________________________________________________
_ That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the
Palmer House for a bed after his work was through. He was in a
fevered state of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action
threatened to cast upon his entire future. While he was not sure
how much significance might be attached to the threat she had
made, he was sure that her attitude, if long continued, would
cause him no end of trouble. She was determined, and had worsted
him in a very important contest. How would it be from now on? He
walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his
room, putting one thing and another together to no avail.
Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her
advantage by inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him,
she would follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of
which would make her word LAW in the future. He would have to
pay her the money which she would now regularly demand or there
would be trouble. It did not matter what he did. She really did
not care whether he came home any more or not. The household
would move along much more pleasantly without him, and she could
do as she wished without consulting any one. Now she proposed to
consult a lawyer and hire a detective. She would find out at
once just what advantages she could gain.
Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points
of his situation. "She has that property in her name," he kept
saying to himself. "What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What
a fool move that was."
He also thought of his managerial position. "If she raises a row
now I'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name
gets in the papers. My friends, too!" He grew more angry as he
thought of the talk any action on her part would create. How
would the papers talk about it? Every man he knew would be
wondering. He would have to explain and deny and make a general
mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer with him and
there would be the devil to pay.
Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated
this, and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything--
not a loophole left.
Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the
approaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were,
he did not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in
this whole rout of trouble. He could arrange that
satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad to wait, if necessary.
He would see how things turned out to-morrow, and then he would
talk to her. They were going to meet as usual. He saw only her
pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not
arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be steadily
maintained. How much more pleasant it would be. Then he would
take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinkles and moisture
would return.
In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail,
but there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some
reason he felt as if something might come that way, and was
relieved when all the envelopes had been scanned and nothing
suspicious noticed. He began to feel the appetite that had been
wanting before he had reached the office, and decided before
going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop in at the Grand
Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While the
danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with
him no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time
to think, perhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely, this
thing would not drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way
out.
His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he
waited and waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite
post for an hour or more, then arose and began to walk about
restlessly. Could something have happened out there to keep her
away? Could she have been reached by his wife? Surely not. So
little did he consider Drouet that it never once occurred to him
to worry about his finding out. He grew restless as he
ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had
not been able to get away this morning. That was why no letter
notifying him had come. He would get one to-day. It would
probably be on his desk when he got back. He would look for it
at once.
After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the
Madison car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became
overcast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The
wind veered to the east, and by the time he reached his office it
was threatening to drizzle all afternoon.
He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from
Carrie. Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He
thanked his stars that he did not have to confront that
proposition just now when he needed to think so much. He walked
the floor again, pretending to be in an ordinary mood, but
secretly troubled beyond the expression of words.
At one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned
a messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap
with a feeling of doubt.
"I'm to bring an answer," said the boy.
Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and
read without a show of feeling. It began in the most formal
manner and was sharply and coldly worded throughout.
"I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to
carry out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It
doesn't matter in the least. But I must have some money. So
don't delay, but send it by the boy."
When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The
audacity of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also--
the deepest element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to
write but four words in reply--"Go to the devil!"--but he
compromised by telling the boy that there would be no reply.
Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing,
contemplating the result of his work. What would she do about
that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him
into submission? He would go up there and have it out with her,
that's what he would do. She was carrying things with too high a
hand. These were his first thoughts.
Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something
had to be done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle.
He knew her well enough to know that when she had decided upon a
plan she would follow it up. Possibly matters would go into a
lawyer's hands at once.
"Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make
it hot for her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change
her tone if I have to use force to do it!"
He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street.
The long drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars,
and trousers at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of
the umbrellaless; umbrellas were up. The street looked like a
sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving.
Trucks and vans were rattling in a noisy line and everywhere men
were shielding themselves as best they could. He scarcely
noticed the picture. He was forever confronting his wife,
demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he
worked her bodily harm.
At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the
money was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid
before Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be
taken to get it.
Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this
thing. Yes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her--
he would go up there and have a talk with her, and that at once.
He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would
have some arrangement of this thing.
He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the
North Side. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the
details of the case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe
she'd got hold of Carrie, who knows--or--or Drouet. Perhaps she
really had evidence, and was prepared to fell him as a man does
another from secret ambush. She was shrewd. Why should she
taunt him this way unless she had good grounds?
He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other--
that he had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He
would go in and see, anyhow. He would have no row. By the time
he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the difficulties
of his situation and wished over and over that some solution
would offer itself, that he could see his way out. He alighted
and went up the steps to the front door, but it was with a
nervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and
tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside. He shook
at the knob, but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No
answer. He rang again--this time harder. Still no answer. He
jangled it fiercely several times in succession, but without
avail. Then he went below.
There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,
protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against
burglars. When he reached this he noticed that it also was
bolted and that the kitchen windows were down. What could it
mean? He rang the bell and then waited. Finally, seeing that no
one was coming, he turned and went back to his cab.
"I guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the
individual who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin
raincoat.
"I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby.
Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed
moodily into the cab, relieved and distressed.
So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay.
Well, by the Lord, that did beat all! _
Read next: CHAPTER XXV ASHES OF TINDER--THE LOOSING OF STAYS
Read previous: CHAPTER XXIII A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL--ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND
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