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into hardly repressed passion and wished himself clear of the whole household. It seemed a most irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities. For all this he still retained the semblance of leadership and control even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display of temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing more than the feeling that she could do it. She had no special evidence wherewith to justify herself. The knowledge of something which would give her both authority and excuse the latter was all that was lacking however to give a solid foundation to what in a way seemed groundless discontent. The clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath. An inkling of untowered deeds on the part of Hearstwood had come. Dr. Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighborhood met Mrs. Hearstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hearstwood and Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale coming east on the same drive had recognized Hearstwood but not before he was quite past him. He was not so sure of Carrie, did not know whether it was Hearstwood's wife or daughter. You don't speak to your friends when you meet them driving, do you? he said jacosely to Mrs. Hearstwood. If I see them I do, where was I? On Washington Boulevard, he answered, expecting her eye the light with immediate remembrance. She shook her head. Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband. I guess you're mistaken, she answered. Then remembering her husband's pardon the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign. I know I saw your husband, he went on. I wasn't so sure about you, perhaps it was your daughter. Perhaps it was, said Mrs. Hearstwood, knowing full well that such was not the case as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She had recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details. Was it in the afternoon, she asked, artfully assuming an air of acquaintanceship with the matter? Yes, about two or three. It must have been Jessica, said Mrs. Hearstwood, not wishing to seem to attach any importance to the incident. The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the matter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least. Mrs. Hearstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought during the next few hours and even days. She took it for granted that the doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding, most likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as busy to her. As a consequence, she recalled with rising feeling how often he had refused to go places with her, to share in little visits, or indeed, take part in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion of her existence. He had been seen at the theater with people whom he called Moy's friends. Now, he was driving and, most likely, would have an excuse for that. Perhaps there were others of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so indifferent of late? In the last six weeks, he had become strangely irritable, strangely satisfied to pick up and go out whether things were right or wrong in the house. Why? She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his eye. Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be getting old and uninteresting. He saw wrinkles, perhaps. She was fading, while he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth. He was still an interested factor in the merry makings of the world while she, but she did not pursue the thought. She only found the whole situation bitter and hated him for it thoroughly. Nothing came of this incident at the time, but the truth is it did not seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only the atmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating every now and then little sprinklings of irritable conversation, enlivened by flashes of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing was merely a continuation of other things of the same nature. The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hirstwood visited the races with Jessica at a youth of her acquaintance, Mr. Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house furnishing establishment. They had driven out early, and as it chanced, encountered several friends of Hirstwood, all Elks, and two of whom had attended the performance the evening before. A thousand chances the subject of the performance had never been brought up had Jessica not been so engaged by the attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as possible. This left Mrs. Hirstwood in the mood to extend the perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long ones. It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily that this interesting intelligence came. I see, said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most attractive pattern, and had a field glass strung over his shoulder, that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening. No, said Mrs. Hirstwood inquiringly, and wondering why he should be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not been to something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say what was it when he added, I saw your husband. Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of suspicion. Yes, she said cautiously, was it pleasant? He did not tell me much about it. Very, really, one of the best private theatricals I have ever attended. There was one actress who surprised us all. Indeed, said Mrs. Hirstwood, it's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry to hear you weren't feeling well. Feeling well, Mrs. Hirstwood could have echoed the words after him open mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingled impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly, yes, it's too bad. Looks like there will be quite a crowd here today, doesn't it? The acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic. The manager's wife would have questioned further, but she saw no opportunity. She was, for the moment, wholly at sea, anxious to think for herself and wondering what new deception was this, which caused him to give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her company not wanted, and excuses being made, she resolved to find out more. Were you at the performance last evening? She asked the next of Hirstwood's friends who greeted her as she sat in her box. Yes, you didn't get around. No, she answered, I was not feeling very well. So your husband told me, he answered, well, it was really very enjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected. Were there many there? Ah, the house was full. It was quite an elk night. I saw quite a number of your friends, Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins, quite a social gathering. Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much. Mrs. Hirstwood bit her lip. So she thought, that's the way he does. Tells my friends I'm sick and cannot come. She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was something back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason. By evening, when Hirstwood reached home, she had brooded herself into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She wanted to know what this particular action of his imported. She was certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard, and evil curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of her wrath of the morning. She, impending disaster itself, walked about with gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary muscles of savagery, fixing the hard lines of her mouth. On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home in the sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie had raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who sings joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his success, proud of Carrie. He could have been genial to all the world and he bore no grudge against his wife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the atmosphere of youth and pleasure which had 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. Hirstwood. In the dining room the table was clean-laid with linen and nappery 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 underway. Out in the small backyard was George Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had recently purchased and in the parlor, Jessica was playing at the piano, the sound of a merry wolf filling every nook and corner of the comfortable house. Everyone, 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 feelings 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 and 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 contented manner, his eerie 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 here to fore 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 could 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 become entangled with a Bunko 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. He exclaimed softly as if to himself, that's funny. Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair not so much as daining a glance. He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt as if his good humor might find some outlet. Julia was probably still out of humor over that affair 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. 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 lakefront, 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 said. 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 that 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 the affair 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 someone else? She exclaimed, turning to him in 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. 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. Hearst would notice the lack of color in it. She turned upon him, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow. I want the Wakisha money tomorrow 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 rest all control from him. He felt that all his resources could not defend him. He must attack. What do you mean, he said jumping in, you want. I'd like to know what's got into you tonight. 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 anyway? 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 theater 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 two busies and can't come while you parade around and make out that I'm unable to come? I want you to know that lordly heirs have come to an end so far as I'm 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 anyone 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 a moment that he could strangle her. She gazed at him, a pythoness and humor. I'm not dictating to you, she returned. I'm telling you what I want. The answer was so cool, so rich and 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 talk to me. It was a magnificent play and it had its effect. Hearst would 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 us you please, he said at last. I'll have nothing more to do with you. And out he strode. End of chapter 22, recording by Bob Sage. Chapter 23 of Sister Carrie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bob Sage. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 23. A spirit in travail, one wrong put behind. When Carrie reached her room she had already fallen 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 Hearstwood'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 Druid 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 happened. Remember the time you were hungry? Stick to what you have. Curiously, for all her leaning toward Hearstwood, 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 and 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. Hearstwood, 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 towards affection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved. The longing to be shielded, beddered, 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 room 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. Today, she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed was she and her own thoughts. She worked about the room until druid put in an appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited and full of determination to know all about her relations with Hearstwood. Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the live long 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? Druid 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. Druid 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. Thinking about what? She returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude. Oh, nothing, nothing much. Well then, what makes you look so? Druid 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 toilet pieces which were nearest to 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. Oh, where did you go this morning? He asked, finally, 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 around 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 tonight. I feel funny, he answered. They looked at one another for a moment and then drew it plunge desperately into his subject. What's this about you and Hearstwood? He asked, me and Hearstwood? 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 drew it did not catch the full you of her face owing to the modified light of the room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with denials. Well, someone, he said. You're sure you didn't? Certainly, said Carrie. You know how often he came. Drew it pause 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 Drew it, 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 Drew it, 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 don't know, I've always known it, said Drew it. 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. Drew it, 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 Drew it, 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 had Drew it's deception. The mockery he had made of her. And 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 Drew it, little realizing the fire his remark had generated. I think I've done a great deal. You have, huh? She answered. You've deceived me, that's what you've done. You've brought your friends out here under false pretenses. 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. Drew it 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. Oh, sneaking, he asked, mildly conscious of an error on his part, but certain that he was wronged. You are, Stam Carrie. You're a horrid, conceited coward. That's what you are. And 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. Herswood. 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 out with him and that he's a married man. She paused at the sound of the last two words and rung her hands. The knowledge of Herswood'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, drew it. 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. An unfastening 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, drew it 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. Insofar 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 Druitt, and you took it. You talk as if I'd 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 tonight 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 someone else comes along, why I'm no good. I always thought it had come out this 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. 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 secured her hat and jacket and slipped the later 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 Druitt. Pack up and pull out, eh. You take that cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hirstwood 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 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. Oh, 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 Druitt 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 longer. Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so overcome she could not speak. Be reasonable now, he said. I don't want to hold you. You can go if you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows I don't want to stop you. He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the influence of his plea. You stay here now and I'll go, he added at last. Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by this thought, angered by that. Her own injustice, Hearstwoods, Druitts, the respective qualities of kindness and favor, the threat of the world outside in which she had failed once before, the impossibility of this state inside where the chambers were no longer justly hers. The effect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass of jangling fibers an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift. Say, said Druitt, coming over to her after a few moments with a new idea and putting his hand upon her. Don't, said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her handkerchief from her eyes. Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here until the month's out anyhow and then you can tell better what you want to do, eh? Carrie made no answer. You'd better do that, he said. There's no use packing up now. You can't go anywhere. Still, he got nothing for his words. If you won't do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get out. Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out the window. Will you do that? He asked, still no answer. Will you, he repeated. She only looked vaguely into the street. Ah, come on, he said. Tell me, will you? I don't know, said Carrie softly, forced to answer. Promise me you'll do that, he said. And we'll quit talking about it. It'll be the best thing for you. Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer reasonably. She felt that the man was gentle and that his interest in her had not abated and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She was in a most helpless plight. As for Druett, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover. Now, his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception and sorrow at losing Carrie, misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in some way or other and yet his rights included the retaining of Carrie, the making her feel her error. Will you, he urged. Well, I'll see, said Carrie. This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It looked as if the quarrel would blow over if they could only get some way of talking to one another. Carrie was ashamed and Druett aggrieved. He pretended to take up the task of packing some things in a police. Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain sound thoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what had she done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism. Throughout this argument, he had said nothing very harsh. On the other hand, there was Hearstwood, a greater deceiver than he. He had pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was lying to her all the while. Oh, the perfidy of men, and she had loved him. There could be nothing more in that quarter. She could see Hearstwood no more. She would write him and let him know what she thought. Thereupon, what would she do? Here were these rooms. Here was Druett pleading for her to remain. Evidently, things could go on here somewhat as before if all were arranged. It would be better than the street without a place to lay her head. All this, she thought of, as Druett rummaged the drawers for collars and labored long and painstakingly at finding a shirt stud. He was in no hurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie which would not down. He could not think that the thing would end by his walking out of the room. There must be some way round, some way, to make her own up that he was right and she was wrong. To patch up a piece and shut out Hearstwood forever. Mercy, how he turned at the man's shameless duplicity. Do you think, he said after a few moments silence, that you'll try and get on the stage? He was wondering what she was intending. I don't know what I'll do yet, said Carrie. If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends in that line. She made no answer to this. Don't go and try and knock around now without any money. Let me help you, he said. It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here. Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair. I don't want you to go up against the hard game that way. He bestowed himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on. Why don't you tell me all about this thing, he said after a time and let's call it off. You don't really care for Hearstwood, do you? Why do you want to start on that again, said Carrie? You were to blame. No, I wasn't, he answered. Yes, you were, said Carrie. You shouldn't have ever told me such a story as that. But you didn't have much to do with them, did you? Went on, drew it, anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial from her. I won't talk about it, said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn the peace argument had taken. What's the use of acting like that now, Cad? Insisted the drummer, stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. You might let me know where I stand at least. I won't, said Carrie, feeling no refuge but an anger. Whatever happened is your own fault. Then do you care for him, said drew it, stopping completely and experiencing a rush of feeling. Oh, stop, said Carrie. Well, I'll not be made a fool of, exclaimed drew it. You may trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. You can tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any longer. He shoved the last few remaining things he had laid out into his valise and snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat, which he had laid off to work, picked up his gloves and started out. You can go to the deuce as far as I'm concerned, he said. As he reached the door, I'm no sucker. And with that, he opened it with a jerk and closed it equally, vigorously. Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything else at this sudden rise of passion and the drummer. She could hardly believe her senses, so good-natured and tractable had he invariably been. It was not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A real flame of love is a subtle thing. It burns as a will of the wisp, dancing onward to fairy lands of delight. It roars as a furnace. Too often, jealousy is the quality upon which it feeds. End of chapter 23, recording by Bob Sage. Chapter 24 of Sister Carrie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Carrie Bradfield. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 24, Ashes of Tender, A Face at the Window. That night, Hearstwood remained downtown entirely, going to the Palmer House for a bed after his work was through. He was in a fevered state of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to cast upon his entire future. While he was not sure how much significance might be attached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if long continued, would cause him no end of trouble. She was determined and had worsted him in a very important contest. How would it be from now on? He walked the floor of his little office and later that of his room, putting one thing and another together to no avail. Mrs. Hearstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her advantage by inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgement of which would make her word law in the future. He would have to pay her the money which she would now regularly demand or there would be trouble. It did not matter what he did. She really did not care whether he came home any more or not. The household would move along much more pleasantly without him and she could do as she wished without consulting anyone. Now she proposed to consult a lawyer and hire a detective. She would find out at once just what advantages she could gain. Hearstwood walked the floor mentally arranging the chief points of his situation. She has that property in her name. He kept saying to himself, what a full trick that was, curse it. What a full move that was. He also thought of his managerial position. If she raises a row now, I'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name gets in the papers. My friends too. He grew more angry as he thought of the talk any action on her part would create. How would the papers talk about it? Every man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain and deny and make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer with him and there would be the devil to pay. Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything, not a loophole left. Through all of this, thoughts of Kerry flashed upon him and the approaching affair of Saturday tangled as all his matters were. He did not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole route of trouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily for Kerry would be glad to wait if necessary. He would see how things turned out tomorrow and then he would talk to her. They were going to meet as usual. He saw only her pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be steadily maintained. How much more pleasant it would be. Then he would take up his wife's threat again and the wrinkles and moisture would return. In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he felt as if something might come that way and was relieved when all the envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began to feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the office and decided before going out to the park to meet Kerry to drop in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While the danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialized and with him no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time to think perhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely this thing would not drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out. His spirits fell however when upon reaching the park he waited and waited and Kerry did not come. He held his favorite post for an hour or more then arose and began to walk around restlessly. Could something have happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached by his wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Druah that it never once occurred to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless as he ruminated and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had not been able to get away this morning. That was why no letter notifying him had come. He would get one today. It would probably be on his desk when he got back. He would look for it at once. After a time he gave up waiting and Druah really headed for the Madison car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the east and by the time he reached his office it was threatening to drizzle all afternoon. He went in and examined his letters but there was nothing from Kerry. Fortunately there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his stars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he needed to think so much. He walked the floor again pretending to be in an ordinary mood but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words. At 1.30 he went to Rector's for lunch and when he returned a messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a feeling of doubt. I'm to bring an answer said the boy. Hurstwood recognized his wife's writing. He tore it open and read without a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was sharply and coldly worded throughout. I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn't matter in the least. I must have some money so don't delay but send it by the boy. When he had finished it he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also. The deepest element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words in reply. Go to the devil. But he compromised by telling the boy that there would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing contemplating the result of his work. What would she do about that? The confounded wretch. Was she going to try to bulldoze him into submission? He would go up there and have it out with her. That's what he would do. She was carrying things with too high a hand. These were his first thoughts. Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to be done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it up. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once. Damn her, he said softly with his teeth firmly set. I'll make it hot for her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone if I have to use force to do it. He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The long drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars and trousers at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellas. Umbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a noisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they could. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was forever confronting his wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he worked her bodily harm. At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the money was not forthcoming that evening, the matter would be laid before Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow and other steps would be taken to get it. Hearst would almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing. Yes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her. He would go up there and have a talk with her and that at once. He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have some arrangement of this thing. He called the cabin was driven through the dreary rain to the north side, on the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'd got hold of Kerry. Who knows? Or drew it? Perhaps she really had evidence and was prepared to fell him as Amanda's another from secret ambush. She was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good grounds? He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other, that he had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and see anyhow. He would have no row. By the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and wished over and over that some solution would offer itself, that he could see his way out. He alighted and went up the steps to the front door but it was with a nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and tried to insert it but another key was on the inside. He shook at the knob but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell, no answer. He rang again, this time harder, still no answer. He jangled it fiercely several times in succession but without a veil. Then he went below. There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen protected by an iron grating intended as a safeguard against burglars. When he reached this he noticed that it was also bolted and that the kitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and then waited, finally seeing that no one was coming he turned and went back to his cab. I guess they've gone out, he said apologetically to the individual who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin raincoat. I saw a young girl up in that window, returned the cabby. Hurstwood looked but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily into the cab, relieved and distressed. So this was the game was it? Shout him out and make him pay? Well, by the Lord that did beat all. End of chapter 24. Recording by Cary Bradfield, St. Louis, Missouri.