20330 lines
868 KiB
Plaintext
20330 lines
868 KiB
Plaintext
1900
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SISTER CARRIE
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by Theodore Dreiser
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Chapter I.
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THE MAGNET ATTRACTING: A WAIF AMID FORCES
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When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her
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total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation
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alligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow
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leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her
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sister's address in Van Buren Street, and four dollars in money. It
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was in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and
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full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret
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at parting characterised her thoughts, it was certainly not for
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advantages now being given up. A gush of tears at her mother's
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farewell kiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by the
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flour mill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh as
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the familiar green environs of the village passed in review, and the
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threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home were
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irretrievably broken.
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To be sure there was always the next station, where one might
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descend and return. There was the great city, bound more closely by
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these very trains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so very
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far away, even once she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours-
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a few hundred miles? She looked at the little slip bearing her
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sister's address and wondered. She gazed at the green landscape, now
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passing in swift review, until her swifter thoughts replaced its
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impression with vague conjectures of what Chicago might be.
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When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things.
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Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she
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rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse.
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Of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no
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possibility. The city has its cunning wiles, no less than the
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infinitely smaller and more human tempter. There are large forces
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which allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the
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most cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often as
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effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye.
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Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is
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accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roar
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of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished
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senses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to whisper
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cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things breathe
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into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, their
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beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the
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simpler human perceptions.
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Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately
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termed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power
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of observation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but
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not strong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm
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with the fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the
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formative period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness
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and an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair
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example of the middle American class- two generations removed from the
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emigrant. Books were beyond her interest- knowledge a sealed book.
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In the intuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss
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her head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet,
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though small, were set flatly. And yet she was interested in her
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charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to
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gain in material things. A half-equipped little knight she was,
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venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wild
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dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and
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subject- the proper penitent, grovelling at a woman's slipper.
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"That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little
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resorts in Wisconsin."
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"Is it?" she answered nervously.
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The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she had
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been conscious of a man behind. She felt him observing her mass of
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hair. He had been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt a
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certain interest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, and
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a certain sense of what was conventional under the circumstances,
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called her to forestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring
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and magnetism of the individual, born of past experiences and
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triumphs, prevailed. She answered.
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He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and
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proceeded to make himself volubly agreeable.
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"Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels are
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swell. You are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?"
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"Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at Columbia City.
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I have never been through here, though."
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"And so this is your first visit to Chicago," he observed.
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All the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side
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of her eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey
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fedora hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, the
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instincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her
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brain.
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"I didn't say that," she said.
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"Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air of
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mistake, "I thought you did."
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Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing
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house- a class which at that time was first being dubbed by the
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slang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of a still
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newer term, which had sprung into general use among Americans in 1880,
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and which concisely expressed the thought of one whose dress or
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manners are calculated to elicit the admiration of susceptible young
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women- a "masher." His suit was of a striped and crossed pattern of
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brown wool, new at that time, but since become familiar as a
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business suit. The low crotch of the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom
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of white and pink stripes. From his coat sleeves protruded a pair of
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linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened with large, gold plate
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buttons, set with the common yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes."
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His fingers bore several rings- one, the ever-enduring heavy seal- and
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from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was
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suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole suit was
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rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan shoes,
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highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for the order of
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intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend
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him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her first
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glance.
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Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put
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down some of the most striking characteristics of his most
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successful manner and method. Good clothes, of course, were the
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first essential, the things without which he was nothing. A strong
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physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the feminine, was the
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next. A mind free of any consideration of the problems or forces of
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the world and actuated not by greed, but an insatiable love of
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variable pleasure. His method was always simple. Its principal element
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was daring, backed, of course, by an intense desire and admiration for
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the sex. Let him meet with a young woman once and he would approach
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her with an air of kindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading,
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which would result in most cases in a tolerant acceptance. If she
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showed any tendency to coquetry he would be apt to straighten her tie,
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or if she "took up" with him at all, to call her by her first name. If
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he visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly over the
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counter and ask some leading questions. In more exclusive circles,
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on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower. If some seemingly
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vulnerable object appeared he was all attention- to pass the
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compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor car, carrying
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her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her with the hope of
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being able to court her to her destination. Pillows, books, a
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foot-stool, the shade lowered; all these figured in the things which
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he could do. If, when she reached her destination, he did not alight
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and attend her baggage for her, it was because, in his own estimation,
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he had signally failed.
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A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. No
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matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends.
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There is an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparel
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which somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and
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those who are not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on
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the way downward he will get no glance from her. There is another line
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at which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line
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the individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became
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conscious of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black
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cotton tape trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn
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state of her shoes.
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"Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your
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town. Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man."
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"Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their
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show windows had cost her.
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At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In
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a few minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of
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clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.
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"If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you
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relatives?"
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"I am going to visit my sister," she explained.
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"You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard.
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They are putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York-
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great. So much to see- theatres, crowds, fine houses- oh, you'll
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like that."
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There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her
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insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly
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affected her. She realised that hers was not to be a round of
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pleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the material
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prospect he set forth. There was something satisfactory in the
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attention of this individual with his good clothes. She could not help
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smiling as he told her of some popular actress of whom she reminded
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him. She was not silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight.
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"You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at
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one turn of the now easy conversation.
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"I don't know," said Carrie vaguely- a flash vision of the
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possibility of her not securing employment rising in her mind.
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"Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes.
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There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He
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recognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and
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beauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the
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one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner
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was simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned
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the many little affectations with which women conceal their true
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feelings. Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion- had
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she ever had one- would have warned her never to look a man in the
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eyes so steadily.
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"Why do you ask?" she said.
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"Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock
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at our place and get new samples. I might show you 'round."
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"I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether
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I can. I shall be living with my sister, and-"
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"Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and a
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little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is your
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address there?"
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She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.
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He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was
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filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of
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greenbacks. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been
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carried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller,
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a brisk man of the world, had never come within such close range
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before. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the
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air with which he did things, built up for her a dim world of fortune,
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of which he was the centre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he
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might do.
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He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett,
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Caryoe & Company, and down in the lefthand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.
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"That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching
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his name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my
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father's side."
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She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter
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from a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I travel for,"
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he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake."
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There was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be
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connected with such a place, and he made her feel that way.
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"What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write.
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"Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four West
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Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."
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He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll be
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at home if I come around Monday night?" he said.
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"I think so," she answered.
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How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes
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we mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great
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inaudible feelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying
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little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious
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of how inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise
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enough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other. He could
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not tell how his luring succeeded. She could not realise that she
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was drifting, until he secured her address. Now she felt that she
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had yielded something- he, that he had gained a victory. Already
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they felt that they were somehow associated. Already he took control
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in directing the conversation. His words were easy. Her manner was
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relaxed.
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They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trains
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flashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they
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could see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward
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the great city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some
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big smoke-stacks towering high in the air.
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Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the
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open fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the
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approaching army of homes.
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To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly
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untravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is a
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wonderful thing. Particularly if it be evening- that mystic period
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between the glare and gloom of the world when life is changing from
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one sphere or condition to another. Ah, the promise of the night. What
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does it not hold for the weary! What old illusion of hope is not
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here forever repeated! Says the soul of the toiler to itself, "I shall
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soon be free. I shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry. The
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streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me.
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The theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of
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song- these are mine in the night." Though all humanity be still
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enclosed in the shops, the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air. The
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dullest feel something which they may not always express or
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describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.
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Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by
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her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in
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the city and pointed out its marvels.
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"This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the Chicago
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River," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the
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huge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted
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banks. With a puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone.
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"Chicago is getting to be a great town," he went on. "It's a wonder.
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You'll find lots to see here."
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She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind of
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terror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a
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great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help but
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feel a little choked for breath- a little sick as her heart beat so
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fast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, that
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Columbia City was only a little way off.
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"Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door.
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They were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and
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clang of life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and
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closed her hand firmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs
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to straighten his trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip.
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"I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "Let me
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carry your grip."
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"Oh, no," she said. "I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather you
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wouldn't be with me when I meet my sister."
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"All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, in case
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she isn't here, and take you out there safely."
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"You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such
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attention in her strange situation.
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"Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They were
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under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already
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beginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train
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moving at a snail's pace. The people in the car were all up and
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crowding about the door.
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"Well, here we are," said Drouet, leading the way to the door.
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"Good-bye, till I see you Monday."
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"Good-bye," she answered, taking his proffered hand.
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"Remember, I'll be looking till you find your sister."
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She smiled into his eyes.
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They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A
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lean-faced, rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform
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and hurried forward.
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"Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was a perfunctory embrace
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of welcome.
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Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid
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all the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her
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by the hand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement.
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Her sister carried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil.
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"Why, how are all the folks at home?" she began; "how is father, and
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mother?"
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Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the
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gate leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He
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was looking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with her
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sister he turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. Only
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Carrie saw it. She felt something lost to her when he moved away. When
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he disappeared she felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister she
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was much alone, a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.
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Chapter II.
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WHAT POVERTY THREATENED: OF GRANITE AND BRASS
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Minnie's flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were then
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being called, was in a part of West Van Buren Street inhabited by
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families of labourers and clerks, men who had come, and were still
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coming, with the rush of population pouring in at the rate of 50,000 a
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year. It was on the third floor, the front windows looking down into
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the street, where, at night, the lights of grocery stores were shining
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and children were playing. To Carrie, the sound of the little bells
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upon the horse-cars, as they tinkled in and out of hearing, was as
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pleasing as it was novel. She gazed into the lighted street when
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Minnie brought her into the front room, and wondered at the sounds,
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the movement, the murmur of the vast city which stretched for miles
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and miles in every direction.
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Mrs. Hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave Carrie the
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baby and proceeded to get supper. Her husband asked a few questions
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and sat down to read the evening paper. He was a silent man,
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American born, of a Swede father, and now employed as a cleaner of
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refrigerator cars at the stock-yards. To him the presence or absence
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of his wife's sister was a matter of indifference. Her personal
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appearance did not affect him one way or the other. His one
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observation to the point was concerning the chances of work in
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Chicago.
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"It's a big place," he said. "You can get in somewhere in a few
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days. Everybody does."
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It had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get work
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and pay her board. He was of a clean, saving disposition, and had
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already paid a number of monthly instalments on two lots far out on
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the West Side. His ambition was some day to build a house on them.
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In the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carrie
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found time to study the flat. She had some slight gift of
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observation and that sense, so rich in every woman- intuition.
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She felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. The walls of the
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rooms were discordantly papered. The floors were covered with
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matting and the hall laid with a thin rag carpet. One could see that
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the furniture was of that poor, hurriedly patched together quality
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sold by the instalment houses.
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She sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it began
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to cry. Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in his
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reading, came and took it. A pleasant side to his nature came out
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here. He was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped up
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in his offspring.
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"Now, now," he said, walking. "There, there," and there was a
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certain Swedish accent noticeable in his voice.
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"You'll want to see the city first, won't you?" said Minnie, when
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they were eating. "Well, we'll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park."
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Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to be
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thinking of something else.
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|
|
|
"Well," she said, "I think I'll look around to-morrow. I've got
|
|
Friday and Saturday, and it won't be any trouble. Which way is the
|
|
business part?"
|
|
|
|
Minnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of the
|
|
conversation to himself.
|
|
|
|
"It's that way," he said, pointing east. "That's east." Then he went
|
|
off into the longest speech he had yet indulged in, concerning the lay
|
|
of Chicago. "You'd better look in those big manufacturing houses along
|
|
Franklin Street and just the other side of the river," he concluded.
|
|
"Lots of girls work there. You could get home easy, too. It isn't very
|
|
far."
|
|
|
|
Carrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighbourhood. The
|
|
latter talked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew about it,
|
|
while Hanson concerned himself with the baby. Finally he jumped up and
|
|
handed the child to his wife.
|
|
|
|
"I've got to get up early in the morning, so I'll go to bed," and
|
|
off he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall,
|
|
for the night.
|
|
|
|
"He works way down at the stock-yards," explained Minnie,
|
|
|
|
"What time do you get up to get breakfast?" asked Carrie. "so he's
|
|
got to get up at half-past five."
|
|
|
|
"At about twenty minutes of five."
|
|
|
|
Together they finished the labour of the day, Carrie washing the
|
|
dishes while Minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed. Minnie's
|
|
manner was one of trained industry, and Carrie could see that it was a
|
|
steady round of toil with her.
|
|
|
|
She began to see that her relations with Drouet would have to be
|
|
abandoned. He could not come here. She read from the manner of Hanson,
|
|
in the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the
|
|
flat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round of
|
|
toil. If Hanson sat every evening in the front room and read his
|
|
paper, if he went to bed at nine, and Minnie a little later, what
|
|
would they expect of her? She saw that she would first need to get
|
|
work and establish herself on a paying basis before she could think of
|
|
having company of any sort. Her little flirtation with Drouet seemed
|
|
now an extraordinary thing.
|
|
|
|
"No," she said to herself, "he can't come here."
|
|
|
|
She asked Minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel in
|
|
the dining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got out
|
|
Drouet's card and wrote him.
|
|
|
|
"I cannot have you call on me here. You will have to wait until
|
|
you hear from me again. My sister's place is so small."
|
|
|
|
She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. She wanted
|
|
to make some reference to their relations upon the train, but was
|
|
too timid. She concluded by thanking him for his kindness in a crude
|
|
way, then puzzled over the formality of signing her name, and
|
|
finally decided upon the severe, winding up with a "Very truly," which
|
|
she subsequently changed to "Sincerely." She sealed and addressed
|
|
the letter, and going in the front room, the alcove of which contained
|
|
her bed, drew the one small rocking-chair up to the open window, and
|
|
sat looking out upon the night and streets in silent wonder.
|
|
Finally, wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in her
|
|
chair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for the
|
|
night and went to bed.
|
|
|
|
When she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone. Her
|
|
sister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room,
|
|
sewing. She worked, after dressing, to arrange a little breakfast
|
|
for herself, and then advised with Minnie as to which way to look. The
|
|
latter had changed considerably since Carrie had seen her. She was now
|
|
a thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-seven, with ideas of life
|
|
coloured by her husband's, and fast hardening into narrower
|
|
conceptions of pleasure and duty than had ever been hers in a
|
|
thoroughly circumscribed youth. She had invited Carrie, not because
|
|
she longed for her presence, but because the latter was dissatisfied
|
|
at home, and could probably get work and pay her board here. She was
|
|
pleased to see her in a way, but reflected her husband's point of view
|
|
in the matter of work. Anything was good enough so long as it paid-
|
|
say, five dollars a week to begin with. A shop girl was the destiny
|
|
prefigured for the newcomer. She would get in one of the great shops
|
|
and do well enough until- well, until something happened. Neither of
|
|
them knew exactly what. They did not figure on promotion. They did not
|
|
exactly count on marriage. Things would go on, though, in a dim kind
|
|
of way until the better thing would eventuate, and Carrie would be
|
|
rewarded for coming and toiling in the city. It was under such
|
|
auspicious circumstances that she started out this morning to look for
|
|
work.
|
|
|
|
Before following her in her round of seeking, let us look at the
|
|
sphere in which her future was to lie. In 1889 Chicago had the
|
|
peculiar qualifications of growth which made such adventuresome
|
|
pilgrimages even on the part of young girls plausible. Its many and
|
|
growing commercial opportunities gave it widespread fame, which made
|
|
of it a giant magnet, drawing to itself, from all quarters, the
|
|
hopeful and the hopeless- those who had their fortune yet to make
|
|
and those whose fortunes and affairs had reached a disastrous climax
|
|
elsewhere. It was a city of over 500,000, with the ambition, the
|
|
daring, the activity of a metropolis of a million. Its streets and
|
|
houses were already scattered over an area of seventy-five square
|
|
miles. Its population was not so much thriving upon established
|
|
commerce as upon the industries which prepared for the arrival of
|
|
others. The sound of the hammer engaged upon the erection of new
|
|
structures was everywhere heard. Great industries were moving in.
|
|
The huge railroad corporations which had long before recognised the
|
|
prospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of land for
|
|
transfer and shipping purposes. Street-car lines had been extended far
|
|
out into the open country in anticipation of rapid growth. The city
|
|
had laid miles and miles of streets and sewers through regions
|
|
where, perhaps, one solitary house stood out alone- a pioneer of the
|
|
populous ways to be. There were regions open to the sweeping winds and
|
|
rain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long,
|
|
blinking lines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. Narrow board
|
|
walks extended out, passing here a house, and there a store, at far
|
|
intervals, eventually ending on the open prairie.
|
|
|
|
In the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping district,
|
|
to which the uninformed seeker for work usually drifted. It was a
|
|
characteristic of Chicago then, and one not generally shared by
|
|
other cities, that individual firms of any pretension occupied
|
|
individual buildings. The presence of ample ground made this possible.
|
|
It gave an imposing appearance to most of the wholesale houses,
|
|
whose offices were upon the ground floor and in plain view of the
|
|
street. The large plates of window glass, now so common, were then
|
|
rapidly coming into use, and gave to the ground floor offices a
|
|
distinguished and prosperous look. The casual wanderer could see as he
|
|
passed a polished array of office fixtures, much frosted glass, clerks
|
|
hard at work, and genteel business men in "nobby" suits and clean
|
|
linen lounging about or sitting in groups. Polished brass or nickel
|
|
signs at the square stone entrances announced the firm and the
|
|
nature of the business in rather neat and reserved terms. The entire
|
|
metropolitan centre possessed a high and mighty air calculated to
|
|
overawe and abash the common applicant, and to make the gulf between
|
|
poverty and success seem both wide and deep.
|
|
|
|
Into this important commercial region the timid Carrie went. She
|
|
walked east along Van Buren Street through a region of lessening
|
|
importance, until it deteriorated into a mass of shanties and
|
|
coal-yards, and finally verged upon the river. She walked bravely
|
|
forward, led by an honest desire to find employment and delayed at
|
|
every step by the interest of the unfolding scene, and a sense of
|
|
helplessness amid so much evidence of power and force which she did
|
|
not understand. These vast buildings, what were they? These strange
|
|
energies and huge interests, for what purposes were they there? She
|
|
could have understood the meaning of a little stone-cutter's yard at
|
|
Columbia City, carving little pieces of marble for individual use, but
|
|
when the yards of some huge stone corporation came into view, filled
|
|
with spur tracks and flat cars, transpierced by docks from the river
|
|
and traversed overhead by immense trundling cranes of wood and
|
|
steel, it lost all significance in her little world.
|
|
|
|
It was so with the vast railroad yards, with the crowded array of
|
|
vessels she saw at the river, and the huge factories over the way,
|
|
lining the water's edge. Through the open windows she could see the
|
|
figures of men and women in working aprons, moving busily about. The
|
|
great streets were wall-lined mysteries to her; the vast offices,
|
|
strange mazes which concerned far-off individuals of importance. She
|
|
could only think of people connected with them as counting money,
|
|
dressing magnificently, and riding in carriages. What they dealt in,
|
|
how they laboured, to what end it all came, she had only the vaguest
|
|
conception. It was all wonderful, all vast, all far removed, and she
|
|
sank in spirit inwardly and fluttered feebly at the heart as she
|
|
thought of entering any one of these mighty concerns and asking for
|
|
something to do- something that she could do- anything.
|
|
|
|
Chapter III.
|
|
|
|
WE QUESTION OF FORTUNE: FOUR-FIFTY A WEEK
|
|
|
|
Once across the river and into the wholesale district, she glanced
|
|
about her for some likely door at which to apply. As she
|
|
contemplated the wide windows and imposing signs, she became conscious
|
|
of being gazed upon and understood for what she was- a wage-seeker.
