The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

 
 

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CHAPTER XXVII 
WHEN WATERS ENGULF US WE REACH FOR A STAR 
It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets, after 
receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that Hurstwood 
found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He thrilled intensely 
as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it open. 
"Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to me at 
all." 
He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few minutes, 
but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if she didn't care for me." 
This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He could 
extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he thought he 
knew. 
There was really something exceedingly human—if not pathetic—in his 
being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so long 
remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for comfort—
and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they bind us all. 
The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from 
McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could 
get out of the whole entanglement—perhaps it would not matter. He 
wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose Carrie. 
He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a life 
continued with this lovely possessor of his heart. 
It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for consideration, 
and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and the suit. He had 
done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away. It was now a 
quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone home. He still had the 
morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last fifteen minutes passed 
away and it was five. Then he abandoned the thought of seeing them any 
more that day and turned to Carrie. 
It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He was 
not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of 
persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their 
mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away! 
While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some 
clean linen in the morning. 
This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the Palmer 
House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the stairs with a 

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key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had changed their 
abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk. 
"Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk. 
"I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry list. "Yes." 
"Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his astonishment. 
"Alone?" he added. 
"Yes," said the clerk. 
Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal 
his feelings. 
"How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row." 
He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As he did 
so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had gone to 
another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call at once. 
"I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask if Mr. Drouet is 
at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and where Carrie is." 
He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He 
decided to go immediately after supper. 
On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see if 
Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely eat, 
however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting he 
thought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to his hotel. 
"Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk. 
"No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send up a card?" 
"No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled out. 
He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place, this time walking 
boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock. 
"Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly. 
"He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this to Mrs. 
Hale. 
"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" 
"No, she has gone to the theatre." 
"Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if burdened 
with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?" 
The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking Hurstwood, 
and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes, Hooley's." 

---

"Thank you," returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly, went 
away. 
"I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he did not. 
Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought the whole 
matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he longed to see 
Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not wish to intrude 
with his plea there. A little later he might do so—in the morning. Only in the 
morning he had the lawyer question before him. 
This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising spirits. He 
was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort anxious to 
find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making the place lively with 
their conversation. A group of Cook County politicians were conferring about 
a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of the room. Several young 
merry-makers were chattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the 
theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an old high hat, 
was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood 
nodded to the politicians and went into his office. 
About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport and 
racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office came to 
the door. 
"Hello, George!" he exclaimed. 
"How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of 
him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little room. 
"What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum. Haven't 
lost at the track, have you?" 
"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other day." 
"Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that." 
Hurstwood smiled. 
While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's friends 
entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some actors began 
to drop in—among them some notabilities. 
Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in 
American resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt from 
those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it was 
toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among 
them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe the plane 
he occupied when there were those present who did not appreciate him, but, 
in situations like the present, where he could shine as a gentleman and be 
received without equivocation as a friend and equal among men of known 

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ability, he was most delighted. It was on such occasions, if ever, that he 
would "take something." When the social flavour was strong enough he 
would even unbend to the extent of drinking glass for glass with his 
associates, punctiliously observing his turn to pay as if he were an outsider 
like the others. If he ever approached intoxication—or rather that ruddy 
warmth and comfortableness which precedes the more sloven state—it was 
when individuals such as these were gathered about him, when he was one 
of a circle of chatting celebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he 
was rather relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were 
gathered, he laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right 
heartily. 
It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to crop up—
those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of the 
conversation among American men under such circumstances. 
Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company took 
leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very 
roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind, though 
clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his troubles were 
not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn over certain 
accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the cashier, who 
soon left. 
It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone to see 
that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule, no money 
except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about the place, and 
that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the owners, was joint 
keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took 
the precaution to try the cash drawers and the safe in order to see that they 
were tightly closed. Then he would lock his own little office and set the 
proper light burning near the safe, after which he would take his departure. 
Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but to-night, 
after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe. His way was to 
give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was slightly surprised at 
that, and looking in found the money cases as left for the day, apparently 
unprotected. His first thought was, of course, to inspect the drawers and 
shut the door. 
"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought. 
The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before that he 
had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He had never 
failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other thoughts. He had been 
revolving the problem of a business of his own. 

---

"I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money drawers. He 
did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a superfluous 
action, which another time might not have happened at all. 
As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks issue, 
caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but paused to 
view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers. In that were 
the receipts of the day. 
"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," his mind 
said to itself. "They must have forgotten it." 
He looked at the other drawer and paused again. 
"Count them," said a voice in his ear. 
He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack, letting the 
separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one hundred dollars done in 
packages of a thousand. He thought he counted ten such. 
"Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering. "What makes 
me pause here?" 
For answer there came the strangest words: 
"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?" 
Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his 
property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He 
was worth more than forty thousand, all told—but she would get that. 
He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers and 
closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so 
easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he went to the 
windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the door, which he 
had previously locked. What was this thing, making him suspicious? Why 
did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to the end of the 
counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and unlocked his little 
office door and turned on the light. He also opened his desk, sitting down 
before it, only to think strange thoughts. 
"The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least little crack in it. The 
lock has not been sprung." 
The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the 
entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a 
solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up and 
stood stock-still, looking at the floor. 
"What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly up 
and scratched his head. 

---

The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant 
proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his veins. It 
had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the situation. It 
also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him. He could see great 
opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh, yes, he could! He could get 
rid of his wife. That letter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow morning. 
He would not need to answer that. He went back to the safe and put his 
hand on the knob. Then he pulled the door open and took the drawer with 
the money quite out. 
With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think about 
leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with Carrie for 
years. 
Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand had 
been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a soul was 
present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. He took 
the box and the money and put it back in the safe. Then he partly closed the 
door again. 
To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the 
individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles in the 
balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless graphically 
portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of the ghostly 
clock which ticks with awful distinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," 
"thou shalt," "thou shalt not," are in no position to judge. Not alone in 
sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental conflict possible. The 
dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire toward evil, is recalled 
by a sense of right, which is proportionate in power and strength to his evil 
tendency. We must remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no 
knowledge of right is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men 
are still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It is instinct 
which recalls the criminal—it is instinct (where highly organised reasoning 
is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear of wrong. 
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 

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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 hand bag, 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 drug store he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone booth 
inside. It was a famous drug store, 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."