“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.