|
|
She had never done this thing before, and lacked courage. To avoid a
|
|
certain indefinable shame she felt at being caught spying about for
|
|
a position, she quickened her steps and assumed an air of indifference
|
|
supposedly common to one upon an errand. In this way she passed many
|
|
manufacturing and wholesale houses without once glancing in. At
|
|
last, after several blocks of walking, she felt that this would not
|
|
do, and began to look about again; though without relaxing her pace. A
|
|
little way on she saw a great door which, for some reason, attracted
|
|
her attention. It was ornamented by a small brass sign, and seemed
|
|
to be the entrance to a vast hive of six or seven floors. "Perhaps,"
|
|
she thought, "they may want some one," and crossed over to enter. When
|
|
she came within a score of feet of the desired goal, she saw through
|
|
the window a young man in a grey checked suit. That he had anything to
|
|
do with the concern, she could not tell, but because he happened to be
|
|
looking in her direction her weakening heart misgave her and she
|
|
hurried by, too overcome with shame to enter. Over the way stood a
|
|
great six-story structure, labelled Storm and King, which she viewed
|
|
with rising hope. It was a wholesale dry goods concern and employed
|
|
women. She could see them moving about now and then upon the upper
|
|
floors. This place she decided to enter, no matter what. She crossed
|
|
over and walked directly toward the entrance. As she did so, two men
|
|
came out and paused in the door. A telegraph messenger in blue
|
|
dashed past her and up the few steps that led to the entrance and
|
|
disappeared. Several pedestrians out of the hurrying throng which
|
|
filled the sidewalks passed about her as she paused, hesitating. She
|
|
looked helplessly around, and then, seeing herself observed,
|
|
retreated. It was too difficult a task. She could not go past them.
|
|
|
|
So severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves. Her feet carried
|
|
her mechanically forward, every foot of her progress being a
|
|
satisfactory portion of a flight which she gladly made. Block after
|
|
block passed by. Upon street-lamps at the various corners she read
|
|
names such as Madison, Monroe, La Salle, Clark, Dearborn, State, and
|
|
still she went, her feet beginning to tire upon the broad stone
|
|
flagging. She was pleased in part that the streets were bright and
|
|
clean. The morning sun, shining down with steadily increasing
|
|
warmth, made the shady side of the streets pleasantly cool. She looked
|
|
at the blue sky overhead with more realisation of its charm than had
|
|
ever come to her before.
|
|
|
|
Her cowardice began to trouble her in a way. She turned back,
|
|
resolving to bunt up Storm and King and enter. On the way she
|
|
encountered a great wholesale shoe company, through the broad plate
|
|
windows of which she saw an enclosed executive department, hidden by
|
|
frosted glass. Without this enclosure, but just within the street
|
|
entrance, sat a grey-haired gentleman at a small table, with a large
|
|
open ledger before him. She walked by this institution several times
|
|
hesitating, but, finding herself unobserved, faltered past the
|
|
screen door and stood humbly waiting.
|
|
|
|
"Well, young lady," observed the old gentleman, looking at her
|
|
somewhat kindly, "what is it you wish?"
|
|
|
|
"I am, that is, do you- I mean, do you need any help?" she
|
|
stammered.
|
|
|
|
"Not just at present," he answered smiling. "Not just at present.
|
|
Come in some time next week. Occasionally we need some one."
|
|
|
|
She received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out. The
|
|
pleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her. She had
|
|
expected that it would be more difficult, that something cold and
|
|
harsh would be said- she knew not what. That she had not been put to
|
|
shame and made to feel her unfortunate position, seemed remarkable.
|
|
|
|
Somewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure. It
|
|
was a clothing company, and more people were in evidence- well-dressed
|
|
men of forty and more, surrounded by brass railings.
|
|
|
|
An office boy approached her.
|
|
|
|
"Who is it you wish to see?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"I want to see the manager," she said.
|
|
|
|
He ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who were
|
|
conferring together. One of these came towards her.
|
|
|
|
"Well?" he said coldly. The greeting drove all courage from her at
|
|
once.
|
|
|
|
"Do you need any help?" she stammered.
|
|
|
|
"No," he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel.
|
|
|
|
She went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging the
|
|
door for her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd. It was a
|
|
severe setback to her recently pleased mental state.
|
|
|
|
Now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there,
|
|
seeing one great company after another, but finding no courage to
|
|
prosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with it hunger.
|
|
She hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed
|
|
to find that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. A
|
|
bowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly
|
|
eaten, she went out again. It restored her strength somewhat and
|
|
made her moderately bold to pursue the search.
|
|
|
|
In walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she again
|
|
encountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time managed to get
|
|
in. Some gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice
|
|
of her. She was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. When
|
|
the limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned to
|
|
by a man at one of the many desks within the near-by railing.
|
|
|
|
"Who is it you wish to see?" he inquired.
|
|
|
|
"Why, any one, if you please," she answered. "I am looking for
|
|
something to do."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus," he returned. "Sit down," and he
|
|
pointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall. He went on leisurely
|
|
writing, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in from
|
|
the street.
|
|
|
|
"Mr. McManus," called the man at the desk, "this young woman wants
|
|
to see you."
|
|
|
|
The short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose and
|
|
came forward.
|
|
|
|
"What can I do for you, miss?" he inquired, surveying her curiously.
|
|
|
|
"I want to know if I can get a position," she inquired.
|
|
|
|
"As what?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Not as anything in particular," she faltered.
|
|
|
|
"Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods
|
|
business?" he questioned.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," she replied.
|
|
|
|
"Are you a stenographer or typewriter?"
|
|
|
|
"No, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Well, we haven't anything here," he said. "We employ only
|
|
experienced help."
|
|
|
|
She began to step backward toward the door, when something about her
|
|
plaintive face attracted him.
|
|
|
|
"Have you ever worked at anything before?" he inquired.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, it's hardly possible that you would get anything to do
|
|
in a wholesale house of this kind. Have you tried the department
|
|
stores?"
|
|
|
|
She acknowledged that she had not.
|
|
|
|
"Well, if I were you," he said, looking at her rather genially "I
|
|
would try the department stores. They often need young women as
|
|
clerks."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you," she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of
|
|
friendly interest.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he said, as she moved toward the door, "you try the
|
|
department stores," and off he went.
|
|
|
|
At that time the department store was in its earliest form of
|
|
successful operation, and there were not many. The first three in
|
|
the United States, established about 1884, were in Chicago. Carrie was
|
|
familiar with the names of several through the advertisements in the
|
|
"Daily News," and now proceeded to seek them. The words of Mr. McManus
|
|
had somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low,
|
|
and she dared to hope that this new line would offer her something.
|
|
Some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter
|
|
the buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting
|
|
a hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the
|
|
semblance of search, without the reality, gives. At last she
|
|
inquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed "two
|
|
blocks up," where she would find "The Fair."
|
|
|
|
The nature of these vast retail combinations, should they ever
|
|
permanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in the
|
|
commercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modest
|
|
trade principle the world had never witnessed up to that time. They
|
|
were along the line of the most effective retail organisation, with
|
|
hundreds of stores coordinated into one and laid out upon the most
|
|
imposing and economic basis. They were handsome, bustling,
|
|
successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of patrons.
|
|
Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable
|
|
displays of trinkets, dress goods, stationery, and jewelry. Each
|
|
separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction.
|
|
She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable upon
|
|
her personally, and yet she did not stop. There was nothing there
|
|
which she could not have used- nothing which she did not long to
|
|
own. The dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled
|
|
skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all
|
|
touched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact
|
|
that not any of these things were in the range of her purchase. She
|
|
was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average
|
|
employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation.
|
|
|
|
It must not be thought that any one could have mistaken her for a
|
|
nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold,
|
|
calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not. But women
|
|
are peculiarly sensitive to their adornment.
|
|
|
|
Not only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new
|
|
and pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touch
|
|
at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushing
|
|
past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlisted
|
|
in the materials which the store contained. Carrie was not familiar
|
|
with the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neither
|
|
had she before known the nature and appearance of the shop girls
|
|
with whom she now compared poorly. They were pretty in the main,
|
|
some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference which
|
|
added, in the case of the more favoured, a certain piquancy. Their
|
|
clothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever she
|
|
encountered the eye of one it was only to recognise in it a keen
|
|
analysis of her own position- her individual shortcomings of dress and
|
|
that shadow of manner which she thought must hang about her and make
|
|
clear to all who and what she was. A flame of envy lighted in her
|
|
heart. She realised in a dim way how much the city held- wealth,
|
|
fashion, ease- every adornment for women, and she longed for dress and
|
|
beauty with a whole heart.
|
|
|
|
On the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after
|
|
some inquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girls
|
|
ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of that
|
|
self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city lends;
|
|
girls who scrutinised her in a painful manner. After a wait of perhaps
|
|
three-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn.
|
|
|
|
"Now," said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a
|
|
roll-top desk near the window, "have you ever worked in any other
|
|
store?"
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you haven't," he said, eyeing her keenly.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," she replied.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we prefer young women just now with some experience. I
|
|
guess we can't use you."
|
|
|
|
Carrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether the
|
|
interview had terminated.
|
|
|
|
"Don't wait!" he exclaimed. "Remember we are very busy here."
|
|
|
|
Carrie began to move quickly to the door.
|
|
|
|
"Hold on," he said, calling her back. "Give me your name and
|
|
address. We want girls occasionally."
|
|
|
|
When she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcely
|
|
restrain the tears. It was not so much the particular rebuff which she
|
|
had just experienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day. She was
|
|
tired and nervous. She abandoned the thought of appealing to the other
|
|
department stores and now wandered on, feeling a certain safety and
|
|
relief in mingling with the crowd.
|
|
|
|
In her indifferent wandering she turned into Jackson Street, not far
|
|
from the river, and was keeping her way along the south side of that
|
|
imposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper, written on with
|
|
marking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her attention. It
|
|
read, "Girls wanted- wrappers & stitchers." She hesitated a moment,
|
|
then entered.
|
|
|
|
The firm of Speigelheim & Co., makers of boys' caps, occupied one
|
|
floor of the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet in
|
|
depth. It was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portions
|
|
having incandescent lights, filled with machines and work benches.
|
|
At the latter laboured quite a company of girls and some men. The
|
|
former were drabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil and
|
|
dust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more or
|
|
less worn shoes. Many of them had their sleeves rolled up, revealing
|
|
bare arms, and in some cases, owing to the heat, their dresses were
|
|
open at the neck. They were a fair type of nearly the lowest order
|
|
of shop-girls- careless, slouchy, and more or less pale from
|
|
confinement. They were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, and
|
|
strong in daring and slang.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that she
|
|
did not want to work here. Aside from making her uncomfortable by
|
|
sidelong glances, no one paid her the least attention. She waited
|
|
until the whole department was aware of her presence. Then some word
|
|
was sent around, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt sleeves, the
|
|
latter rolled up to his shoulders, approached.
|
|
|
|
"Do you want to see me?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Do you need any help?" said Carrie, already learning directness
|
|
of address.
|
|
|
|
"Do you know how to stitch caps?" he returned.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," she replied.
|
|
|
|
"Have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?" he
|
|
inquired.
|
|
|
|
She answered that she had not.
|
|
|
|
"Well," said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we do
|
|
need a stitcher. We like experienced help, though. We've hardly got
|
|
time to break people in." He paused and looked away out of the window.
|
|
"We might, though, put you at finishing," he concluded reflectively.
|
|
|
|
"How much do you pay a week?" ventured Carrie, emboldened by a
|
|
certain softness in the man's manner and his simplicity of address.
|
|
|
|
"Three and a half," he answered.
|
|
|
|
"Oh," she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed
|
|
her thoughts to die without expression.
|
|
|
|
"We're not exactly in need of anybody," he went on vaguely,
|
|
looking her over as one would a package. "You can come on Monday
|
|
morning, though," he added, "and I'll put you to work."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you," said Carrie weakly.
|
|
|
|
"If you come, bring an apron," he added.
|
|
|
|
He walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never so
|
|
much as inquiring her name.
|
|
|
|
While the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the price
|
|
paid per week operated very much as a blow to Carrie's fancy, the fact
|
|
that work of any kind was offered after so rude a round of
|
|
experience was gratifying. She could not begin to believe that she
|
|
would take the place, modest as her aspirations were. She had been
|
|
used to better than that. Her mere experience and the free out-of-door
|
|
life of the country caused her nature to revolt at such confinement.
|
|
Dirt had never been her share. Her sister's flat was clean. This place
|
|
was grimy and low, the girls were careless and hardened. They must
|
|
be bad-minded and hearted, she imagined. Still, a place had been
|
|
offered her. Surely Chicago was not so bad if she could find one place
|
|
in one day. She might find another and better later.
|
|
|
|
Her subsequent experiences were not of a reassuring nature, however.
|
|
From all the more pleasing or imposing places she was turned away
|
|
abruptly with the most chilling formality. In others where she applied
|
|
only the experienced were required. She met with painful rebuffs,
|
|
the most trying of which had been in a manufacturing cloak house,
|
|
where she had gone to the fourth floor to inquire.
|
|
|
|
"No, no," said the foreman, a rough, heavily built individual, who
|
|
looked after a miserably lighted workshop, "we don't want any one.
|
|
Don't come here."
|
|
|
|
With the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, and
|
|
her strength. She had been astonishingly persistent. So earnest an
|
|
effort was well deserving of a better reward. On every hand, to her
|
|
fatigued senses, the great business portion grew larger, harder,
|
|
more stolid in its indifference. It seemed as if it was all closed
|
|
to her, that the struggle was too fierce for her to hope to do
|
|
anything at all. Men and women hurried by in long, shifting lines. She
|
|
felt the flow of the tide of effort and interest- felt her own
|
|
helplessness without quite realising the wisp on the tide that she
|
|
was. She cast about vainly for some possible place to apply, but found
|
|
no door which she had the courage to enter. It would be the same thing
|
|
all over. The old humiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial.
|
|
Sick at heart and in body, she turned to the west, the direction of
|
|
Minnie's flat, which she had now fixed in mind, and began that
|
|
wearisome, baffled retreat which the seeker for employment at
|
|
nightfall too often makes. In passing through Fifth Avenue, south
|
|
towards Van Buren Street, where she intended to take a car, she passed
|
|
the door of a large wholesale shoe house, through the plate-glass
|
|
window of which she could see a middle-aged gentleman sitting a a
|
|
small desk. One of those forlorn impulses which often grow out of a
|
|
fixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting of a baffled and uprooted
|
|
growth of ideas, seized upon her. She walked deliberately through
|
|
the door and up to the gentleman, who looked at her weary face with
|
|
partially awakened interest.
|
|
|
|
"What is it?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"Can you give me something to do?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Now, I really don't know," he said kindly. "What kind of work is it
|
|
you want- you're not a typewriter, are you?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," answered Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we only employ book-keepers and typewriters here. You might
|
|
go around to the side and inquire upstairs. They did want some help
|
|
upstairs a few days ago. Ask for Mr. Brown."
|
|
|
|
She hastened around to the side entrance and was taken up by the
|
|
elevator to the fourth floor.
|
|
|
|
"Call Mr. Brown, Willie," said the elevator man to a boy near by.
|
|
|
|
Willie went off and presently returned with the information that Mr.
|
|
Brown said she should sit down and that he would be around in a little
|
|
while.
|
|
|
|
It was a portion of the stock room which gave no idea of the general
|
|
character of the place, and Carrie could form no opinion of the nature
|
|
of the work.
|
|
|
|
"So you want something to do," said Mr. Brown, after he inquired
|
|
concerning the nature of her errand. "Have you ever been employed in a
|
|
shoe factory before?"
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"What is your name?" he inquired, and being informed, "Well, I don't
|
|
know as I have anything for you. Would you work for four and a half
|
|
a week?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it was
|
|
considerable. She had not expected that he would offer her less than
|
|
six. She acquiesced, however, and he took her name and address.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, finally, "you report here at eight o'clock Monday
|
|
morning. I think I can find something for you to do."
|
|
|
|
He left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found
|
|
something at last. Instantly the blood crept warmly over her body. Her
|
|
nervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy street and
|
|
discovered a new atmosphere. Behold, the throng was moving with a
|
|
lightsome step. She noticed that men and women were smiling. Scraps of
|
|
conversation and notes of laughter floated to her. The air was
|
|
light. People were already pouring out of the buildings, their
|
|
labour ended for the day. She noticed that they were pleased, and
|
|
thoughts of her sister's home and the meal that would be awaiting
|
|
her quickened her steps. She hurried on, tired perhaps, but no
|
|
longer weary of foot. What would not Minnie say! Ah, the long winter
|
|
in Chicago- the lights, the crowd, the amusement! This was a great,
|
|
pleasing metropolis after all. Her new firm was a goodly
|
|
institution. Its windows were of huge plate glass. She could
|
|
probably do well there. Thoughts of Drouet returned- of the things
|
|
he had told her. She now felt that life was better, that it was
|
|
livelier, sprightlier. She boarded a car in the best of spirits,
|
|
feeling her blood still flowing pleasantly. She would live in Chicago,
|
|
her mind kept saying to itself. She would have a better time than
|
|
she had ever had before- she would be happy.
|
|
|
|
Chapter IV.
|
|
|
|
THE SPENDINGS OF FANCY: FACTS ANSWER WITH SNEERS
|
|
|
|
For the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flown
|
|
speculations.
|
|
|
|
Her fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements which
|
|
would have been much more becoming had she been cradled a child of
|
|
fortune. With ready will and quick mental selection she scattered
|
|
her meagre four-fifty per week with a swift and graceful hand. Indeed,
|
|
as she sat in her rocking-chair these several evenings before going to
|
|
bed and looked out upon the pleasantly lighted street, this money
|
|
cleared for its prospective possessor the way to every joy and every
|
|
bauble which the heart of woman may desire. "I will have a fine time,"
|
|
she thought.
|
|
|
|
Her sister Minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations,
|
|
though they exhausted the markets of delight. She was too busy
|
|
scrubbing the kitchen woodwork and calculating the purchasing power of
|
|
eighty cents for Sunday's dinner. When Carrie had returned home,
|
|
flushed with her first success and ready, for all her weariness, to
|
|
discuss the now interesting events which led up to her achievement,
|
|
the former had merely smiled approvingly and inquired whether she
|
|
would have to spend any of it for car fare. This consideration had not
|
|
entered in before, and it did not now for long affect the glow of
|
|
Carrie's enthusiasm. Disposed as she then was to calculate upon that
|
|
vague basis which allows the subtraction of one sum from another
|
|
without any perceptible diminution, she was happy.
|
|
|
|
When Hanson came home at seven o'clock, he was inclined to be a
|
|
little crusty- his usual demeanour before supper. This never showed so
|
|
much in anything he said as in a certain solemnity of countenance
|
|
and the silent manner in which he slopped about. He had a pair of
|
|
yellow carpet slippers which he enjoyed wearing, and these he would
|
|
immediately substitute for his solid pair of shoes. This, and
|
|
washing his face with the aid of common washing soap until it glowed a
|
|
shiny red, constituted his only preparation for his evening meal. He
|
|
would then get his evening paper and read in silence.
|
|
|
|
For a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, and
|
|
so affected Carrie. Indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of the
|
|
flat, as such things are inclined to do, and gave to his wife's mind
|
|
its subdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid taciturn replies. Under
|
|
the influence of Carrie's announcement he brightened up somewhat.
|
|
|
|
"You didn't lose any time, did you?" he remarked, smiling a little.
|
|
|
|
"No," returned Carrie with a touch of pride.
|
|
|
|
He asked her one or two more questions and then turned to play
|
|
with the baby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again by
|
|
Minnie at the table.
