_ The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact
that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it.
Mrs. Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent
influences could transform it into hate. Hurstwood 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. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her
husband's indifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and
phrases which sprung only from a 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. Hurstwood felt something,
sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off.
This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more
potent nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what
irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer
contained any amusement of 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 a sky so full of blackening thunderclouds, would
scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the
breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank
declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood
encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely
arranging her hair. Hurstwood had already left the house.
"I wish you 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," returned 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, mamma, don't row,"; answered Jessica. "What's the matter
this morning, anyway?"
"Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't 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 defence. "I
said I wasn't hungry. I don't want any 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 quarrelled with.
Such little arguments were all too frequent, 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--an assumption
which, of all things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth
of nineteen.
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 Waukesha, 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 untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come.
Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the
neighbourhood, met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days
after Hurstwood and Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington
Boulevard. Dr. Beale, coming east on the same drive, had
recognised Hurstwood, but not before he was quite past him. He
was not so sure of Carrie--did not know whether it was
Hurstwood's wife or daughter.
"You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving,
do you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.
"If I see them, I do. Where was I?"
"On Washington Boulevard." he answered, expecting her eye to
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 part in 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. Hurstwood, 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. Hurstwood, 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. Hurstwood 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 to
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 theatre with people whom
he called Moy's friends; now he was seen 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 her 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, for 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.
Hurstwood visited the races with Jessica and 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 Hurstwood, 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. Hurstwood 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. Hurstwood, 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 ever
attended. There was one actress who surprised us all."
"Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
"It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry
to hear you weren't feeling well."
Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood 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 is too bad."
"Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?"
the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.
The manager's wife would have questioned farther, 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 of the next
of Hurstwood'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?"
"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. Hurstwood bit her lip.
"So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I
am 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 Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself
into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She
wanted to know what this peculiar 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. Hurstwood. In the
dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery 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 under way. Out in the small
back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had
recently purchased, and in the parlour Jessica was playing at the
piano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner
of the comfortable home. Every one, 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 feeling 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 in 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 and contented manner, his airy grace and
smiling humour, 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 heretofore
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 should
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 became entangled with
a bunco-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.
"Ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny."
Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as
deigning a glance.
He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt
as if his good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probably
still out of humour over that affair of 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. The 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 lake front, 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 went on, 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 the 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 that affair of 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 some one else?" she
exclaimed, turning to him 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.
"Hmph!" 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. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. She turned upon
him, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow.
"I want the Waukesha money to-morrow 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 wrest all control from
him. He felt that all his resources could not defend him. He
must attack.
"What do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "You want! I'd like to
know what's got into you to-night."
"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, anyhow?"
"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 theatre 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 'too busys' and 'can't come,' while you
parade around and make out that I'm unable to come? I want you to
know that lordly airs have come to an end so far as I am
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 any one
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 the moment as
if he could strangle her.
She gazed at him--a pythoness in humour.
"I'm not dictating to you," she returned; "I'm telling you what I
want."
The answer was so cool, so rich in 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 to me."
It was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood 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 as you please," he said, at last. "I'll have nothing more to
do with you," and out he strode. _