_ The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling
herself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:
"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"
"It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He
was very much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he
had Carrie with him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of
the law. Therefore he was in no mood for anything save such
words as would further his plans distinctly.
Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled
between her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her
agitation. The one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.
"Where is he?"
"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take
the train. It's the quickest way."
Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness
of the city by night held her attention. She looked at the long
receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.
"How did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the nature
of his injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more
than necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of
danger.
"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go
and get you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need
for alarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you."
The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
wondering.
Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one
in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only
think of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly
away. Carrie seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated
himself.
In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he
handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.
"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the
waiting-room, "while I get the tickets."
"Have I much time to catch that train for Detroit?" he asked of
the agent.
"Four minutes," said the latter.
He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.
"Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.
"Not very," he said. "We must get right in."
He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the
ticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she
could not see, and then hurried after.
There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or
two common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made
up and few passengers were expected, there were only one or two
brakemen waiting. They entered the rear day coach and sat down.
Almost immediately, "All aboard," resounded faintly from the
outside, and the train started.
Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to
a depot--but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the
natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she
imagined.
"How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed
easier.
"Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not
bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still
nervous to reach Drouet and see what could be the matter.
Hurstwood contemplated her and felt this. He was not disturbed
that it should be so. He did not trouble because she was moved
sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the qualities in
her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how he
should explain. Even this was not the most serious thing in his
mind, however. His own deed and present flight were the great
shadows which weighed upon him.
"What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a
mistake!"
In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had
been done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive
from justice. He had often read of such things, and had thought
they must be terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he
only sat and looked into the past. The future was a thing which
concerned the Canadian line. He wanted to reach that. As for
the rest he surveyed his actions for the evening, and counted
them parts of a great mistake.
"Still," he said, "what could I have done?"
Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to
do so by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a
fruitless, harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal
with the proposition he had in the presence of Carrie.
The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran
rather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were
visible without. The engine gave short calls with its whistle,
and frequently the bell rang. Several brakemen came through,
bearing lanterns. They were locking the vestibules and putting
the cars in order for a long run.
Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent
streets flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began
its whistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger
to important crossings.
"Is it very far?" asked Carrie.
"Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could hardly repress a smile
at her simplicity. He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but
he also wanted to be well out of Chicago.
In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie
that it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.
"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far
beyond the city limits, and the train was scudding across the
Indiana line at a great rate.
"No," he said, "not where we are going."
There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in
an instant.
Her pretty brow began to contract.
"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.
He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come
now as later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle
negative.
"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of
the errand being different from what she had thought.
He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.
"Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice
showing the quality of fright.
"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come
along with me to another city,"
"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me
off. I don't want to go with you."
She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something
which had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought
now was to get off and away. If only the flying train could be
stopped, the terrible trick would be amended.
She arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. She
knew she had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on
her.
"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any
good to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll
do. Wait a moment."
She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No
one saw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the
car, and they were attempting to doze.
"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against
her will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large
tears began to gather in her eyes.
Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and
ceased to think of his own situation. He must do something with
this girl, or she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of
persuasion with all his powers aroused.
"Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I
didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything
to make you feel bad."
"Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh--oo--o!"
"There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to
me? Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do
this thing. I couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't
you listen?"
Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear
a word he said.
"Won't you listen?" he asked.
"No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me
out of this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you.
It's a shame," and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for
expression.
Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had
just cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he
could straighten this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor
would come through for the tickets. He wanted no noise, no
trouble of any kind. Before everything he must make her quiet.
"You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said
Hurstwood. "It won't be very long until we reach another
station. You can get out then if you want to. I won't stop you.
All I want you to do is to listen a moment. You'll let me tell
you, won't you?"
Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the
window, where outside all was black. The train was speeding with
steady grace across the fields and through patches of wood. The
long whistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely
woodland crossings were approached.
Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two
fares that had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood,
who handed out the tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie
made no move. She did not look about.
When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.
"You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't
mean to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I
couldn't stay away from you after the first time I saw you."
He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by
the board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no
longer be a factor in their relationship. The money he had
stolen he tried to shut out of his mind.
"Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go
away from me. I am going to get out at the very next station."
She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.
"All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After
all you have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't
want to do you any harm. I'll give you the money to go back with
when you go. I merely want to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop
me from loving you, whatever you may think."
He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply.