|
|
|
|
Carrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level of
|
|
observation which prevailed in the flat.
|
|
|
|
"It seems to be such a large company," she said at one place. "Great
|
|
big plate-glass windows and lots of clerks. The man I saw said they
|
|
hired ever so many people."
|
|
|
|
"It's not very hard to get work now," put in Hanson, "if you look
|
|
right."
|
|
|
|
Minnie, under the warming influence of Carrie's good spirits and her
|
|
husband's somewhat conversational mood, began to tell Carrie of some
|
|
of the well-known things to see- things the enjoyment of which cost
|
|
nothing.
|
|
|
|
"You'd like to see Michigan Avenue. There are such fine houses. It
|
|
is such a fine street."
|
|
|
|
"Where is 'H. R. Jacob's'?" interrupted Carrie, mentioning one of
|
|
the theatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the time.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, it's not very far from here," answered Minnie. "It's in
|
|
Halstead Street, right up here."
|
|
|
|
"How I'd like to go there. I crossed Halstead Street to-day,
|
|
didn't I?"
|
|
|
|
At this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. Thoughts are a
|
|
strangely permeating factor. At her suggestion of going to the
|
|
theatre, the unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of those
|
|
things which involved the expenditure of money- shades of feeling
|
|
which arose in the mind of Hanson and then in Minnie- slightly
|
|
affected the atmosphere of the table. Minnie answered "yes," but
|
|
Carrie could feel that going to the theatre was poorly advocated here.
|
|
The subject was put off for a little while until Hanson, through
|
|
with his meal, took his paper and went into the front room.
|
|
|
|
When they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freer
|
|
conversation, Carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they worked
|
|
at the dishes.
|
|
|
|
"I should like to walk up and see Halstead Street, if it isn't too
|
|
far," said Carrie, after a time. "Why don't we go to the theatre
|
|
to-night?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't think Sven would want to go to-night," returned Minnie.
|
|
"He has to get up so early."
|
|
|
|
"He wouldn't mind- he'd enjoy it," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"No, he doesn't go very often," returned Minnie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'd like to go," rejoined Carrie. "Let's you and me go."
|
|
|
|
Minnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go- for
|
|
that point was already negatively settled with her- but upon some
|
|
means of diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other topic.
|
|
|
|
"We'll go some other time," she said at last, finding no ready means
|
|
of escape.
|
|
|
|
Carrie sensed the root of the opposition at once.
|
|
|
|
"I have some money," she said. "You go with me."
|
|
|
|
Minnie shook her head.
|
|
|
|
"He could go along," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"No," returned Minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown the
|
|
conversation. "He wouldn't."
|
|
|
|
It had been several years since Minnie had seen Carrie, and in
|
|
that time that latter's character had developed a few shades.
|
|
Naturally timid in all things that related to her own advancement, and
|
|
especially so when without power or resource, her craving for pleasure
|
|
was so strong that it was the one stay of her nature. She would
|
|
speak for that when silent on all else.
|
|
|
|
"Ask him," she pleaded softly.
|
|
|
|
Minnie was thinking of the resource which Carrie's board would
|
|
add. It would pay the rent and would make the subject of expenditure a
|
|
little less difficult to talk about with her husband. But if Carrie
|
|
was going to think of running around in the beginning there would be a
|
|
hitch somewhere. Unless Carrie submitted to a solemn round of industry
|
|
and saw the need of hard work without longing for play, how was her
|
|
coming to the city to profit them? These thoughts were not those of
|
|
a cold, hard nature at all. They were the serious reflections of a
|
|
mind which invariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, to
|
|
such surroundings as its industry could make for it.
|
|
|
|
At last she yielded enough to ask Hanson. It was a half-hearted
|
|
procedure without a shade of desire on her part.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie wants us to go to the theatre," she said, looking in upon
|
|
her husband. Hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged a
|
|
mild look, which said as plainly as anything: "This isn't what we
|
|
expected."
|
|
|
|
"I don't care to go," he returned. "What does she want to see?"
|
|
|
|
"H. R. Jacob's," said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
He looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively.
|
|
|
|
When Carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained a
|
|
still clearer feeling of their way of life. It weighed on her, but
|
|
took no definite form of opposition.
|
|
|
|
"I think I'll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs," she
|
|
said, after a time.
|
|
|
|
Minnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and went
|
|
below.
|
|
|
|
"Where has Carrie gone?" asked Hanson, coming back into the
|
|
dining-room when he heard the door close.
|
|
|
|
"She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs," answered
|
|
Minnie. "I guess she just wants to look out a while."
|
|
|
|
"She oughtn't to be thinking about spending her money on theatres
|
|
already, do you think?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"She just feels a little curious, I guess," ventured Minnie.
|
|
"Everything is so new."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his forehead
|
|
slightly wrinkled.
|
|
|
|
He was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which
|
|
a young girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie could
|
|
contemplate such a course when she had so little, as yet, with which
|
|
to do.
|
|
|
|
On Saturday Carrie went out by herself- first toward the river,
|
|
which interested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which was
|
|
then lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequently
|
|
caused it to be made into a boulevard. She was struck with the
|
|
evidences of wealth, although there was, perhaps, not a person on
|
|
the street worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. She was glad to
|
|
be out of the flat, because already she felt that it was a narrow,
|
|
humdrum place, and that interest and joy lay elsewhere. Her thoughts
|
|
now were of a more liberal character, and she punctuated them with
|
|
speculations as to the whereabouts of Drouet. She was not sure but
|
|
that he might call anyhow Monday night, and, while she felt a little
|
|
disturbed at the possibility, there was, nevertheless, just the
|
|
shade of a wish that he would.
|
|
|
|
On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed
|
|
herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of
|
|
light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she had
|
|
worn all summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and her
|
|
necktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and much
|
|
wearing impart. She made a very average looking shop-girl with the
|
|
exception of her features. These were slightly more even than
|
|
common, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance.
|
|
|
|
It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is
|
|
used to sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at home.
|
|
She gained some inkling of the character of Hanson's life when, half
|
|
asleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six o'clock and saw him
|
|
silently finishing his breakfast. By the time she was dressed he was
|
|
gone, and she, Minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter being
|
|
just old enough to sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with a
|
|
spoon. Her spirits were greatly subdued now when the fact of
|
|
entering upon strange and untried duties confronted her. Only the
|
|
ashes of all her fine fancies were remaining- ashes still
|
|
concealing, nevertheless, a few red embers of hope. So subdued was she
|
|
by her weakening nerves, that she ate quite in silence, going over
|
|
imaginary conceptions of the character of the shoe company the
|
|
nature of the work, her employer's attitude. She was vaguely feeling
|
|
that she would come in contact with the great owners, that her work
|
|
would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on.
|
|
|
|
"Well, good luck," said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They had
|
|
agreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she could
|
|
do it every day- sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an item
|
|
under the circumstances.
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you how it goes to-night," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Once in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in either
|
|
direction, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the
|
|
small clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men and
|
|
women generally coming out of doors and passing about the
|
|
neighbourhood, Carrie felt slightly reassured. In the sunshine of
|
|
the morning, beneath the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind
|
|
astir, what fears, except the most desperate, can find a harbourage?
|
|
In the night, or the gloomy chambers of the day, fears and
|
|
misgivings wax strong, but out in the sunlight there is, for a time,
|
|
cessation even of the terror of death.
|
|
|
|
Carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and then
|
|
turned into Fifth Avenue. The thoroughfare, in this part, was like a
|
|
walled canon of brown stone and dark red brick. The big windows looked
|
|
shiny and clean. Trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men and
|
|
women, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. She met
|
|
girls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for her
|
|
diffidence. She wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the
|
|
importance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. Dread
|
|
at her own inefficiency crept upon her. She would not know how, she
|
|
would not be quick enough. Had not all the other places refused her
|
|
because she did not know something or other? She would be scolded,
|
|
abused, ignominiously discharged.
|
|
|
|
It was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that
|
|
she came up to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue and
|
|
entered the elevator. When she stepped out on the fourth floor there
|
|
was no one at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling.
|
|
She stood, very much frightened, awaiting some one.
|
|
|
|
Presently Mr. Brown came up. He did not seem to recognise her.
|
|
|
|
"What is it you want?" he inquired.
|
|
|
|
Carrie's heart sank.
|
|
|
|
"You said I should come this morning to see about work-"
|
|
|
|
"Oh," he interrupted. "Um- yes. What is your name?"
|
|
|
|
"Carrie Meeber."
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said he. "You come with me."
|
|
|
|
He led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell of
|
|
new shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into the
|
|
factory proper. There was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking,
|
|
rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue gingham
|
|
aprons were working. She followed him diffidently through the
|
|
clattering automatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, and
|
|
flushing slightly. They crossed to a far corner and took an elevator
|
|
to the sixth floor. Out of the array of machines and benches, Mr.
|
|
Brown signalled a foreman.
|
|
|
|
"This is the girl," he said, and turning to Carrie, "You go with
|
|
him." He then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to a
|
|
little desk in a corner, which he used as a kind of official centre.
|
|
|
|
"You've never worked at anything like this before, have you?" he
|
|
questioned, rather sternly.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," she answered.
|
|
|
|
He seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but put
|
|
down her name and then led her across to where a line of girls
|
|
occupied stools in front of clacking machines. On the shoulder of
|
|
one of the girls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper,
|
|
by the aid of the machine, he put his hand.
|
|
|
|
"You," he said, "show this girl how to do what you're doing. When
|
|
you get through, come to me."
|
|
|
|
The girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't hard to do," she said, bending over. "You just take this
|
|
so, fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine."
|
|
|
|
She suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which
|
|
was eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man's shoe, by
|
|
little adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the side
|
|
of the machine. The latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp,
|
|
snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side of
|
|
the upper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. After
|
|
observing a few times, the girl let her work at it alone. Seeing
|
|
that it was fairly well done, she went away.
|
|
|
|
The pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her
|
|
right, and were passed on to the girl at her left. Carrie saw at
|
|
once that an average speed was necessary or the work would pile up
|
|
on her and all those below would be delayed. She had no time to look
|
|
about, and bent anxiously to her task. The girls at her left and right
|
|
realised her predicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aid
|
|
her, as much as they dared, by working slower.
|
|
|
|
At this task she laboured incessantly for some time, finding
|
|
relief from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum,
|
|
mechanical movement of the machine. She felt, as the minutes passed,
|
|
that the room was not very light. It had a thick odour of fresh
|
|
leather, but that did not worry her. She felt the eyes of the other
|
|
help upon her, and troubled lest she was not working fast enough.
|
|
|
|
Once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a
|
|
slight error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared before
|
|
her eyes and fastened the clamp for her. It was the foreman. Her heart
|
|
thumped so that she could scarcely see to go on.
|
|
|
|
"Start your machine," he said, "start your machine. Don't keep the
|
|
line waiting."
|
|
|
|
This recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly
|
|
breathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. Then she heaved
|
|
a great breath.
|
|
|
|
As the morning wore on the room became hotter. She felt the need
|
|
of a breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not venture
|
|
to stir. The stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and she
|
|
began to feel uncomfortable. She found, after a time, that her back
|
|
was beginning to ache. She twisted and turned from one position to
|
|
another slightly different, but it did not case her for long. She
|
|
was beginning to weary.
|
|
|
|
"Stand up, why don't you?" said the girl at her right, without any
|
|
form of introduction. "They won't care."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at her gratefully. "I guess I will," she said.
|
|
|
|
She stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, but
|
|
it was a more difficult position. Her neck and shoulders ached in
|
|
bending over.
|
|
|
|
The spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way.
|
|
She did not venture to look around, but above the clack of the machine
|
|
she could hear an occasional remark. She could also note a thing or
|
|
two out of the side of her eye.
|
|
|
|
"Did you see Harry last night?" said the girl at her left,
|
|
addressing her neighbour.
|
|
|
|
"No."
|
|
|
|
"You ought to have seen the tie he had on. Gee, but he was a mark."
|
|
|
|
"S-s-t," said the other girl, bending over her work. The first,
|
|
silenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. The foreman passed slowly
|
|
along, eyeing each worker distinctly. The moment he was gone, the
|
|
conversation was resumed again.
|
|
|
|
"Say," began the girl at her left, "what jeh think he said?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know."
|
|
|
|
"He said he saw us with Eddie Harris at Martin's last night."
|
|
|
|
"No!" They both giggled.
|
|
|
|
A youth with tan-coloured hair, that needed clipping very badly,
|
|
came shuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of leather
|
|
findings under his left arm, and pressed against his stomach. When
|
|
near Carrie, he stretched out his right hand and gripped one girl
|
|
under the arm.
|
|
|
|
"Aw, let me go," she exclaimed angrily. "Duffer."
|
|
|
|
He only grinned broadly in return.
|
|
|
|
"Rubber!" he called back as she looked after him. There was
|
|
nothing of the gallant in him.
|
|
|
|
Carrie at last could scarcely sit still. Her legs began to tire
|
|
and she wanted to get up and stretch. Would noon never come? It seemed
|
|
as if she had worked an entire day. She was not hungry at all, but
|
|
weak, and her eyes were tired, straining at the one point where the
|
|
eye-punch came down. The girl at the right noticed her squirmings
|
|
and felt sorry for her. She was concentrating herself too
|
|
thoroughly- what she did really required less mental and physical
|
|
strain. There was nothing to be done, however. The halves of the
|
|
uppers came piling steadily down. Her hands began to ache at the
|
|
wrists and then in the fingers, and towards the last she seemed one
|
|
mass of dull, complaining muscles, fixed in an eternal position and
|
|
performing a single mechanical movement which became more and more
|
|
distasteful, until at last it was absolutely nauseating. When she
|
|
was wondering whether the strain would ever cease, a dull-sounding
|
|
bell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the end came. In an
|
|
instant there was a buzz of action and conversation. All the girls
|
|
instantly left their stools and hurried away in an adjoining room, men
|
|
passed through, coming from some department which opened on the right.
|
|
The whirling wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying key, until
|
|
at last they died away in a low buzz. There was an audible
|
|
stillness, in which the common voice sounded strange.
|
|
|
|
Carrie got up and sought her lunch box. She was stiff, a little
|
|
dizzy, and very thirsty. On the way to the small space portioned off
|
|
by wood, where all the wraps and lunches were kept, she encountered
|
|
the foreman, who stared at her hard.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "did you get along all right?"
|
|
|
|
"I think so," she replied, very respectfully.
|
|
|
|
"Um," he replied, for want of something better, and walked on.
|
|
|
|
Under better material conditions, this kind of work would not have
|
|
been so bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant working
|
|
conditions for employees had not then taken hold upon manufacturing
|
|
companies.
|
|
|
|
The place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather-
|
|
a combination which, added to the stale odours of the building, was
|
|
not pleasant even in cold weather. The floor, though regularly swept
|
|
every evening, presented a littered surface. Not the slightest
|
|
provision had been made for the comfort of the employees, the idea
|
|
being that something was gained by giving them as little and making
|
|
the work as hard and unremunerative as possible. What we know of
|
|
foot-rests, swivel-back chairs, dining-rooms for the girls, clean
|
|
aprons and curling irons supplied free, and a decent cloak room,
|
|
were unthought of. The washrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foul
|
|
places, and the whole atmosphere was sordid.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of water
|
|
from a bucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat. The other
|
|
girls had ranged themselves about the windows or the work-benches of
|
|
those of the men who had gone out. She saw no place which did not hold
|
|
a couple or a group of girls, and being too timid to think of
|
|
intruding herself, she sought out her machine and, seated upon her
|
|
stool, opened her lunch on her lap. There she sat listening to the
|
|
chatter and comment about her. It was, for the most part, silly and
|
|
graced by the current slang. Several of the men in the room
|
|
exchanged compliments with the girls at long range.
|
|
|
|
"Say, Kitty," called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in a
|
|
few feet of space near one of the windows, "are you going to the
|
|
ball with me?"
|
|
|
|
"Look out, Kitty," called another, "you'll jar your back hair."
|
|
|
|
"Go on, Rubber," was her only comment.
|
|
|
|
As Carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiar
|
|
badinage among the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew into
|
|
herself. She was not used to this type, and felt that there was
|
|
something hard and low about it all. She feared that the young boys
|
|
about would address such remarks to her- boys who, beside Drouet,
|
|
seemed uncouth and ridiculous. She made the average feminine
|
|
distinction between clothes, putting worth, goodness, and
|
|
distinction in a dress suit, and leaving all the unlovely qualities
|
|
and those beneath notice in overalls and jumper.
|
|
|
|
She was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheels
|
|
began to whirr again. Though wearied, she would be inconspicuous. This
|
|
illusion ended when another young man passed along the aisle and poked
|
|
her indifferently in the ribs with his thumb. She turned about,
|
|
indignation leaping to her eyes, but he had gone on and only once
|
|
turned to grin. She found it difficult to conquer an inclination to
|
|
cry.
|
|
|
|
The girl next her noticed her state of mind. "Don't you mind," she
|
|
said. "He's too fresh."
|
|
|
|
Carrie said nothing, but bent over her work. She felt as though
|
|
she could hardly endure such a life. Her idea of work had been so
|
|
entirely different. All during the long afternoon she thought of the
|
|
city outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings.
|
|
Columbia City and the better side of her home life came back. By three
|
|
o'clock she was sure it must be six, and by four it seemed as if
|
|
they had forgotten to note the hour and were letting all work
|
|
overtime. The foreman became a true ogre, prowling constantly about,
|
|
keeping her tied down to her miserable task. What she heard of the
|
|
conversation about her only made her feel sure that she did not want
|
|
to make friends with any of these. When six o'clock came she hurried
|
|
eagerly away, her arms aching and her limbs stiff from sitting in
|
|
one position.
|
|
|
|
As she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a young
|
|
machine hand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her.
|
|
|
|
"Say, Maggie," he called, "if you wait, I'll walk with you."
|
|
|
|
It was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who was
|
|
meant, but never turned to look.
|
|
|
|
In the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth tried
|
|
to make an impression on her by leering in her face.
|
|
|
|
One young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance of
|
|
another, grinned at her as she passed.
|
|
|
|
"Ain't going my way, are you?" he called jocosely.
|
|
|
|
Carrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart. As she
|
|
turned the corner, she saw through the great shiny window the small
|
|
desk at which she had applied. There were the crowds, hurrying with
|
|
the same buzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm. She felt a slight
|
|
relief, but it was only at her escape. She felt ashamed in the face of
|
|
better dressed girls who went by. She felt as though she should be
|
|
better served, and her heart revolted.
|
|
|
|
Chapter V.
|
|
|
|
A GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER: THE USE OF A NAME
|
|
|
|
Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he had
|
|
laid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floating
|
|
around having what he considered a gay time. On this particular
|
|
evening he dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, which
|
|
occupied a basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. Thereafter he visited
|
|
the resort of Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the
|
|
imposing Federal Building. There he leaned over the splendid bar and
|
|
swallowed a glass of plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars,
|
|
one of which he lighted. This to him represented in part high life-
|
|
a fair sample of what the whole must be.
|
|
|
|
Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. He
|
|
only craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed
|
|
to him a part of the best. Rector's, with its polished marble walls
|
|
and floor, its profusion of lights, its show of china and
|
|
silverware, and, above all, its reputation as a resort for actors
|
|
and professional men, seemed to him the proper place for a
|
|
successful man to go. He loved fine clothes, good eating, and
|
|
particularly the company and acquaintanceship of successful men.
|
|
When dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction to him to know
|
|
that Joseph Jefferson was wont to come to this same place, or that
|
|
Henry E. Dixie, a well-known performer of the day, was then only a few
|
|
tables off. At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction,
|
|
for there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some
|
|
rich young "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz
|
|
of popular commonplace conversation.
