“You’ll feel better when we reach Montreal,” he said.
“I haven’t an earthly thing with me,” said Carrie; “not even a handkerchief.”
“You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest,” he explained. “You can call in a dressmaker.”
Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood breathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.
“It won’t be so very long now,” he said, remembering her in his relief. “We get there the first thing in the morning.”
Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.
“I’ll see if there is a dining-car,” he added. “I’m hungry.”
Chapter XXIX. THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL: THE BOATS OF THE SEA
To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden from view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite dramatic expression—“I am going away.”
As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot Hurstwood’s presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting world to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated at all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much. Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom—who knows? Perhaps she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level of erring. She was saved in that she was hopeful.