Theodore Dreiser - THEODORE DREISER - Novels, Short Stories, Essays & Biographical Works

At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers. The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal on the simple ground of revelation.

When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could tell what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself.

The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again. He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money! Surely no harm could come from looking at it!

He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth, so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then he looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel! To be sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that – all of it would. No one would think anything of it either. He went into the little office and took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk and went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill it out in the big room. First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.

The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it – to ponder over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did not know what evil might result from it to him – how soon he might come to grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him, and never would have, under any circumstances.

After he had all the money in the handbag, a revulsion of feeling seized him. He would not do it – no! Think of what a scandal it would make. The police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and where? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out the two boxes and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what he was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door to, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. There were the two boxes mixed.

He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had gone. Why be afraid?

While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed. Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.

The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him and decided instantly. There was no delaying now.

“Supposing I do lay it on the top,” he said, “and go away, they’ll know who took it. I’m the last to close up. Besides, other things will happen.”

At once he became the man of action.

“I must get out of this,” he thought.

He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but one light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air, but it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.

“I wish I hadn’t done that,” he said. “That was a mistake.”

He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that quickly.

“I wonder how the trains run?” he thought.

Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past one.

At the first drugstore he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone booth inside. It was a famous drugstore, and contained one of the first private telephone booths ever erected. “I want to use your ‘phone a minute,” he said to the night clerk.

The latter nodded.

“Give me 1643,” he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.

“How do the trains leave here for Detroit?” he asked.

The man explained the hours.

“No more to-night?”

“Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too,” he added. “There is a mail train out of here at three o’clock.”

“All right,” said Hurstwood. “What time does that get to Detroit?”

He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He was relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.

“Mayhew won’t open the safe till nine,” he thought. “They can’t get on my track before noon.”

Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he got her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the nearest cab standing by.

“To Ogden Place,” he said sharply. “I’ll give you a dollar more if you make good time.”

The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop which was fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do. Reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking the servant.

“Is Mrs. Drouet in?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the astonished girl.

“Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in the hospital, injured, and wants to see her.”

The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man’s strained and emphatic manner.

“What!” said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes.

“Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The cab’s downstairs.”

Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting everything save the necessities.

“Drouet is hurt,” said Hurstwood quickly. “He wants to see you. Come quickly.”

Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.

“Get in,” said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.

The cabby began to turn the horse around. “Michigan Central depot,” he said, standing up and speaking so low that Carrie could not hear, “as fast as you can go.”

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.