|
|
|
|
"That's So-and-so over there," was a common remark of these
|
|
gentlemen among themselves, particularly among those who had not yet
|
|
reached, but hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dine
|
|
here lavishly represented.
|
|
|
|
"You don't say so," would be the reply.
|
|
|
|
"Why, yes, didn't you know that? Why, he's manager of the Grand
|
|
Opera House."
|
|
|
|
When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straighten
|
|
himself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he had
|
|
any vanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, this
|
|
stirred it. He would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too some
|
|
day. As it was, he could eat where they did.
|
|
|
|
His preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place was
|
|
another yard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloon
|
|
from a Chicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamented
|
|
with a blaze of incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. The
|
|
floors were of brightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of
|
|
rich, dark, polished wood, which reflected the light, and coloured
|
|
stucco-work, which gave the place a very sumptuous appearance. The
|
|
long bar was a blaze of lights, polished wood-work, coloured and cut
|
|
glassware, and many fancy bottles. It was a truly swell saloon, with
|
|
rich screens, fancy wines, and a line of bar goods unsurpassed in
|
|
the country.
|
|
|
|
At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of
|
|
Fitzgerald and Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful and
|
|
well-known man about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides
|
|
being slightly under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an
|
|
active manner, and a solid, substantial air, which was composed in
|
|
part of his fine clothes, his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all,
|
|
his own sense of his importance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion
|
|
of him as being some one worth knowing, and was glad not only to
|
|
meet him, but to visit the Adams Street bar thereafter whenever he
|
|
wanted a drink or a cigar.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was shrewd
|
|
and clever in many little things, and capable of creating a good
|
|
impression. His managerial position was fairly important- a kind of
|
|
stewardship which was imposing, but lacked financial control. He had
|
|
risen by perseverance and industry, through long years of service,
|
|
from the position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his
|
|
present altitude. He had a little office in the place, set off in
|
|
polished cherry and grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the
|
|
rather simple accounts of the place- supplies ordered and needed.
|
|
The chief executive and financial functions devolved 'upon the owners-
|
|
Messrs. Fitzgerald and Moy- and upon a cashier who looked after the
|
|
money taken in.
|
|
|
|
For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored
|
|
suits of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in
|
|
his tie, a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of
|
|
solid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the
|
|
latest make and engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally
|
|
with a "Well, old fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians,
|
|
and the general run of successful characters about town, and it was
|
|
part of his success to do so. He had a finely graduated scale of
|
|
informality and friendship, which improved from the "How do you do?"
|
|
addressed to the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches,
|
|
who, by long frequenting of the place, became aware of his position,
|
|
to the "Why, old man, how are you?" which he addressed to those
|
|
noted or rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to be
|
|
friendly. There was a class, however, too rich, too famous, or too
|
|
successful, with whom he could not attempt any familiarity of address,
|
|
and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a grave and
|
|
dignified attitude, paying them the deference which would win their
|
|
good feeling without in the least compromising his own bearing and
|
|
opinions. There were, in the last place, a few good followers, neither
|
|
rich nor poor, famous, nor yet remarkably successful, with whom he was
|
|
friendly on the score of good-fellowship. These were the kind of men
|
|
with whom he would converse longest and most seriously. He loved to go
|
|
out and have a good time once in a while- to go to the races, the
|
|
theatres, the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs. He kept
|
|
a horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who were well
|
|
established in a neat house on the North Side near Lincoln Park, and
|
|
was altogether a very acceptable individual of our great American
|
|
upper class- the first grade below the luxuriously rich.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressy
|
|
appearance pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling
|
|
salesman- and not one of many years at that- but the firm of Bartlett,
|
|
Caryoe & Company was a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood
|
|
well. Hurstwood knew Caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and
|
|
then with him, in company with several others, when the conversation
|
|
was general. Drouet had what was a help in his business, a moderate
|
|
sense of humour, and could tell a good story when the occasion
|
|
required. He could talk races with Hurstwood, tell interesting
|
|
incidents concerning himself and his experiences with women, and
|
|
report the state of trade in the cities which he visited, and so
|
|
managed to make himself almost invariably agreeable. To-night he was
|
|
particularly so, since his report to the company had been favourably
|
|
commented upon, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected,
|
|
and his trip marked out for the next six weeks.
|
|
|
|
"Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in
|
|
that evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?" The room was crowded.
|
|
|
|
Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards
|
|
the bar.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, all right."
|
|
|
|
"I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?"
|
|
|
|
"Friday," said Drouet. "Had a fine trip."
|
|
|
|
"Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which
|
|
half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "What
|
|
are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket
|
|
and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar. "Old Pepper," said
|
|
Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul."
|
|
|
|
"George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in
|
|
Milwaukee last week."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. "Great old boy, isn't he? We
|
|
had quite a time there together."
|
|
|
|
The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them,
|
|
and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his
|
|
to within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood
|
|
taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.
|
|
|
|
"What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen him
|
|
around here in two weeks."
|
|
|
|
"Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet. "Say, he's a gouty old boy!"
|
|
|
|
"Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet. "He won't live much longer.
|
|
Barely comes down to the office now."
|
|
|
|
"Just one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the
|
|
other members all there."
|
|
|
|
"No, he can't injure that any, I guess."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets,
|
|
the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable
|
|
distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort.
|
|
|
|
To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of
|
|
mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem
|
|
an anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the
|
|
moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame.
|
|
Such conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation
|
|
of the scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers
|
|
would choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that
|
|
politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything
|
|
save formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would
|
|
scarcely be justified on the score of thirst, (or the majority of
|
|
those who frequent these more gorgeous places have no craving for
|
|
liquor. Nevertheless, the fact that here men gather, here chatter,
|
|
here love to pass and rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds.
|
|
It must be that a strange bundle of passions and vague desires give
|
|
rise to such a curious social institution or it would not be.
|
|
|
|
Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by
|
|
his desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here
|
|
dropped in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously
|
|
analysing it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere which they
|
|
found. One might take it, after all, as an augur of the better
|
|
social order, for the things which they satisfied here, though sensory
|
|
were not evil. No evil could come out of the contemplation of an
|
|
expensively decorated chamber. The worst effect of such a thing
|
|
would be, perhaps, to stir up in the material-minded an ambition to
|
|
arrange their lives upon a similarly splendid basis. In the last
|
|
analysis, that would scarcely be called the fault of the
|
|
decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind. That such a
|
|
scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the more
|
|
expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything
|
|
save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove
|
|
the element so thoroughly and solely complained of- liquor- and
|
|
there would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and
|
|
enthusiasm which would remain. The pleased eye with which our modern
|
|
restaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this assertion.
|
|
|
|
Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy
|
|
company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized,
|
|
aimless, wandering mental action which it represents- the love of
|
|
light and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serene
|
|
light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under
|
|
the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must
|
|
bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding,
|
|
insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure.
|
|
|
|
"See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at a
|
|
gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat,
|
|
his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.
|
|
|
|
"No, where?" said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"There," said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his
|
|
eye, "the man with the silk hat."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see. "Who is he?"
|
|
|
|
"That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist."
|
|
|
|
Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
|
|
|
|
"Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said
|
|
Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood. "He's got the money, all
|
|
right," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood. "There may be
|
|
something to it. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By the
|
|
way," he added, "are you going anywhere to-night?"
|
|
|
|
"'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular
|
|
farce of the time.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already," and he
|
|
drew out his watch.
|
|
|
|
The crowd was already thinning out considerably- some bound for
|
|
the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating
|
|
of all the pleasures- for the type of man there represented, at least-
|
|
the ladies.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I will," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,"
|
|
said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Sure," said Drouet, elated.
|
|
|
|
"You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added
|
|
Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Not a thing."
|
|
|
|
"Well, come round, then."
|
|
|
|
"I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarked
|
|
Drouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and call
|
|
on her before I go away."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked.
|
|
|
|
"Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouet
|
|
confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.
|
|
|
|
"Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"That's right," said Drouet, going out.
|
|
|
|
Thus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay
|
|
of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her
|
|
narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of
|
|
this, her unfolding fate.
|
|
|
|
Chapter VI.
|
|
|
|
THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN: A KNIGHT OF TODAY
|
|
|
|
At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its
|
|
atmosphere. The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were
|
|
different, increased her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the
|
|
good spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report.
|
|
Hanson supposed that Carrie would be satisfied.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes,
|
|
and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, "how did you make
|
|
out?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh," said Carrie, "it's pretty hard. I don't like it."
|
|
|
|
There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words
|
|
that she was both weary and disappointed.
|
|
|
|
"What sort of work is it?" he asked, lingering a moment as he turned
|
|
upon his heel to go into the bathroom.
|
|
|
|
"Running a machine," answered Carrie.
|
|
|
|
It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from
|
|
the side of the flat's success. He was irritated a shade because it
|
|
could not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be
|
|
pleased.
|
|
|
|
Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie
|
|
arrived. The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing
|
|
now that Carrie had reported her discontent. To Carrie, the one relief
|
|
of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic
|
|
reception, a bright supper table, and some one to say: "Oh, well,
|
|
stand it a little while. You will get something better," but now
|
|
this was ashes. She began to see that they looked upon her complaint
|
|
as unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and say
|
|
nothing. She knew that she was to pay four dollars for her board and
|
|
room, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round,
|
|
living with these people.
|
|
|
|
Minnie was no companion for her sister- she was too old. Her
|
|
thoughts were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson had
|
|
any pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemed
|
|
to do all his mental operations without the aid of physical
|
|
expression. He was as still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on the
|
|
other hand, had the blood of youth and some imagination. Her day of
|
|
love and the mysteries of courtship were still ahead. She could
|
|
think of things she would like to do, of clothes she would like to
|
|
wear, and of places she would like to visit. These were the things
|
|
upon which her mind ran, and it was like meeting with opposition at
|
|
every turn to find no one here to call forth or respond to her
|
|
feelings.
|
|
|
|
She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her
|
|
day, that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these
|
|
two people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what
|
|
she would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After
|
|
supper she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was
|
|
rather a sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face
|
|
expressed the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction and depression she
|
|
felt. She wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a
|
|
little with Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the
|
|
door at the foot of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him
|
|
there. Her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as she
|
|
put on her hat to go below.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well," said Minnie to
|
|
her husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the
|
|
dining-room a few minutes.
|
|
|
|
"She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow," said Hanson. "Has she
|
|
gone downstairs?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
"I'd tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weeks
|
|
without getting another one."
|
|
|
|
Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper.
|
|
|
|
"If I were you," he said a little later, "I wouldn't let her stand
|
|
in the door down there. It don't look good."
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell her," said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
The life of the streets continued for a long time to interest
|
|
Carrie. She never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars
|
|
were going or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a
|
|
very narrow round, always winding up at points which concerned
|
|
money, looks, clothes, or enjoyment. She would have a far-off
|
|
thought of Columbia City now and then, or an irritating rush of
|
|
feeling concerning her experiences of the present day, but, on the
|
|
whole, the little world about her enlisted her whole attention.
|
|
|
|
The first floor of the building, of which Hanson's flat was the
|
|
third, was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing
|
|
there, Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware of
|
|
his presence until he was quite near her.
|
|
|
|
"I'm after bread," was all he said as he passed.
|
|
|
|
The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson
|
|
really came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would
|
|
see what Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that in
|
|
mind than she felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what put
|
|
it into her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade
|
|
of real antipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. He
|
|
was suspicious.
|
|
|
|
A thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie's
|
|
meditations had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone
|
|
upstairs before she followed. She had realised with the lapse of the
|
|
quarter hours that Drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a
|
|
little resentful, a little as if she had been forsaken- was not good
|
|
enough. She went upstairs, where everything was silent. Minnie was
|
|
sewing by a lamp at the table. Hanson had already turned in for the
|
|
night. In her weariness and disappointment Carrie did no more than
|
|
announce that she was going to bed.
|
|
|
|
"Yes you'd better," returned Minnie. "You've got to get up early,
|
|
you know."
|
|
|
|
The morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door as
|
|
Carrie came from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her during
|
|
breakfast, but there was not much of interest which they could
|
|
mutually discuss. As on the previous morning, Carrie walked down town,
|
|
for she began to realise now that her four-fifty would not even
|
|
allow her car fare after she paid her board. This seemed a miserable
|
|
arrangement. But the morning light swept away the first misgivings
|
|
of the day, as morning light is ever wont to do.
|
|
|
|
At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome
|
|
as the preceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, on
|
|
his round, stopped by her machine.
|
|
|
|
"Where did you come from?" he inquired.
|
|
|
|
"Mr. Brown hired me," she replied.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he did, eh!" and then, "See that you keep things going."
|
|
|
|
The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed
|
|
satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense "common." Carrie had
|
|
more imagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct in
|
|
the matter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen to
|
|
the girl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going to quit this," she heard her remark to her neighbour.
|
|
"What with the stipend and being up late, it's too much for me
|
|
health."
|
|
|
|
They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and
|
|
exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. She
|
|
saw that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed
|
|
accordingly.
|
|
|
|
"Hello," remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at
|
|
noon. "You're a daisy." He really expected to hear the common "Aw!
|
|
go chase yourself!" in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by
|
|
Carrie's silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning.
|
|
|
|
That night at the flat she was even more lonely- the dull
|
|
situation was becoming harder to endure. She could see that the
|
|
Hansons seldom or never had any company. Standing at the street door
|
|
looking out, she ventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gait
|
|
and idle manner attracted attention of an offensive but common sort.
|
|
She was slightly taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man
|
|
of thirty, who in passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned
|
|
back, and said:
|
|
|
|
"Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient
|
|
thought to reply: "Why, I don't know you," backing away as she did so.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, that don't matter," said the other affably.
|
|
|
|
She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her
|
|
own door quite out of breath. There was something in the man's look
|
|
which frightened her.
|
|
|
|
During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or
|
|
two nights she found herself too tired to walk home and expended car
|
|
fare. She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her
|
|
back. She went to bed one night before Hanson.
|
|
|
|
Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or
|
|
maidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to
|
|
continue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her
|
|
acclimatization had been more gradual- less rigid. She would have done
|
|
better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more
|
|
of the city which she constantly troubled to know about.
|
|
|
|
On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella.
|
|
Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the
|
|
kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the
|
|
great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a
|
|
quarter of her small store to pay for it.
|
|
|
|
"What did you do that for, Carrie?" asked Minnie when she saw it.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I need one," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"You foolish girl."
|
|
|
|
Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to
|
|
be a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either.
|
|
|
|
On the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars.
|
|
Minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how
|
|
to explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four
|
|
dollars less toward the household expenses with a smile of
|
|
satisfaction. He contemplated increasing his Building and Loan
|
|
payments. As for Carrie, she studied over the problem of finding
|
|
clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week, She brooded over this
|
|
until she was in a state of mental rebellion.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going up the street for a walk," she said after supper.
|
|
|
|
"Not alone are you?" asked Hanson.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," returned Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I wouldn't," said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
"I want to see something," said Carrie, and by the tone she put into
|
|
the last word they realised for the first time she was not pleased
|
|
with them.
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter with her?" asked Hanson, when she went into the
|
|
front room to get her hat.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone."
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the
|
|
door. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did not
|
|
please her. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day she
|
|
heard the highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial
|
|
amusements. They had been happy. On several days it rained and she
|
|
used up car fare. One night she got thoroughly soaked, going to
|
|
catch the car at Van Buren Street. All that evening she sat alone in
|
|
the front room looking out upon the street, where the lights were
|
|
reflected on the wet pavements, thinking. She had imagination enough
|
|
to be moody.
|
|
|
|
On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty
|
|
cents in despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed
|
|
with some of the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that
|
|
they had more of their earnings to use for themselves than she did.
|
|
They had young men of the kind whom she, since her experience with
|
|
Drouet, felt above, who took them about. She came to thoroughly
|
|
dislike the light-headed young fellows of the shop. Not one of them
|
|
had a show of refinement. She saw only their workday side.
|
|
|
|
There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept
|
|
over the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed
|
|
long, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about
|
|
the streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the
|
|
problem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter
|
|
jacket, no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about
|
|
this, but at last she summoned the courage.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know what I'm going to do about clothes," she said one
|
|
evening when they were together. "I need a hat."
|
|
|
|
Minnie looked serious.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?" she
|
|
suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of
|
|
Carrie's money would create.
|
|
|
|
"I'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind," ventured Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Could you pay two dollars?" asked Minnie.
|
|
|
|
Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation,
|
|
and liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began
|
|
figuring at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie
|
|
explained to Hanson she never knew. He said nothing at all, but
|
|
there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions.
|
|
|
|
The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not
|
|
intervened. It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was
|
|
still without a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and
|
|
shivered as the wind struck her. In the morning she was sneezing,
|
|
and going down town made it worse. That day her bones ached and she
|
|
felt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill, and when she
|
|
reached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping actions and
|
|
asked her about herself.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie. "I feel real bad."
|
|
|
|
She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to
|
|
bed sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.
|
|
|
|
Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly
|
|
demeanour. Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a
|
|
while. When she got up after three days, it was taken for granted that
|
|
her position was lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes
|
|
and now she was out of work.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie; "I'll go down Monday and see if I can't
|
|
get something."
|
|
|
|
If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial
|
|
than the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her
|
|
last money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about,
|
|
utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming
|
|
unbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening.
|
|
Hanson was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly
|
|
she would have to give up and go home.
|
|
|
|
On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten
|
|
cents for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of
|
|
places without success. She even answered for a waitress in a small
|
|
restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an
|
|
experienced girl. She moved through the thick throng of strangers,
|
|
utterly subdued in spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned
|
|
her about.
|
|
|
|
"Well, well!" said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet.
|
|
He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of
|
|
sunshine and good-humour. "Why, how are you, Carrie?" he said. "You're
|
|
a daisy. Where have you been?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.
|
|
|
|
"I've been out home," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "I saw you across the street there. I thought it
|
|
was you. I was just coming out to your place. How are you, anyhow?"
|
|
|
|
"I'm all right," said Carrie, smiling.
|
|
|
|
Drouet looked her over and saw something different.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "I want to talk to you. You're not going anywhere
|
|
in particular, are you?"
|
|
|
|
"Not just now," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Let's go up here and have something to eat. George! but I'm glad to
|
|
see you again."
|
|
|
|
She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after
|
|
and cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air
|
|
of holding back.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said as he took her arm- and there was an exuberance of
|
|
good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her
|
|
heart.
|
|
|
|
They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room,
|
|
which was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine
|
|
and substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by the
|
|
window, where the busy rout of the street could be seen. He loved
|
|
the changing panorama of the street- to see and be seen as he dined.
|
|
|
|
"Now," he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, what
|
|
will you have?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed
|
|
her without really considering it. She was very hungry, and the things
|
|
she saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her
|
|
attention. "Half broiled spring chicken- seventy-five. Sirloin steak
|
|
with mushrooms- one twenty-five." She had dimly heard of these things,
|
|
but it seemed strange to be called to order from the list.
|
|
|
|
"I'll fix this," exclaimed Drouet. "Sst! waiter."
|
|
|
|
That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro,
|
|
approached, and inclined his ear.
|
|
|
|
"Sirloin with mushrooms," said Drouet. "Stuffed tomatoes."
|
|
|
|
"Yassah," assented the negro, nodding his head.
|
|
|
|
"Hashed brown potatoes."
|
|
|
|
"Yassah."
|
|
|
|
"Asparagus."
|
|
|
|
"Yassah."
|
|
|
|
"And a pot of coffee."
|
|
|
|
Drouet turned to Carrie. "I haven't had a thing since breakfast.
|
|
Just got in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you."
|
|
|
|
Carried smiled and smiled.
|
|
|
|
"What have you been doing?" he went on. "Tell me all about yourself.
|
|
How is your sister?"
|
|
|
|
"She's well," returned Carrie, answering the last query.
|
|
|
|
He looked at her hard.
|
|
|
|
"Say," he said, "you haven't been sick, have you?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie nodded.
