The magnet attracting a waif amid forces

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 arm-chair 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.