"You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do
it willingly. I'm through with my wife. She hasn't any claims
on me. I'll never see her any more. That's why I'm here to-
night. That's why I came and got you."
"You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You
deceived me. You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you
want to force me to run away with you."
She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again.
He let her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.
"Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me
explain. If you will only hear me out you will see where I
stand. I tell you my wife is nothing to me. She hasn't been
anything for years or I wouldn't have ever come near you. I'm
going to get a divorce just as soon as I can. I'll never see her
again. I'm done with all that. You're the only person I want.
If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again."
Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded
sincere enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a
tenseness in Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have
some effect. She did not want anything to do with him. He was
married, he had deceived her once, and now again, and she thought
him terrible. Still there is something in such daring and power
which is fascinating to a woman, especially if she can be made to
feel that it is all prompted by love of her.
The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind.
Carrie could feel that she was being borne a long distance off--
that the engine was making an almost through run to some distant
city. She felt at times as if she could cry out and make such a
row that some one would come to her aid; at other times it seemed
an almost useless thing--so far was she from any aid, no matter
what she did. All the while Hurstwood was endeavouring to
formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike home and
bring her into sympathy with him.
"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."
Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.
"When I say you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided
to put everything else behind me and get you to come away with
me. I'm going off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal
for a while, and then anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in
New York, if you say."
"I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to
get off this train. Where are we going?"
"To Detroit," said Hurstwood.
"Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and
definite a point seemed to increase the difficulty.
"Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great
danger that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but
travel with me. I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see
Montreal and New York, and then if you don't want to stay you can
go back. It will be better than trying to go back to-night."
The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie.
It seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his
opposition if she tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York!
Even now she was speeding toward those great, strange lands, and
could see them if she liked. She thought, but made no sign.
Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He
redoubled his ardour.
"Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to
Chicago any more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if
you don't come with me. You won't go back on me entirely, will
you, Carrie?"
"I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.
Hurstwood kept silent for a while.
Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to
act if she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.
"Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for
me at all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever
you say. I'll marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself
time to think it over. I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I
hadn't loved you. I tell you, Carrie, before God, I can't live
without you. I won't!"
There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which
appealed deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire
which was actuating him now. He was loving her too intensely to
think of giving her up in this, his hour of distress. He
clutched her hand nervously and pressed it with all the force of
an appeal.
The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars
on a side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few
sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining.
Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and
helplessness. Now the train stopped, and she was listening to
his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was still.
She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute
slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading.
"Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she
now had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.
"Of course," he answered, "you know I will."
Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty.
She began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.
The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the
subject.
"Aren't you very tired?" he said.
"No," she answered.
"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"
She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery
she was beginning to notice what she had always felt--his
thoughtfulness.
"Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."
She shook her head.
"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged
his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.
"There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little."
He could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat
beside her and thought a moment.
"I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.
"So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train
swept on frantically through the shadow to a newer world.
The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source
of satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most
temporary relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he
had all of his time to devote to the consideration of his own
error.
His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief.
That sum or any other could never compensate for the state which
he had thus foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his
host of friends, his name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as
he had meant to have her. He was shut out from Chicago--from his
easy, comfortable state. He had robbed himself of his dignity,
his merry meetings, his pleasant evenings. And for what? The
more he thought of it the more unbearable it became. He began to
think that he would try and restore himself to his old state. He
would return the miserable thievings of the night and explain.
Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him and
let him come back.
By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now.
They had probably notified all the police of the big cities, and
detectives would be watching for him. He remembered instances in
which defaulters had been captured. Consequently, he breathed
heavily and paled somewhat. His hands felt as if they must have
something to do. He simulated interest in several scenes without
which he did not feel. He repeatedly beat his foot upon the
floor.
Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea
what it meant or that it was important.
He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on
through to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could
have saved time. He jumped up and sought the conductor.
"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.
"Yes, the next sleeper back does."
He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided
to inquire at the depot.
The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.
"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said
to Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."
He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm
exterior. Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes.
She was drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.
The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked
warily around him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing
nothing that indicated studied observation, he made his way to
the ticket office.
"The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.
"In twenty minutes," said the man.
He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back
to Carrie.
"We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie
looked tired and weary.
"I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.
"You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said.
"I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a
handkerchief."
"You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he
explained. "You can call in a dressmaker."
Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood
breathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run
to the river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely
pulled the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a
sigh.
"It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his
relief. "We get there the first thing in the morning."
Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.
"I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry." _