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it? You don't look very
|
|
well. I thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?"
|
|
|
|
"Working," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"You don't say so! At what?"
|
|
|
|
She told him.
|
|
|
|
"Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott- why, I know that house. Over here
|
|
on Fifth Avenue, isn't it? They're a close-fisted concern. What made
|
|
you go there?"
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't get anything else," said Carrie frankly.
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's an outrage," said Drouet. "You oughtn't to be
|
|
working for those people. Have the factory right back of the store,
|
|
don't they?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"That isn't a good house," said Drouet. "You don't want to work at
|
|
anything like that, anyhow."
|
|
|
|
He chattered on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things
|
|
about himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the
|
|
waiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes
|
|
which had been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter of
|
|
serving. He appeared to great advantage behind the white napery and
|
|
silver platters of the table and displaying his arms with a knife
|
|
and fork. As he cut the meat his rings almost spoke. His new suit
|
|
creaked as he stretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pour
|
|
the coffee. He helped Carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed the
|
|
warmth of his spirit to her body until she was a new girl. He was a
|
|
splendid fellow in the true popular understanding of the term, and
|
|
captivated Carrie completely.
|
|
|
|
That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way.
|
|
She felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the
|
|
view of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah,
|
|
what was it not to have money! What a thing it was to be able to
|
|
come in here and dine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains,
|
|
dressed in such nice clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine
|
|
places. He seemed quite a figure of a man, and she wondered at his
|
|
friendship and regard for her.
|
|
|
|
"So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"What are you going to do now?"
|
|
|
|
"Look around," she said, a thought of the need that hung outside
|
|
this fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her
|
|
eyes.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Drouet, "that won't do. How long have you been
|
|
looking?"
|
|
|
|
"Four days," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"Think of that!" he said, addressing some problematical
|
|
individual. "You oughtn't to be doing anything like that. These
|
|
girls," and he waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls,
|
|
"don't get anything. Why, you can't live on it, can you?"
|
|
|
|
He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had
|
|
scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carrie
|
|
was really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure
|
|
was evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouet
|
|
looked at her and his thoughts reached home. She felt his
|
|
admiration. It was powerfully backed by his liberality and
|
|
good-humour. She felt that she liked him- that she could continue to
|
|
like him ever so much. There was something even richer than that,
|
|
running as a hidden strain, in her mind. Every little while her eyes
|
|
would meet his, and by that means the interchanging current of feeling
|
|
would be fully connected.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?" he
|
|
said, hitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I can't," she said.
|
|
|
|
"What are you going to do to-night?"
|
|
|
|
"Nothing," she answered, a little drearily.
|
|
|
|
"You don't like out there where you are, do you?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know."
|
|
|
|
"What are you going to do if you don't get work?"
|
|
|
|
"Go back home, I guess."
|
|
|
|
There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow,
|
|
the influence he was exerting was powerful. They came to an
|
|
understanding of each other without words- he of her situation, she of
|
|
the fact that he realised it.
|
|
|
|
"No," he said, "you can't make it!" genuine sympathy filling his
|
|
mind for the time. "Let me help you. You take some of my money."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no!" she said, leaning back.
|
|
|
|
"What are you going to do?" he said.
|
|
|
|
She sat meditating, merely shaking her head.
|
|
|
|
He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were some
|
|
loose bills in his vest pocket- greenbacks. They were soft and
|
|
noiseless, and he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in
|
|
his hand.
|
|
|
|
"Come on," he said, "I'll see you through all right. Get yourself
|
|
some clothes."
|
|
|
|
It was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now
|
|
she realised how bad off she was. In his crude way he had struck the
|
|
key-note. Her lips trembled a little.
|
|
|
|
She had her hand out on the table before her. They were quite
|
|
alone in their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it.
|
|
|
|
"Aw, come, Carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? Let me help
|
|
you."
|
|
|
|
He pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. At this
|
|
he held it fast, and she no longer protested. Then he slipped the
|
|
greenbacks he had into her palm, and when she began to protest, he
|
|
whispered:
|
|
|
|
"I'll loan it to you- that's all right. I'll loan it to you."
|
|
|
|
He made her take it. She felt bound to him by a strange tie of
|
|
affection now. They went out, and he walked with her far out south
|
|
toward Polk Street, talking.
|
|
|
|
"You don't want to live with those people?" he said in one place,
|
|
abstractedly. Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression.
|
|
|
|
"Come down and meet me to-morrow," he said, "and we'll go to the
|
|
matinee. Will you?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie protested a while, but acquiesced.
|
|
|
|
"You're not doing anything. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes and
|
|
a jacket."
|
|
|
|
She scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would
|
|
trouble her when he was gone. In his presence, she was of his own
|
|
hopeful, easy-way-out mood.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you bother about those people out there," he said at parting.
|
|
"I'll help you."
|
|
|
|
Carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out
|
|
before her to draw off trouble. The money she had accepted was two
|
|
soft, green, handsome ten-dollar bills.
|
|
|
|
Chapter VII.
|
|
|
|
THE LURE OF THE MATERIAL: BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF
|
|
|
|
The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained
|
|
and comprehended. When each individual realises for himself that
|
|
this thing primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral
|
|
due- that it should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not
|
|
as a usurped privilege- many of our social, religious, and political
|
|
troubles will have permanently passed. As for Carrie, her
|
|
understanding of the moral significance of money was the popular
|
|
understanding, nothing more. The old definition: "Money: something
|
|
everybody else has and I must get," would have expressed her
|
|
understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she now held in her hand-
|
|
two soft, green ten-dollar bills- and she felt that she was
|
|
immensely better off for the having of them. It was something that was
|
|
power in itself. One of her order of mind would have been content to
|
|
be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of money, and only the
|
|
long strain of starvation would have taught her that in some cases
|
|
it could have no value. Even then she would have had no conception
|
|
of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would,
|
|
undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the
|
|
inability to use it.
|
|
|
|
The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt
|
|
ashamed in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her
|
|
need was so dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new
|
|
jacket! Now she would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She
|
|
would get stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and- until already, as
|
|
in the matter of her prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her
|
|
desires, twice the purchasing power of her bills.
|
|
|
|
She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all
|
|
the world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil
|
|
in the fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart- out of a
|
|
realisation of her want. He would not have given the same amount to
|
|
a poor young man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could
|
|
not, in the nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young
|
|
girl. Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an
|
|
inborn desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "My
|
|
God, mister, I'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out what
|
|
was considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no
|
|
more about it. There would have been no speculation, no
|
|
philosophising. He had no mental process in him worthy the dignity
|
|
of either of those terms. In his good clothes and fine health, he
|
|
was a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp. Deprived of his position,
|
|
and struck by a few of the involved and baffling forces which
|
|
sometimes play upon man he would have been as helpless as Carrie- as
|
|
helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if you will, as she.
|
|
|
|
Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm,
|
|
because he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold
|
|
with them as being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to
|
|
have them succumb to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded,
|
|
dark, scheming villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to
|
|
that as a chief delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as
|
|
deluded by fine clothes as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed
|
|
villain could have hornswaggled him as readily as he could have
|
|
flattered a pretty shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in
|
|
his geniality and the thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He
|
|
bobbed about among men, a veritable bundle of enthusiasm- no power
|
|
worthy the name of intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjective
|
|
noble, no feelings long continued in one strain. A Madame Sappho would
|
|
have called him a pig; a Shakespeare would have said "my merry child;"
|
|
old, drinking Caryoe thought him a clever, successful business man. In
|
|
short, he was as good as his intellect conceived.
|
|
|
|
The best proof that there was something open and commendable about
|
|
the man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister
|
|
soul with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under
|
|
the guise of friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless.
|
|
Nature has taught the beasts of the field to fly when some
|
|
unheralded danger threatens. She has put into the small, unwise head
|
|
of the chipmunk the untutored fear of poisons. "He keepeth His
|
|
creatures whole," was not, written of beasts alone. Carrie was unwise,
|
|
and, therefore, like the sheep in its unwisdom, strong in feeling. The
|
|
instinct of self-protection, strong in all such natures, was roused
|
|
but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of Drouet.
|
|
|
|
When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good
|
|
opinion. By George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked
|
|
around like that. Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He
|
|
would go around to Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made him
|
|
feel light of foot as he thought about her.
|
|
|
|
Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely
|
|
conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which
|
|
perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie
|
|
knew that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than
|
|
this point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could
|
|
think of no way of explaining.
|
|
|
|
"How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day.
|
|
|
|
Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing
|
|
and say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it
|
|
would be in the line of her feelings at least. So; instead of
|
|
complaining when she felt so good, she said:
|
|
|
|
"I have the promise of something."
|
|
|
|
"Where?"
|
|
|
|
"At the Boston Store."
|
|
|
|
"Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie, disliking to
|
|
draw out a lie any longer than was necessary.
|
|
|
|
Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with
|
|
her. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of
|
|
Hanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture.
|
|
|
|
"If you shouldn't get it-" she paused, troubled for an easy way.
|
|
|
|
"If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home."
|
|
|
|
Minnie saw her chance.
|
|
|
|
"Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow."
|
|
|
|
The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep
|
|
her any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not
|
|
blame Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark,
|
|
she was glad she had Drouet's money.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she said after a few moments, "I thought of doing that."
|
|
|
|
She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the
|
|
antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She
|
|
knew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious
|
|
city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only
|
|
suggested its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the
|
|
little old life out there- she almost exclaimed against the thought.
|
|
|
|
She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What
|
|
could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She
|
|
would need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did
|
|
not want to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she
|
|
explain where she even got that money? If she could only get enough to
|
|
let her out easy.
|
|
|
|
She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning,
|
|
Drouet would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't
|
|
be. The Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away,
|
|
and yet she did not want to go home. In the light of the way they
|
|
would look on her getting money without work, the taking of it now
|
|
seemed dreadful. She began to be ashamed. The whole situation
|
|
depressed her. It was all so clear when she was with Drouet. Now it
|
|
was all so tangled, so hopeless- much worse than it was before,
|
|
because she had the semblance of aid in her hand which she could not
|
|
use.
|
|
|
|
Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have
|
|
had another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the
|
|
money back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the
|
|
morning and hunt for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and
|
|
tell him. At this decision her heart sank, until she was the old
|
|
Carrie of distress.
|
|
|
|
Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without
|
|
feeling some relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she
|
|
could sweep away all thought about the matter and then the twenty
|
|
dollars seemed a wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money,
|
|
money! What a thing it was to have. How plenty of it would clear
|
|
away all these troubles.
|
|
|
|
In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her
|
|
decision to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in
|
|
her pocket, after all her troubling over it, made the work question
|
|
the least shade less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district,
|
|
but as the thought of applying came with each passing concern, her
|
|
heart shrank. What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she
|
|
had applied so often. It would be the same old story. She walked on
|
|
and on, and finally did go into one place, with the old result. She
|
|
came out feeling that luck was against her. It was no use.
|
|
|
|
Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the
|
|
great Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its long
|
|
window display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her
|
|
thoughts, she who was so weary of them. It was here that she had
|
|
intended to come and get her new things. Now for relief from distress,
|
|
she thought she would go in and see. She would look at the jackets.
|
|
|
|
There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle
|
|
state in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means,
|
|
lured by desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision.
|
|
When Carrie began wandering around the store amid the fine displays
|
|
she was in this mood. Her original experience in this same place had
|
|
given her a high opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each
|
|
individual bit of finery, where before she had hurried on. Her woman's
|
|
heart was warm with desire for them. How would she look in this, how
|
|
charming that would make her! She came upon the corset counter and
|
|
paused in rich reverie as she noted the dainty concoctions of colour
|
|
and lace there displayed. If she would only make up her mind, she
|
|
could have one of those now. She lingered in the jewelry department.
|
|
She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins, the chains. What
|
|
would she not have given if she could have had them all! She would
|
|
look fine too, if only she had some of these things.
|
|
|
|
The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the
|
|
store, she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan
|
|
jacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage
|
|
that fall. Still she delighted to convince herself that there was
|
|
nothing she would like better. She went about among the glass cases
|
|
and racks where these things were displayed, and satisfied herself
|
|
that the one she thought of was the proper one. All the time she
|
|
wavered in mind, now persuading herself that she could buy it right
|
|
away if she chose, now recalling to herself the actual condition. At
|
|
last the noon hour was dangerously near, and she had done nothing. She
|
|
must go now and return the money.
|
|
|
|
Drouet was on the corner when she came up.
|
|
|
|
"Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"- looking down- "the
|
|
shoes?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent
|
|
way, but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board.
|
|
|
|
"I came to tell you that- that I can't take the money."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me.
|
|
Let's go over here to Partridge's."
|
|
|
|
Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and
|
|
impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the
|
|
points that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here,"
|
|
and Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants
|
|
off State Street, in Monroe.
|
|
|
|
"I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settled
|
|
in a cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wear
|
|
those things out there. They- they wouldn't know where I got them."
|
|
|
|
"What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"
|
|
|
|
"I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'll
|
|
tell you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't
|
|
you rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and
|
|
be convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the
|
|
path if he could.
|
|
|
|
"Why are you going home?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I can't get anything here."
|
|
|
|
"They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively.
|
|
|
|
"They can't," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll take
|
|
care of you."
|
|
|
|
Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in
|
|
made it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed
|
|
of her own spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome,
|
|
well-dressed, and sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.
|
|
|
|
"What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by
|
|
the words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left.
|
|
"There isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a
|
|
nice room here and some clothes, and then you can do something."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There
|
|
it was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An
|
|
elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in
|
|
its upholstered depths a young lady.
|
|
|
|
"What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was no
|
|
subtle undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have
|
|
nothing at all of the things he thought worth while.
|
|
|
|
Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could
|
|
do. They would be expecting her to go home this week.
|
|
|
|
Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy.
|
|
|
|
"Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it.
|
|
I'll loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can
|
|
get yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you."
|
|
|
|
Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt
|
|
more than ever the helplessness of her case.
|
|
|
|
"If I could only get something to do," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if you
|
|
go away. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me get
|
|
you a nice room? I won't bother you- you needn't be afraid. Then, when
|
|
you get fixed up, maybe you could get something."
|
|
|
|
He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources.
|
|
She was a sweet little mortal to him- there was no doubt of that.
|
|
She seemed to have some power back of her actions. She was not like
|
|
the common run of store-girls. She wasn't silly.
|
|
|
|
In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he- more taste. It
|
|
was a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and
|
|
loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head
|
|
unconsciously in a dainty way.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think I could get something?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "I'll
|
|
help you."
|
|
|
|
She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.
|
|
|
|
"Now I'll tell you what well do. We'll go over here to Partridge's
|
|
and you pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room
|
|
for you. You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show
|
|
to-night."
|
|
|
|
Carrie shook her head.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. You
|
|
don't need to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things
|
|
there."
|
|
|
|
She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.
|
|
|
|
"Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said.
|
|
|
|
Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of
|
|
new things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under the
|
|
influence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the scheme
|
|
proposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like
|
|
the one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand
|
|
it seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by
|
|
accident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw the
|
|
improvement. She looked quite smart.
|
|
|
|
"That's the thing," he said.
|
|
|
|
Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased
|
|
as she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks.
|
|
|
|
"That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it."
|
|
|
|
"It's nine dollars," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"That's all right- take it," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman
|
|
asked if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she
|
|
was back and the purchase was closed.
|
|
|
|
From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was
|
|
fitted for shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they
|
|
looked, said, "Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however. She was
|
|
thinking of returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one
|
|
thing, and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy the
|
|
stockings.
|
|
|
|
"To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt."
|
|
|
|
In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The
|
|
deeper she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that
|
|
the thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since
|
|
she had not done these, there was a way out.
|
|
|
|
Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He
|
|
showed Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my sister."
|
|
He carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the
|
|
selection, looking around, criticising, opining. "Her trunk will be
|
|
here in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was very
|
|
pleased.
|
|
|
|
When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He
|
|
talked in the same general way as if they were out in the street.
|
|
Carrie left her things.
|
|
|
|
"Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Why not?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't want to leave them so."
|
|
|
|
He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm
|
|
afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he
|
|
talked with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of
|
|
the flat.
|
|
|
|
"Come out of it," he said, "they won't care. I'll help you get
|
|
along."
|
|
|
|
She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her
|
|
about a little and then help her get something. He really imagined
|
|
that he would. He would be out on the road and she could be working.
|
|
|
|
"Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and get
|
|
whatever you want and come away."
|
|
|
|
She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would
|
|
come out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him
|
|
at half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her
|
|
determination was hardened.
|
|
|
|
"So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story
|
|
of the Boston Store.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," she
|
|
answered.
|
|
|
|
"I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
Carrie said nothing.
|
|
|
|
When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. He
|
|
washed in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie
|
|
felt a little nervous. The strain of her own plans was considerable,
|
|
and the feeling that she was not welcome here was strong.
|
|
|
|
"Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson.
|
|
|
|
"No."
|
|
|
|
He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to
|
|
have her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that
|
|
was all. Once she was away, there would be no more coming back in
|
|
the spring.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was
|
|
relieved to know that this condition was ending. They would not
|
|
care. Hanson particularly would be glad when she went. He would not
|
|
care what became of her.
|
|
|
|
After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not
|
|
disturb her, and wrote a little note.
|
|
|
|
"Good-bye, Minnie," it read. "I'm not going home. I'm going to
|
|
stay in Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll be
|
|
all right."
|
|
|
|
In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helped
|
|
Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said:
|
|
|
|
"I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She could
|
|
scarcely prevent her voice from trembling.
|
|
|
|
Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance.
|
|
|
|
"Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Doesn't he?" said Carrie. "I won't do it any more after this."
|
|
|
|
She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little
|
|
bedroom, wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under
|
|
Minnie's hair-brush.
|
|
|
|
When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and
|
|
wondered what they would think. Some thought of the queerness of her
|
|
deed affected her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up
|
|
the lighted step, and then affected to stroll up the street. When
|
|
she reached the corner she quickened her pace.
|
|
|
|
As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife.
|
|
|
|
"Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more."
|
|
|
|
He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began
|
|
to poke his finger at it.
|
|
|
|
Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits.
|
|
|
|
"Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew
|
|
near him. "Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car."
|
|
|
|
Chapter VIII.
|
|
|
|
INTIMATIONS BY WINTER: AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED
|
|
|
|
Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe,
|
|
untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is still
|
|
in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly
|
|
guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly
|
|
guided by reason. On the tiger no responsibility rests. We see him
|
|
aligned by nature with the forces of life- he is born into their
|
|
keeping and without thought he is protected. We see man far removed
|
|
from the lairs of the jungles, his innate instincts dulled by too near
|
|
an approach to free-will, his free-will not sufficiently developed
|
|
to replace his instincts and afford him perfect guidance. He is
|
|
becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and desires; he is
|
|
still too weak to always prevail against them. As a beast, the
|
|
forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he has not yet
|
|
wholly learned to align himself with the forces. In this
|
|
intermediate stage he wavers- neither drawn in harmony with nature
|
|
by his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by his
|
|
own free-will. He is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath
|
|
of passion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, erring
|
|
with one, only to retrieve by the other, falling by one, only to
|
|
rise by the other- a creature of incalculable variability. We have the
|
|
consolation of knowing that evolution is ever in action, that the
|
|
ideal is a light that cannot fail. He will not forever balance thus
|
|
between good and evil. When this jangle of free-will and instinct
|
|
shall have been adjusted, when perfect understanding has given the
|
|
former the power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longer
|
|
vary. The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and
|
|
unwavering to the distant pole of truth.
|
|
|
|
In Carrie- as in how many of our worldlings do they not?- instinct
|
|
and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. She
|
|
followed whither her craving led. She was as yet more drawn than she
|
|
drew.
|
|
|
|
When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled
|
|
wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow,
|
|
or love, she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of that?"
|
|
|
|
"What?" said Hanson.
|
|
|
|
"Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else."
|
|
|
|
Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually
|
|
displayed and looked at the note. The only indication of his
|
|
thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his
|
|
tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse.
|
|
|
|
"Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly
|
|
aroused.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she has
|
|
gone and done it."
|
|
|
|
Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done."
|
|
|
|
"Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before
|
|
him, "what can you do?"
|
|
|
|
Minnie's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the
|
|
possibilities in such cases.
|
|
|
|
"Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!"
|
|
|
|
At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5
|
|
A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled
|
|
sleep in her new room, alone.
|
|
|
|
Carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in
|
|
it. She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of
|
|
luxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release,
|
|
wondering whether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouet
|
|
would do. That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a
|
|
peradventure. He could not help what he was going to do. He could
|
|
not see clearly enough to wish to do differently. He was drawn by
|
|
his innate desire to act the old pursuing part. He would need to
|
|
delight himself with Carrie as surely as he would need to eat his
|
|
heavy breakfast. He might suffer the least rudimentary twinge of
|
|
conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil and
|
|
sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might have would be
|
|
rudimentary, you may be sure.
|
|
|
|
The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her
|
|
chamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul.
|
|
|
|
"Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out to
|
|
breakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large
|
|
eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I wish I could get something to do," she said.
|
|
|
|
"You'll get that all right," said Drouet. "What's the use worrying
|
|
right now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won't hurt you."
|
|
|
|
"I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully.
|
|
|
|
"Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they look
|
|
fine. Put on your jacket."
|
|
|
|
Carrie obeyed.
|
|
|
|
"Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set of
|
|
it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure.
|
|
"What you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast."
|
|
|
|
Carrie put on her hat.
|
|
|
|
"Where are the gloves?" he inquired.
|
|
|
|
"Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.
|
|
|
|
"Now, come on," he said.
|
|
|
|
Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away.
|
|
|
|
It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her much
|
|
alone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her
|
|
hours with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie's he bought her a nice skirt
|
|
and shirt waist. With his money she purchased the little necessaries
|
|
of toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror
|
|
convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was
|
|
pretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren't her eyes
|
|
pretty. She caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her
|
|
first thrill of power. Drouet was so good.
|
|
|
|
They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was
|
|
hilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off for
|
|
the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a
|
|
considerable distance from Carrie's room. It was blowing up cold,
|
|
and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky, still pink
|
|
with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the
|
|
darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like
|
|
some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead
|
|
branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which
|
|
she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December
|
|
days at home.
|
|
|
|
She paused and wrung her little hands.
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter?" said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling.
|
|
|
|
He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder,
|
|
patting her arm.
|
|
|
|
"Come on," he said gently, "you're all right."
|
|
|
|
She turned to slip on her jacket.
|
|
|
|
"Better wear that boa about your throat to-night."
|
|
|
|
They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The
|
|
lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue.
|
|
The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the
|
|
lighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped
|
|
in and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six o'clock throng
|
|
bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up about the ears,
|
|
hats were pulled down. Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs
|
|
and fours, chattering, laughing. It was a spectacle of warm-blooded
|
|
humanity.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They were
|
|
looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were
|
|
faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up
|
|
shabby.
|
|
|
|
Carrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of those
|
|
who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not
|
|
quite sure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as if
|
|
some great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old
|
|
machine came back. She actually started. Drouet didn't notice until
|
|
Carrie bumped into a pedestrian.
|
|
|
|
"You must be thinking," he said.
|
|
|
|
They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrie
|
|
immensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain
|
|
imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and
|
|
magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the
|
|
throng of fine ladies made her stare.
|
|
|
|
"Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer
|
|
where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts
|
|
rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through
|
|
parted lips. "Let's see."
|
|
|
|
"Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a
|
|
sort of euphonious cry. "Sixty-seven."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't it fine?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Great," said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of finery
|
|
and gayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up,
|
|
her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight.
|
|
As they were moving out he whispered down to her, "You look lovely!"
|
|
They were right where the coach-caller was swinging open a
|
|
coach-door and ushering in two ladies.
|
|
|
|
"You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet.
|
|
|
|
Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life.
|
|
|
|
They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch.
|
|
Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but there
|
|
was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to
|
|
fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar
|
|
things. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to
|
|
say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of
|
|
habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to
|
|
do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating
|
|
something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be
|
|
the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him
|
|
ever to righteousness. If the digression is unusual enough, the drag
|
|
of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to
|
|
return and perform the perfunctory thing. "Now, bless me," says such a
|
|
mind, "I have done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has
|
|
merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again.
|
|
|
|
Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she
|
|
had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch
|
|
went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied
|
|
occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating from
|
|
Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with
|
|
open ears. She was again the victim of the city's hypnotic influence.
|
|
|
|
"Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going."
|
|
|
|
They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had
|
|
frequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of
|
|
force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way of
|
|
touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He
|
|
touched it now as he spoke of going.
|
|
|
|
They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section was
|
|
now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a few
|
|
open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue they
|
|
strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of small
|
|
information. He had Carrie's arm in his, and held it closely as he
|
|
explained. Once in a while, after some witticism, he would look
|
|
down, and his eyes would meet hers. At last they came to the steps,
|
|
and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head now coming even with
|
|
his own. He took her hand and held it genially. He looked steadily
|
|
at her as she glanced about, warmly musing.
|
|
|
|
At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long
|
|
evening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward
|
|
position under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves,
|
|
and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she
|
|
and Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine. She could see the
|
|
tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. There was a
|
|
deep pit, into which they were looking; they could see the curious wet
|
|
stones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. An old
|
|
basket, used for descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn
|
|
rope.
|
|
|
|
"Let's get in," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Minnie.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, come on," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest,
|
|
she had swung over and was going down.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back;" but Carrie was far down
|
|
now and the shadow had swallowed her completely.
|
|
|
|
She moved her arm.
|
|
|
|
Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters
|
|
she had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something
|
|
that reached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They looked
|
|
about, and now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sip
|
|
of the encroaching water.
|
|
|
|
"Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching farther
|
|
out. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded far
|
|
away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came away
|
|
suffering as though she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly
|
|
sad than she had even been in life.
|
|
|
|
It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those
|
|
curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes,
|
|
one with the other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie was
|
|
slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and
|
|
she had seen her falling.
|
|
|
|
"Minnie! What's the matter? Here, wake up," said Hanson,
|
|
disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder.
|
|
|
|
"Wha- what's the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily.
|
|
|
|
"Wake up," he said, "and turn over. You're talking in your sleep."
|
|
|
|
A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's, spruce
|
|
in dress and manner.
|
|
|
|
"Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door.
|
|
|
|
Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk.
|
|
|
|
"When do you go out on the road again?" he inquired.
|
|
|
|
"Pretty soon," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Haven't seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I've been busy," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
They talked some few minutes on general topics.
|
|
|
|
"Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you to
|
|
come out some evening."
|
|
|
|
"Out where?" inquired Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile
|
|
hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise
|
|
way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: "Certainly;
|
|
glad to."
|
|
|
|
"We'll have a nice game of euchre."
|
|
|
|
"May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," said Drouet. "I'll introduce you."
|
|
|
|
Chapter IX.
|
|
|
|
CONVENTION'S OWN TINDER-BOX: THE EYE THAT IS GREEN
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a
|
|
brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair
|
|
with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street.
|
|
It had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was
|
|
graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and
|
|
ten feet deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the
|
|
fences of the neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his
|
|
horse and trap.
|
|
|
|
The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia,
|
|
and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides
|
|
these a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of
|
|
various extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please.
|
|
|
|
"George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent
|
|
salutation at the dinner table.
|
|
|
|
"All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied of
|
|
discussing the rancorous subject.
|
|
|
|
A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than
|
|
which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing
|
|
more calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and
|
|
nourished within it. Those who have never experienced such a
|
|
beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the tear springs
|
|
glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in lovely music.
|
|
The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart of the nation,
|
|
they will never know.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this
|
|
home spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which the
|
|
home is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as
|
|
the artistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft
|
|
rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble
|
|
carving of some unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number
|
|
of small bronzes gathered from heaven knows where, but generally
|
|
sold by the large furniture houses along with everything else which
|
|
goes to make the "perfectly appointed house."
|
|
|
|
In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters
|
|
and other utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which
|
|
could not be questioned. Here was something Hurstwood knew about. He
|
|
had studied the subject for years in his business. He took no little
|
|
satisfaction in telling each Mary, shortly after she arrived,
|
|
something of what the art of the thing required. He was not
|
|
garrulous by any means. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve in
|
|
his manner toward the entire domestic economy of his life which was
|
|
all that is comprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. He would
|
|
not argue, he would not talk freely. In his manner was something of
|
|
the dogmatist. What he could not correct, he would ignore. There was a
|
|
tendency in him to walk away from the impossible thing.
|
|
|
|
There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his
|
|
Jessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in his
|
|
success. Now, however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had
|
|
developed a certain amount of reserve and independence which was not
|
|
inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was in the high
|
|
school, and had notions of life which were decidedly those of a
|
|
patrician. She liked nice clothes and urged for them constantly.
|
|
Thoughts of love and elegant individual establishments were running in
|
|
her head. She met girls at the high school whose parents were truly
|
|
rich and whose fathers had standing locally as partners or owners of
|
|
solid businesses. These girls gave themselves the airs befitting the
|
|
thriving domestic establishments from whence they issued. They were
|
|
the only ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself.
|
|
|
|
Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already
|
|
connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. He
|
|
contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was
|
|
thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had some
|
|
ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not,
|
|
as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in
|
|
and went out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few
|
|
words to his mother occasionally, relating some little incident to his
|
|
father, but for the most part confining himself to those
|
|
generalities with which most conversation concerns itself. He was
|
|
not laying bare his desires for any one to see. He did not find any
|
|
one in the house who particularly cared to see.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of the woman who has ever endeavoured to
|
|
shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior
|
|
capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended
|
|
to that little conventional round of society of which she was not- but
|
|
longed to be- a member. She was not without realisation already that
|
|
this thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her
|
|
daughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise a
|
|
little. Through George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to
|
|
herself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing
|
|
well enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures
|
|
should prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small,
|
|
but his income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy
|
|
was fixed. Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal
|
|
terms with him.
|
|
|
|
The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be
|
|
apparent to all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all
|
|
of which were of the same calibre.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George. Jr., at
|
|
the dinner table one Friday evening.
|
|
|
|
"What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come
|
|
up and see how it works."
|
|
|
|
"How much did it cost him?" asked his mother.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy."
|
|
|
|
"Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vega-cura to
|
|
Australia now- said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week."
|
|
|
|
"Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years
|
|
ago they had that basement in Madison Street."
|
|
|
|
"Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next
|
|
spring in Robey Street."
|
|
|
|
"Just think of that!" said Jessica.
|
|
|
|
On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.
|
|
|
|
"I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising.
|
|
|
|
"Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood,
|
|
without rising.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he said indifferently.
|
|
|
|
They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.
|
|
Presently the door clicked.
|
|
|
|
"I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.
|
|
|
|
The latter's school news was of a particular stripe.
|
|
|
|
"They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs," she
|
|
reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it."
|
|
|
|
"Are you?" said her mother.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in
|
|
the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the
|
|
part of Portia."
|
|
|
|
"Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can
|
|
act."
|
|
|
|
"Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs.
|
|
Hurstwood sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?"
|
|
|
|
"No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."
|
|
|
|
She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the
|
|
school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty.
|
|
|
|
"What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "that
|
|
Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me."
|
|
|
|
"Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just a
|
|
student there. He hasn't anything."
|
|
|
|
The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of
|
|
Blyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwood
|
|
was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and
|
|
happened to look out at the time.
|
|
|
|
"Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica came
|
|
upstairs.
|
|
|
|
"It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied.
|
|
|
|
"Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,"
|
|
explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.
|
|
|
|
"All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long."
|
|
|
|
As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of the
|
|
window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most
|
|
satisfactory.
|
|
|
|
In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not
|
|
thinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature to
|
|
trouble for something better, unless the better was immediately and
|
|
sharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritated
|
|
sometimes by the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at
|
|
times by some show of finery which supposedly made for dignity and
|
|
social distinction. The life of the resort which he managed was his
|
|
life. There he spent most of his time. When he went home evenings
|
|
the house looked nice. With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable,
|
|
being the kind that an ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was
|
|
interested in the talk of his son and daughter, who always looked
|
|
well. The vanity of Mrs. Hurstwood caused her to keep her person
|
|
rather showily arrayed, but to Hurstwood this was much better than
|
|
plainness. There was no love lost between them. There was no great
|
|
feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion on any subject was not
|
|
startling. They did not talk enough together to come to the argument
|
|
of any one point. In the accepted and popular phrase, she had her
|
|
ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet a woman whose
|
|
youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seem rather
|
|
deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which such an
|
|
encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social position
|
|
and a certain matter of policy. He could not complicate his home life,
|
|
because it might affect his relations with his employers. They
|
|
wanted no scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have a dignified
|
|
manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. Therefore he was
|
|
circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in the public ways
|
|
in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife, and sometimes
|
|
his children. He would visit the local resorts, or those near by in
|
|
Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling about
|
|
conventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need of it.
|
|
|
|
When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, who
|
|
had money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. It
|
|
didn't do to talk about those things. If it came up for discussion
|
|
among such friends as with him passed for close, he would deprecate
|
|
the folly of the thing. "It was all right to do it- all men do those
|
|
things- but why wasn't he careful? A man can't be too careful." He
|
|
lost sympathy for the man that made a mistake and was found out.
|
|
|
|
On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife
|
|
about- time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not
|
|
been for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which
|
|
did not depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with
|
|
considerable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way
|
|
and men looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and
|
|
this combination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in a
|
|
woman of her home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidence
|
|
in the sex was not great. His wife never possessed the virtues which
|
|
would win the confidence and admiration of a man of his nature. As
|
|
long as she loved him vigorously he could see how confidence could be,
|
|
but when that was no longer the binding chain- well, something might
|
|
happen.
|
|
|
|
During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a
|
|
large thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood, not to
|
|
be outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel.
|
|
Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured.
|
|
|
|
"Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwood
|
|
one morning.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests before
|
|
the glass at the time.
|
|
|
|
"I thought she just bought one," he said.
|
|
|
|
"That was just something for evening wear," returned his wife
|
|
complacently.
|
|
|
|
"It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a good
|
|
deal for dresses of late."
|
|
|
|
"Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of
|
|
his voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard
|
|
there before.
|
|
|
|
He was not a man who travelled much, but when he did, he had been
|
|
accustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a local
|
|
aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia- a junket
|
|
that was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited.
|
|
|
|
"Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face was a
|
|
slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always wore
|
|
a silk hat of most imposing proportions. "We can have a good time."
|
|
His left eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. "You want to
|
|
come along, George."
|
|
|
|
The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days."
|
|
|
|
"Where?" she asked, looking up.
|
|
|
|
"To Philadelphia, on business."
|
|
|
|
She looked at him consciously, expecting something else.
|
|
|
|
"I'll have to leave you behind this time."
|
|
|
|
"All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking
|
|
that it was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few more
|
|
questions, and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was a
|
|
disagreeable attachment.
|
|
|
|
On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over
|
|
he was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator, and
|
|
hated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The whole
|
|
incident was glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs. Hurstwood
|
|
gave the subject considerable thought. She drove out more, dressed
|
|
better, and attended theatres freely to make up for it.
|
|
|
|
Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home
|
|
life. It ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional
|
|
opinion. With the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and
|
|
dryer- must eventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed.
|
|
|
|
Chapter X.
|
|
|
|
THE COUNSEL OF WINTER: FORTUNE'S AMBASSADOR CALLS
|
|
|
|
In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties,
|
|
the nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration. Actions
|
|
such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses a
|
|
conventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men should
|
|
be good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed?
|
|
|
|
For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern
|
|
naturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of
|
|
morals. There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a law
|
|
of evolution. It is yet deeper than conformity to things of earth
|
|
alone. It is more involved than we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first,
|
|
why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some plaintive note goes
|
|
wandering about the world, undying; make clear the rose's subtle
|
|
alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light and rain. In the essence of
|
|
these facts lie the first principles of morals.
|
|
|
|
"Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest."
|
|
|
|
"Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I have
|
|
lost?"
|
|
|
|
Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
|
|
confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals- the true
|
|
answer to what is right.
|
|
|
|
In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was
|
|
comfortably established- in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by
|
|
every wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour.
|
|
Drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facing
|
|
Union Park, on the West Side. That was a little, green-carpeted
|
|
breathing spot, than which, to-day, there is nothing more beautiful in
|
|
Chicago. It afforded a vista pleasant to contemplate. The best room
|
|
looked out upon the lawn of the park, now sear and brown, where a
|
|
little lake lay sheltered. Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now
|
|
swayed in the wintry wind, rose the steeple of the Union Park
|
|
Congregational Church, and far off the towers of several others.
|
|
|
|
The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good
|
|
Brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and
|
|
representing large jardinieres filled with gorgeous, impossible
|
|
flowers. There was a large pier-glass mirror between the two
|
|
windows. A large, soft, green, plush-covered couch occupied one
|
|
corner, and several rocking-chairs were set about. Some pictures,
|
|
several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-a-brac, and the tale of
|
|
contents is told.
|
|
|
|
In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by
|
|
Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
|
|
clothing- more than she had ever possessed before, and of very
|
|
becoming designs. There was a third room for possible use as a
|
|
kitchen, where Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove
|
|
for the preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and the
|
|
like, of which he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The whole
|
|
place was cosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace
|
|
registers, possessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a
|
|
method of cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. By
|
|
her industry and natural love of order, which now developed, the place
|
|
maintained an air pleasing in the extreme.
|
|
|
|
Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free of
|
|
certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with
|
|
many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned
|
|
about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have
|
|
been a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw
|
|
a prettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her
|
|
mind, a mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a
|
|
worse. Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to
|
|
believe.
|
|
|
|
"My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to her.
|
|
|
|
She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.
|
|
|
|
"You know it, don't you?" he would continue.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact
|
|
that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really
|
|
did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself.
|
|
|
|
Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise.
|
|
There she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded,
|
|
excused. It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its last
|
|
analysis. It was only an average little conscience, a thing which
|
|
represented the world, her past environment, habit, convention, in a
|
|
confused way. With it, the voice of the people was truly the voice
|
|
of God.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.
|
|
|
|
"Why?" she questioned.
|
|
|
|
"Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those who
|
|
are good. How would they scorn to do what you have done. Look at the
|
|
good girls; how will they draw away from such as you when they know
|
|
you have been weak. You had not tried before you failed."
|
|
|
|
It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that
|
|
she would be listening to this. It would come infrequently- when
|
|
something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too
|
|
apparent, when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear in
|
|
utterance at first, but never wholly convincing. There was always an
|
|
answer, always the December days threatened. She was alone; she was
|
|
desireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want
|
|
made answer for her.
|
|
|
|
Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that
|
|
sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during
|
|
the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its
|
|
streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and
|
|
wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of
|
|
colour. There seems to be something in the chill breezes which
|
|
scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares productive of rueful
|
|
thoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, nor that superior order of
|
|
mind which arrogates to itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs and
|
|
all men. These feel as much as the poet, though they have not the same
|
|
power of expression. The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the
|
|
doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen
|
|
breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and
|
|
inanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the
|
|
rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if
|
|
the various merchants failed to make the customary display within
|
|
and without their establishments; if our streets were not strung
|
|
with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers,
|
|
we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays
|
|
upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun
|
|
withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are
|
|
more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are insects
|
|
produced by heat, and pass without it.
|
|
|
|
In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert
|
|
itself, feebly and more feebly.
|
|
|
|
Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by any
|
|
means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm hold
|
|
upon a definite truth. When she could not find her way out of the
|
|
labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she
|
|
would turn away entirely.
|
|
|
|
Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for
|
|
one of his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her,
|
|
and when he travelled took her with him. There were times when she
|
|
would be alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter
|
|
circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.
|
|
|
|
"Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so
|
|
established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come
|
|
out some day and spend the evening with us."
|
|
|
|
"Who is he?" asked Carrie, doubtfully.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."
|
|
|
|
"What's that?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place."
|
|
|
|
Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told him,
|
|
what her attitude would be.
|
|
|
|
"That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn't
|
|
know anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now."
|
|
|
|
There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
|
|
inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the keenest
|
|
sensibilities.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble
|
|
promises he had made.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal of
|
|
mine closed up."
|
|
|
|
He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
|
|
required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow
|
|
or other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions.
|
|
|
|
"Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll
|
|
do it."
|
|
|
|
Carrie accepted this as basis for hope- it was a sort of salve to
|
|
her conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances, things
|
|
would be righted. Her actions would be justified.
|
|
|
|
She really was not enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than he.
|
|
In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. If it had
|
|
not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and judge him
|
|
in a way, she would have been worse off than she was. She would have
|
|
adored him. She would have been utterly wretched in her fear of not
|
|
gaining his affection, of losing his interest, of being swept away and
|
|
left without an anchorage. As it was, she wavered a little, slightly
|
|
anxious, at first, to gain him completely, but later feeling at ease
|
|
in waiting. She was not exactly sure what she thought of him- what she
|
|
wanted to do.
|
|
|
|
When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouet
|
|
in a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to women which
|
|
every member of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed, he was not
|
|
overbold. His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning those
|
|
birds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and
|
|
professionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tact
|
|
when endeavouring to prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a
|
|
pretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his
|
|
greatest incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving the
|
|
impression that he wished to be of service only- to do something which
|
|
would make the lady more pleased.
|
|
|
|
Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth
|
|
the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish
|
|
which Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life,
|
|
too assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the
|
|
art of love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightly
|
|
experienced and possessed innate refinement. In the case of Carrie
|
|
he found a woman who was all of the latter, but none of the former. He
|
|
was lucky in the fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it
|
|
were. A few years later, with a little more experience, the
|
|
slightest tide of success, and he had not been able to approach Carrie
|
|
at all.
|
|
|
|
"You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling at
|
|
Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could play."
|
|
|
|
Drouet had not thought of that.
|
|
|
|
"So we ought," he observed readily.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood. "You could do very
|
|
well in a few weeks."
|
|
|
|
He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes
|
|
were particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stood
|
|
out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The
|
|
vest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of round
|
|
mother-of-pearl buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of
|
|
silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous. What he wore did not
|
|
strike the eye so forcibly as that which Drouet had on, but Carrie
|
|
could see the elegance of the material. Hurstwood's shoes were of
|
|
soft, black calf, polished only to a dull shine. Drouet wore patent
|
|
leather, but Carrie could not help feeling that there was a
|
|
distinction in favour of the soft leather, where all else was so rich.
|
|
She noticed these things almost unconsciously. They were things
|
|
which would naturally flow from the situation. She was used to
|
|
Drouet's appearance.
|
|
|
|
"Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood,
|
|
after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in
|
|
avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of
|
|
Carrie's past. He kept away from personalities altogether, and
|
|
confined himself to those things which did not concern individuals
|
|
at all. By his manner, he put Carrie at her ease, and by his deference
|
|
and pleasantries he amused her. He pretended to be seriously
|
|
interested in all she said.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know how to play," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to
|
|
Drouet most affably. "Between us, though," he went on, "we can show
|
|
you."
|
|
|
|
By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. There
|
|
was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be
|
|
there. Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave
|
|
him more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light,
|
|
under Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably.
|
|
|
|
"Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder
|
|
very deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment.
|
|
"That's rather good," he said.
|
|
|
|
"You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband. You
|
|
take my advice."
|
|
|
|
"Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, I
|
|
won't stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp."
|
|
|
|
"No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she win?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The
|
|
former took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy
|
|
himself. Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more.
|
|
|
|
"There," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving
|
|
Carrie a chance to take a trick. "I count that clever playing for a
|
|
beginner."
|
|
|
|
The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way.
|
|
It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.
|
|
|
|
He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild
|
|
light in his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality and
|
|
kindness. He took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it
|
|
with one of innocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure
|
|
with him in the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was
|
|
doing a great deal.
|
|
|
|
"It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something," he
|
|
said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket
|
|
of his coat. "Let's play for dimes."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces.
|
|
"Here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little stack.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie. "It's bad."
|
|
|
|
"No," said Drouet, "only fun. If you never play for more than
|
|
that, you will go to Heaven."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, "until you
|
|
see what becomes of the money."
|
|
|
|
Drouet smiled.
|
|
|
|
"If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is."
|
|
|
|
Drouet laughed loud.
|
|
|
|
There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the
|
|
insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it.
|
|
|
|
"When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"On Wednesday," he replied.
|
|
|
|
"It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that,
|
|
isn't it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"She's going along with me this time," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"You must both go with me to the theatre before you go."
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," said Drouet, "Eh, Carrie?"
|
|
|
|
"I'd like it ever so much," she replied.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoiced
|
|
in her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and
|
|
put them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he
|
|
served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going.
|
|
|
|
"Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his
|
|
eyes, "you must be ready at 7:30. I'll come and get you."
|
|
|
|
They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its
|
|
red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.
|
|
|
|
"Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship,
|
|
"when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a
|
|
little. It will break up her loneliness."
|
|
|
|
"Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.
|
|
|
|
"You're so kind," observed Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your husband to do as
|
|
much for me."
|
|
|
|
He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed.
|
|
She had never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he was
|
|
equally pleased.
|
|
|
|
"There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to
|
|
their cosey chamber. "A good friend of mine, too."
|
|
|
|
"He seems to be," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XI.
|
|
|
|
THE PERSUASION OF FASHION: FEELING GUARDS O'ER ITS OWN
|
|
|
|
Carrie was an apt student of fortune's ways- of fortune's
|
|
superficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to
|
|
inquiring how she would look, properly related to it. Be it known that
|
|
this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not
|
|
so afflicted; and, on the contrary the lowest order of mind is not
|
|
so disturbed. Fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke
|
|
tenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshot
|
|
of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice of
|
|
the so-called inanimate! Who shall translate for us the language of
|
|
the stones?
|
|
|
|
"My dear," said the lace collar she secured from Partridge's, "I fit
|
|
you beautifully; don't give me up."
|
|
|
|
"Ah, such little feet," said the leather of the soft new shoes; "how
|
|
effectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid."
|
|
|
|
Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream
|
|
of giving them up; the method by which they came might intrude
|
|
itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it,
|
|
but she would not give them up. "Put on the old clothes- that torn
|
|
pair of shoes," was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could
|
|
possibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the
|
|
thought of hard work and a narrow round of suffering would, under
|
|
the last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil her
|
|
appearance?- be old-clothed and poor-appearing?- never!
|
|
|
|
Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such
|
|
a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so
|
|
easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we
|
|
desire. In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. He
|
|
looked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under the
|
|
circumstances, she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do.
|
|
She picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had a
|
|
habit, characteristic of his kind, of looking after stylishly
|
|
dressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. He
|
|
had just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge-
|
|
not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw how they set their little
|
|
feet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they
|
|
swung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips by
|
|
a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper.
|
|
He would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his eyes. He
|
|
would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him.
|
|
He loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. At this,
|
|
their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee.
|
|
|
|
"Did you see that woman who went by just now?" he said to Carrie
|
|
on the first day they took a walk together. "Fine stepper, wasn't
|
|
she?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked, and observed the grace commended.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, she is," she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion of
|
|
possible defect in herself awakening in her mind. If that was so fine,
|
|
she must look at it more closely. Instinctively, she felt a desire
|
|
to imitate it. Surely she could do that too.
|
|
|
|
When one of her mind sees many things emphasized and reemphasized
|
|
and admired, she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly.
|
|
Drouet was not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. He
|
|
could not see that it would be better to make her feel that she was
|
|
competing with herself, not others better than herself. He would not
|
|
have done it with an older, wiser woman, but in Carrie he saw only the
|
|
novice. Less clever than she, he was naturally unable to comprehend
|
|
her sensibility. He went on educating and wounding her, a thing rather
|
|
foolish in one whose admiration for his pupil and victim was apt to
|
|
grow.
|
|
|
|
Carrie took the instructions affably. She saw what Drouet liked;
|
|
in a vague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's opinion
|
|
of a man when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly and
|
|
generously distributed. She sees but one object of supreme
|
|
compliment in this world, and that is herself. If a man is to
|
|
succeed with many women, he must be all in all to each.
|
|
|
|
In her own apartments Carrie saw things which were lessons in the
|
|
same school.
|
|
|
|
In the same house with her lived an official of one of the theatres,
|
|
Mr. Frank A. Hale, manager of the Standard, and his wife, a
|
|
pleasing-looking brunette of thirty-five. They were people of a sort
|
|
very common in America today, who live respectably from hand to mouth.
|
|
Hale received a salary of forty-five dollars a week. His wife, quite
|
|
attractive, affected the feeling of youth, and objected to that sort
|
|
of home life which means the care of a house and the raising of a
|
|
family. Like Drouet and Carrie, they also occupied three rooms on
|
|
the floor above.
|
|
|
|
Not long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relations
|
|
with her, and together they went about. For a long time this was her
|
|
only companionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife formed the
|
|
medium through which she saw the world. Such trivialities, such
|
|
praises of wealth, such conventional expression of morals as sifted
|
|
through this passive creature's mind, fell upon Carrie and for the
|
|
while confused her.
|
|
|
|
On the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence. The
|
|
constant drag to something better was not to be denied. By those
|
|
things which address the heart was she steadily recalled. In the
|
|
apartments across the hall were a young girl and her mother. They were
|
|
from Evansville, Indiana, the wife and daughter of a railroad
|
|
treasurer. The daughter was here to study music, the mother to keep
|
|
her company.
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughter
|
|
coming in and going out. A few times she had seen her at the piano
|
|
in the parlour, and not infrequently had heard her play. This young
|
|
woman was particularly dressy for her station, and wore a jewelled
|
|
ring or two which flashed upon her white fingers as she played.
|
|
|
|
Now Carrie was affected by music. Her nervous composition
|
|
responded to certain strains, much as certain strings of a harp
|
|
vibrate when a corresponding key of a piano is struck. She was
|
|
delicately moulded in sentiment, and answered with vague ruminations
|
|
to certain wistful chords. They awoke longings for those things
|
|
which she did not have. They caused her to cling closer to things
|
|
she possessed. One short song the young lady played in a most
|
|
soulful and tender mood. Carrie heard it through the open door from
|
|
the parlour below. It was at that hour between afternoon and night
|
|
when, for the idle, the wanderer, things are apt to take on a
|
|
wistful aspect. The mind wanders forth on far journeys and returns
|
|
with sheaves of withered and departed joys. Carrie sat at her window
|
|
looking out. Drouet had been away since ten in the morning. She had
|
|
amused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M. Clay which Drouet
|
|
had left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and by
|
|
changing her dress for the evening. Now she sat looking out across the
|
|
park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety and
|
|
life can be under such circumstances. As she contemplated her new
|
|
state, the strain from the parlour below stole upward. With it her
|
|
thoughts became coloured and enmeshed. She reverted to the things
|
|
which were best and saddest within the small limit of her
|
|
experience. She became for the moment a repentant.
|
|
|
|
While she was in this mood Drouet came in, bringing with him an
|
|
entirely different atmosphere. It was dusk and Carrie had neglected to
|
|
light the lamp. The fire in the grate, too, had burned low.
|
|
|
|
"Where are you, Cad?" he said, using a pet name he had given her.
|
|
|
|
"Here," she answered.
|
|
|
|
There was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he could
|
|
not hear it. He had not the poetry in him that would seek a woman
|
|
out under such circumstances and console her for the tragedy of
|
|
life. Instead, he struck a match and lighted the gas.
|
|
|
|
"Hello," he exclaimed, "you've been crying."
|
|
|
|
Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears.
|
|
|
|
"Pshaw," he said, "you don't want to do that."
|
|
|
|
He took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was
|
|
probably lack of his presence which had made her lonely.
|
|
|
|
"Come on, now," he went on; "it's all right. Let's waltz a little to
|
|
that music."
|
|
|
|
He could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. It made
|
|
clear to Carrie that he could not sympathise with her. She could not
|
|
have framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made
|
|
clear the difference between them, but she felt it. It was his first
|
|
great mistake.
|
|
|
|
What Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out evenings
|
|
accompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive the nature and
|
|
value of those little modish ways which women adopt when they would
|
|
presume to be something. She looked in the mirror and pursed up her
|
|
lips, accompanying it with a little toss of the head, as she had
|
|
seen the railroad treasurer's daughter do. She caught up her skirts
|
|
with an easy swing, for had not Drouet remarked that in her and
|
|
several others, and Carrie was naturally imitative. She began to get
|
|
the hang of those little things which the pretty woman who has
|
|
vanity invariably adopts. In short, her knowledge of grace doubled,
|
|
and with it her appearance changed. She became a girl of
|
|
considerable taste.
|
|
|
|
Drouet noticed this. He saw the new bow in her hair and the new
|
|
way of arranging her locks which she affected one morning.
|
|
|
|
"You look fine that way, Cad," he said.
|
|
|
|
"Do I?" she replied, sweetly. It made her try for other effects that
|
|
selfsame day.
|
|
|
|
She used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by
|
|
her attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful
|
|
carriage. How much influence the presence of that young woman in the
|
|
same house had upon her it would be difficult to say. But, because
|
|
of all these things, when Hurstwood called he had found a young
|
|
woman who was much more than the Carrie to whom Drouet had first
|
|
spoken. The primary defects of dress and manner had passed. She was
|
|
pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity born of uncertainty, and with a
|
|
something childlike in her large eyes which captured the fancy of this
|
|
starched and conventional poser among men. It was the ancient
|
|
attraction of the fresh for the stale. If there was a touch of
|
|
appreciation left in him for the bloom and unsophistication which is
|
|
the charm of youth, it rekindled now. He looked into her pretty face
|
|
and felt the subtle waves of young life radiating therefrom. In that
|
|
large clear eye he could see nothing that his blase nature could
|
|
understand as guile. The little vanity, if he could have perceived
|
|
it there, would have touched him as a pleasant thing.
|
|
|
|
"I wonder," he said, as he rode away in his cab, "how Drouet came to
|
|
win her."
|
|
|
|
He gave her credit for feelings superior to Drouet at the first
|
|
glance.
|
|
|
|
The cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps on
|
|
either hand. He folded his gloved hands and saw only the lighted
|
|
chamber and Carrie's face. He was pondering over the delight of
|
|
youthful beauty.
|
|
|
|
"I'll have a bouquet for her," he thought. "Drouet won't mind."
|
|
|
|
He never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for
|
|
himself. He troubled himself not at all about Drouet's priority. He
|
|
was merely floating those gossamer threads of thought which, like
|
|
the spider's, he hoped would lay hold somewhere. He did not know, he
|
|
could not guess, what the result would be.
|
|
|
|
A few weeks later Drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered one
|
|
of his well-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return from a
|
|
short trip to Omaha. He had intended to hurry out to Ogden Place and
|
|
surprise Carrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversation
|
|
and soon modified his original intention.
|
|
|
|
"Let's go to dinner," he said, little recking any chance meeting
|
|
which might trouble his way.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," said his companion.
|
|
|
|
They visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. It was
|
|
five in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty before the
|
|
last bone was picked.
|
|
|
|
Drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his
|
|
face was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught his
|
|
own. The latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing Drouet
|
|
and some woman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, the rascal," he thought, and then, with a touch of righteous
|
|
sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl."
|
|
|
|
Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught
|
|
Hurstwood's eye. He felt but very little misgiving, until he saw
|
|
that Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see. Then some of
|
|
the latter's impression forced itself upon him. He thought of Carrie
|
|
and their last meeting. By George, he would have to explain this to
|
|
Hurstwood. Such a chance half-hour with an old friend must not have
|
|
anything more attached to it than it really warranted.
|
|
|
|
For the first time he was troubled. Here was a moral complication of
|
|
which he could not possibly get the ends. Hurstwood would laugh at him
|
|
for being a fickle boy. He would laugh with Hurstwood. Carrie would
|
|
never hear, his present companion at table would never know, and yet
|
|
he could not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it- there
|
|
was some faint stigma attached, and he was not guilty. He broke up the
|
|
dinner by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car. Then he
|
|
went home.
|
|
|
|
"He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames," thought
|
|
Hurstwood to himself. "He thinks I think he cares for the girl out
|
|
there."
|
|
|
|
"He ought not to think I'm knocking around, since I have just
|
|
introduced him out there," thought Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"I saw you," Hurstwood said, genially, the next time Drouet
|
|
drifted in to his polished resort, from which he could not stay
|
|
away. He raised his forefinger indicatively, as parents do to
|
|
children.
|
|
|
|
"An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming up
|
|
from the station," explained Drouet. "She used to be quite a beauty."
|
|
|
|
"Still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting to
|
|
jest.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Drouet, "just couldn't escape her this time."
|
|
|
|
"How long are you here?" asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Only a few days."
|
|
|
|
"You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me," he said.
|
|
"I'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there. I'll get a box for Joe
|
|
Jefferson."
|
|
|
|
"Not me," answered the drummer. "Sure I'll come."
|
|
|
|
This pleased Hurstwood immensely. He gave Drouet no credit for any
|
|
feelings toward Carrie whatever. He envied him, and now, as he
|
|
looked at the well-dressed, jolly salesman, whom he so much liked, the
|
|
gleam of the rival glowed in his eye. He began to "size up" Drouet
|
|
from the standpoints of wit and fascination. He began to look to see
|
|
where he was weak. There was no disputing that, whatever he might
|
|
think of him as a good fellow, he felt a certain amount of contempt
|
|
for him as a lover. He could hood-wink him all right. Why, if he would
|
|
just let Carrie see one such little incident as that of Thursday, it
|
|
would settle the matter. He ran on in thought, almost exulting, the
|
|
while he laughed and chatted, and Drouet felt nothing. He had no power
|
|
of analysing the glance and the atmosphere of a man like Hurstwood. He
|
|
stood and smiled and accepted the invitation while his friend examined
|
|
him with the eye of a hawk.
|
|
|
|
The object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of
|
|
either. She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newer
|
|
conditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs from
|
|
either quarter.
|
|
|
|
One evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the glass.
|
|
|
|
"Cad," said he, catching her, "I believe you're getting vain."
|
|
|
|
"Nothing of the kind," she returned, smiling.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you're mighty pretty," he went on, slipping his arm around
|
|
her. "Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I'll take you to the
|
|
show."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I've promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Exposition
|
|
to-night," she returned, apologetically.
|
|
|
|
"You did, eh?" he said, studying the situation abstractedly. "I
|
|
wouldn't care to go to that myself."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I don't know," answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering to
|
|
break her promise in his favour.
|
|
|
|
Just then a knock came at their door and the maid-serveant handed
|
|
a letter in.
|
|
|
|
"He says there's an answer expected," she explained.
|
|
|
|
"It's from Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the superscription as
|
|
he tore it open.
|
|
|
|
"You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me tonight," it ran
|
|
in part. "It's my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets are
|
|
off."
|
|
|
|
"Well, what do you say to this?" asked Drouet, innocently, while
|
|
Carrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies.
|
|
|
|
"You had better decide, Charlie," she said, reservedly.
|
|
|
|
"I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement
|
|
upstairs," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I can," returned Carrie without thinking.
|
|
|
|
Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress.
|
|
She hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to
|
|
her most.
|
|
|
|
"Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?" she asked, as she came
|
|
out with several articles of apparel pending.
|
|
|
|
"Sure," he returned, pleasantly.
|
|
|
|
She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her
|
|
willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemed
|
|
that the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was more
|
|
agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayed
|
|
herself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses
|
|
upstairs.
|
|
|
|
"I say," said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, "we
|
|
are exceedingly charming this evening."
|
|
|
|
Carrie fluttered under his approving glance.
|
|
|
|
"Now, then," he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre.
|
|
|
|
If ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personification
|
|
of the old term spick and span.
|
|
|
|
"Did you ever see Jefferson?" he questioned, as he leaned toward
|
|
Carrie in the box.
|
|
|
|
"I never did," she returned.
|
|
|
|
"He's delightful, delightful," he went on, giving the commonplace
|
|
rendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after a
|
|
programme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he
|
|
had heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was
|
|
really hypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, the
|
|
elegance of her companion. Several times their eyes accidentally
|
|
met, and then there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she
|
|
had never before experienced. She could not for the moment explain it,
|
|
for in the next glance or the next move of the hand there was
|
|
seeming indifference, mingled only with the kindest attention.
|
|
|
|
Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in
|
|
comparison. Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven
|
|
into Carrie's mind that here was the superior man. She instinctively
|
|
felt that he was stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By the
|
|
end of the third act she was sure that Drouet was only a kindly
|
|
soul, but otherwise defective. He sank every moment in her
|
|
estimation by the strong comparison.
|
|
|
|
"I have had such a nice time," said Carrie, when it was all over and
|
|
they were coming out.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, indeed," added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that a
|
|
battle had been fought and his defences weakened. He was like the
|
|
Emperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his
|
|
fairest provinces were being wrested from him.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you have saved me a dreary evening," returned Hurstwood.
|
|
"Good-night."
|
|
|
|
He took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from
|
|
one to the other.
|
|
|
|
"I'm so tired," said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet
|
|
began to talk.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you rest a little while I smoke," he said, rising, and then
|
|
he foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game
|
|
as it stood.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XII.
|
|
|
|
OF THE LAMPS OF THE MANSIONS: THE AMBASSADOR'S PLEA
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moral
|
|
defections, though she might readily have suspected his tendencies,
|
|
which she well understood. She was a woman upon whose action under
|
|
provocation you could never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not the
|
|
slightest idea of what she would do under certain circumstances. He
|
|
had never seen her thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman
|
|
who would fly into a passion. She had too little faith in mankind
|
|
not to know that they were erring. She was too calculating to
|
|
jeopardise any advantage she might gain in the way of information by
|
|
fruitless clamour. Her wrath would never wreak itself in one fell
|
|
blow. She would wait and brood, studying the details and adding to
|
|
them until her power might be commensurate with her desire for
|
|
revenge. At the same time, she would not delay to inflict any
|
|
injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her revenge and
|
|
still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She was a
|
|
cold, self-centered woman, with many a thought of her own which
|
|
never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not
|
|
actually perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and some
|
|
satisfaction. He did not fear her in the least- there was no cause for
|
|
it. She still took a faint pride in him, which was augmented by her
|
|
desire to have her social integrity maintained. She was secretly
|
|
somewhat pleased by the fact that much of her husband's property was
|
|
in her name, a precaution which Hurstwood had taken when his home
|
|
interests were somewhat more alluring than at present. His wife had
|
|
not the slightest reason to feel that anything would ever go amiss
|
|
with their household, and yet the shadows which run before gave her
|
|
a thought of the good of it now and then. She was in a position to
|
|
become refractory with considerable advantage, and Hurstwood conducted
|
|
himself circumspectly because he felt that he could not be sure of
|
|
anything once she became dissatisfied.
|
|
|
|
It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and
|
|
Drouet were in the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the sixth
|
|
row of the parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the third
|
|
partner of a wholesale drygoods house of that city. Hurstwood did
|
|
not see his son, for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible,
|
|
leaving himself just partially visible, when he bent forward, to those
|
|
within the first six rows in question. It was his wont to sit this way
|
|
in every theatre- to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible
|
|
where it would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.
|
|
|
|
He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct
|
|
being misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him
|
|
and counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity.
|
|
|
|
The next morning at breakfast his son said:
|
|
|
|
"I saw you, Governor, last night."
|
|
|
|
"Were you at McVickar's?" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the
|
|
world.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said young George.
|
|
|
|
"Who with?"
|
|
|
|
"Miss Carmichael."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but
|
|
could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a
|
|
casual look into the theatre which was referred to.
|
|
|
|
"How was the play?" she inquired.
|
|
|
|
"Very good," returned Hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing, 'Rip
|
|
Van Winkle'."
|
|
|
|
"Whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed indifference.
|
|
|
|
"Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy's, visiting
|
|
here."
|
|
|
|
Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as
|
|
this would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for
|
|
granted that his situation called for certain social movements in
|
|
which she might not be included. But of late he had pleaded office
|
|
duty on several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any
|
|
evening entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening in
|
|
question only the morning before.
|
|
|
|
"I thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very carefully.
|
|
|
|
"So I was," he exclaimed. "I couldn't help the interruption, but I
|
|
made up for it afterward by working until two."
|
|
|
|
This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a
|
|
residue of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time at
|
|
which the claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily
|
|
pushed. For years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial
|
|
devotion, and found her company dull. Now that a new light shone
|
|
upon the horizon, this older luminary paled in the west. He was
|
|
satisfied to turn his face away entirely, and any call to look back
|
|
was irksome.
|
|
|
|
She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything
|
|
less than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship,
|
|
though the spirit might be wanting.
|
|
|
|
"We are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few days
|
|
later. "I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr. Phillips and
|
|
his wife. They're stopping at the Tremont, and we're going to show
|
|
them around a little."
|
|
|
|
After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though the
|
|
Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could
|
|
make them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when
|
|
he left the house.
|
|
|
|
"I'll put a stop to this," he thought. "I'm not going to be bothered
|
|
fooling around with visitors when I have work to do."
|
|
|
|
Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar
|
|
proposition, only it was to a matinee this time.
|
|
|
|
"My dear," he returned, "I haven't time. I'm too busy."
|
|
|
|
"You find time to go with other people, though," she replied, with
|
|
considerable irritation.
|
|
|
|
"Nothing of the kind," he answered. "I can't avoid business
|
|
relations, and that's all there is to it."
|
|
|
|
"Well, never mind," she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling
|
|
of mutual antagonism was increased.
|
|
|
|
On the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew in
|
|
an almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the
|
|
stress of her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed
|
|
effectively. She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks
|
|
emancipation. The glow of a more showy life was not lost upon her. She
|
|
did not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of
|
|
desire. Mrs. Hale's extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and
|
|
position taught her to distinguish between degrees of wealth.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was
|
|
fine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and lawns
|
|
which she could not afford. On the North Side had been erected a
|
|
number of elegant mansions along what is now known as the North
|
|
Shore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and granitoid was not then
|
|
in place, but the road had been well laid out, the intermediate spaces
|
|
of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the houses were thoroughly new
|
|
and imposing. When the winter season had passed and the first fine
|
|
days of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for an
|
|
afternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first through Lincoln Park and
|
|
on far out towards Evanston, turning back at four and arriving at
|
|
the north end of the Shore Drive at about five o'clock. At this time
|
|
of year the days are still comparatively short, and the shadows of the
|
|
evening were beginning to settle down upon the great city. Lamps
|
|
were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which seems almost
|
|
watery and translucent to the eye. There was a softness in the air
|
|
which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh as well
|
|
as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely day. She was
|
|
ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they drove along
|
|
the smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw one stop
|
|
and the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who
|
|
seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure.
|
|
Across the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps
|
|
faintly glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a
|
|
table, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her
|
|
as almost nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had had
|
|
of fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imagined
|
|
that across these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed and
|
|
crystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained and
|
|
designed panes of glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire.
|
|
She was perfectly certain that here was happiness. If she could but
|
|
stroll up yon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to her
|
|
was of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to
|
|
possession and command- oh! how quickly would sadness flee; how, in an
|
|
instant, would the heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering,
|
|
delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of the
|
|
unrestful was whispering in her ear.
|
|
|
|
"If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly, "how
|
|
delightful it would be."
|
|
|
|
"And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy."
|
|
|
|
She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless
|
|
fox.
|
|
|
|
"I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard,
|
|
though, to take their misery in a mansion."
|
|
|
|
When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
|
|
insignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive they
|
|
were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
|
|
boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had
|
|
had, but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors
|
|
was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her
|
|
ears. What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she
|
|
thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the
|
|
lamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland
|
|
avenues. She was too wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensive
|
|
to do aught but rock and sing. Some old tunes crept to her lips,
|
|
and, as she sang them, her heart sank. She longed and longed and
|
|
longed. It was now for the old cottage room in Columbia City, now
|
|
the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now the fine dress of some lady, now
|
|
the elegance of some scene. She was sad beyond measure, and yet
|
|
uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally, it seemed as if all her state
|
|
was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain
|
|
from trembling at the lip. She hummed and hummed as the moments went
|
|
by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy,
|
|
though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be.
|
|
|
|
While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant
|
|
brought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour
|
|
asking to see Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town," thought
|
|
Carrie.
|
|
|
|
She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the
|
|
winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and
|
|
another, principally by the strong impression he had made. She was
|
|
quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon
|
|
satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard that
|
|
Drouet was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the
|
|
intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics which
|
|
would interest Carrie. It was surprising- the ease with which he
|
|
conducted a conversation. He was like every man who has had the
|
|
advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy. He knew that Carrie
|
|
listened to him pleasurably, and, without the least effort, he fell
|
|
into a train of observation which absorbed her fancy. He drew up his
|
|
chair and modulated his voice to such a degree that what he said
|
|
seemed wholly confidential. He confined himself almost exclusively
|
|
to his observation of men and pleasures. He had been here and there,
|
|
he had seen this and that. Somehow he made Carrie wish to see
|
|
similar things, and all the while kept her aware of himself. She could
|
|
not shut out the consciousness of his individuality and presence for a
|
|
moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of
|
|
something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would draw out,
|
|
with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand for
|
|
emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere which
|
|
suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and seemed to make
|
|
her clever. At least, she brightened under his influence until all her
|
|
best side was exhibited. She felt that she was more clever with him
|
|
than with others. At least, he seemed to find so much in her to
|
|
applaud. There was not the slightest touch of patronage. Drouet was
|
|
full of it.
|
|
|
|
There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting
|
|
between them, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent,
|
|
that Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense of
|
|
difficulty. She was no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts in
|
|
fluent order. It was always a matter of feeling with her, strong and
|
|
deep. Each time there had been no sentence of importance which she
|
|
could relate, and as for the glances and sensations, what woman
|
|
would reveal them? Such things had never been between her and
|
|
Drouet. As a matter of fact, they could never be. She had been
|
|
dominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces of relief which
|
|
Drouet represented at an opportune moment when she yielded to him. Now
|
|
she was persuaded by secret current feelings which Drouet had never
|
|
understood. Hurstwood's glance was as effective as the spoken words of
|
|
a lover, and more. They called for no immediate decision, and could
|
|
not be answered.
|
|
|
|
People in general attach too much importance to words. They are
|
|
under the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter
|
|
of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the
|
|
argument. They but dimly represent the great surging feelings and
|
|
desires which lie behind. When the distraction of the tongue is
|
|
removed, the heart listens.
|
|
|
|
In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices
|
|
of the things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of his
|
|
appearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! The
|
|
growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand.
|
|
She did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she
|
|
did not need to worry over what other people would say- what she
|
|
herself would say- because it had no tangibility. She was being
|
|
pleaded with, persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming
|
|
new ones, and yet there were no words to prove it. Such conversation
|
|
as was indulged in held the same relationship to the actual mental
|
|
enactments of the twain that the low music of the orchestra does to
|
|
the dramatic incident which it is used to cover.
|
|
|
|
"Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North
|
|
Side?" asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Why, I was just over there this afternoon- Mrs. Hale and I.
|
|
Aren't they beautiful?"
|
|
|
|
"They're very fine," he answered.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, me," said Carrie, pensively. "I wish I could live in such a
|
|
place."
|
|
|
|
"You're not happy," said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.
|
|
|
|
He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He
|
|
assumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to
|
|
say a word in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his
|
|
steady gaze. He felt the critical character of the period. She
|
|
endeavoured to stir, but it was useless. The whole strength of a man's
|
|
nature was working. He had good cause to urge him on. He looked and
|
|
looked, and the longer the situation lasted the more difficult it
|
|
became. The little shop-girl was getting into deep water. She was
|
|
letting her few supports float away from her.
|
|
|
|
"Oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that."
|
|
|
|
"I can't help it," he answered.
|
|
|
|
She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him
|
|
strength.
|
|
|
|
"You are not satisfied with life, are you?"
|
|
|
|
"No," she answered, weakly.
|
|
|
|
He saw he was the master of the situation- he felt it. He reached
|
|
over and touched her hand.
|
|
|
|
"You mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't intend to," he answered, easily.
|
|
|
|
She did not run away, as she might have done. She did not
|
|
terminate the interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of
|
|
thought with the readiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and she
|
|
felt that he was in power.
|
|
|
|
"You mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will straighten out
|
|
in the course of time."
|
|
|
|
She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.
|
|
|
|
"We are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"Not a word, then, until I see you again."
|
|
|
|
He retained a hold on her hand.
|
|
|
|
"I can't promise," she said, doubtfully.
|
|
|
|
"You must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple way
|
|
that she was touched.
|
|
|
|
"Let's not talk about it any more," she returned.
|
|
|
|
"All right," he said, brightening.
|
|
|
|
He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door
|
|
and ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the
|
|
mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently
|
|
bought.
|
|
|
|
"I'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feeling
|
|
of trouble and shame. "I don't seem to do anything right."
|
|
|
|
She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown
|
|
waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do."
|
|
|
|
"Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right;
|
|
that I know."
|
|
|
|
The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his
|
|
office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XIII.
|
|
|
|
HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED: A BABEL OF TONGUES
|
|
|
|
It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and
|
|
Hurstwood in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his
|
|
appearance. He had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Her
|
|
leniency had, in a way, inflamed his regard. He felt that he must
|
|
succeed with her, and that speedily.
|
|
|
|
The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than
|
|
mere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had been
|
|
withering in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probable
|
|
that Carrie represented a better order of woman than had ever
|
|
attracted him before. He had had no love affair since that which
|
|
culminated in his marriage, and since then time and the world had
|
|
taught him how raw and erroneous was his original judgment. Whenever
|
|
he thought of it, he told himself that, if he had it to do over again,
|
|
he would never marry such a woman. At the same time, his experience
|
|
with women in general had lessened his respect for the sex. He
|
|
maintained a cynical attitude, well grounded on numerous
|
|
experiences. Such women as he had known were of nearly one type,
|
|
selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends were not inspiring
|
|
to look upon. His own wife had developed a cold, commonplace nature
|
|
which to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew of that
|
|
under-world where grovel the beast-men of society (and he knew a great
|
|
deal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women with
|
|
suspicion- a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. He
|
|
followed them with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was
|
|
not so dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally,
|
|
he did not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He
|
|
would take off his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the
|
|
vicious in her presence- much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hall
|
|
will humble himself before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll to
|
|
charity with a willing and reverent hand. But he would not think
|
|
much upon the question of why he did so.
|
|
|
|
A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless or
|
|
hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul,
|
|
is apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness,
|
|
or to draw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery.
|
|
It is only by a roundabout process that such men ever do draw near
|
|
such a girl. They have no method, no understanding of how to
|
|
ingratiate themselves in youthful favour, save when they find virtue
|
|
in the toils. If, unfortunately, the fly has got caught in the net,
|
|
the spider can come forth and talk business upon its own terms. So
|
|
when maidenhood has wandered into the moil of the city, when it is
|
|
brought within the circle of the "rounder" and the roue, even though
|
|
it be at the outermost rim, they can come forth and use their alluring
|
|
arts.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage of
|
|
fine clothes and pretty features. He entered, expecting to indulge
|
|
in an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomer
|
|
forever. Instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attracted
|
|
him. In the mild light of Carrie's eye was nothing of the
|
|
calculation of the mistress. In the diffident manner was nothing of
|
|
the art of the courtesan. He saw at once that a mistake had been made,
|
|
that some difficult conditions had pushed this troubled creature
|
|
into his presence, and his interest was enlisted. Here sympathy sprang
|
|
to the rescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness. He wanted to
|
|
win Carrie because he thought her fate mingled with his was better
|
|
than if it were united with Drouet's. He envied the drummer his
|
|
conquest as he had never envied any man in all the course of his
|
|
experience.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior,
|
|
mentally, to Drouet. She came fresh from the air of the village, the
|
|
light of the country still in her eye. Here was neither guile nor
|
|
rapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but
|
|
they were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to be
|
|
greedy. She still looked about her upon the great maze of the city
|
|
without understanding. Hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth. He
|
|
picked her as he would the fresh fruit of a tree. He felt as fresh
|
|
in her presence as one who is taken out of the flash of summer to
|
|
the first cool breath of spring.
|
|
|
|
Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one
|
|
with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mental
|
|
conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up. She
|
|
owed something to Drouet, she thought. It did not seem more than
|
|
yesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed.
|
|
She had the kindliest feelings for him in every way. She gave him
|
|
credit for his good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact,
|
|
failed to recollect his egotism when he was absent; but she could
|
|
not feel any binding influence keeping her for him as against all
|
|
others. In fact, such a thought had never had any grounding, even in
|
|
Drouet's desires.
|
|
|
|
The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all
|
|
enduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy.
|
|
He went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affection
|
|
followed tenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchangingly
|
|
for his pleasure. When he missed some old face, or found some door
|
|
finally shut to him, it did not grieve him deeply. He was too young,
|
|
too successful. He would remain thus young in spirit until he was
|
|
dead.
|
|
|
|
As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerning
|
|
Carrie. He had no definite plans regarding her, but he was
|
|
determined to make her confess an affection for him. He thought he saw
|
|
in her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, the
|
|
symptoms of a budding passion. He wanted to stand near her and make
|
|
her lay her hand in his- he wanted to find out what her next step
|
|
would be- what the next sign of feeling for him would be. Such anxiety
|
|
and enthusiasm had not affected him for years. He was a youth again in
|
|
feeling- a cavalier in action.
|
|
|
|
In his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was
|
|
excellent. He was a most faithful worker in general, and a man who
|
|
commanded the confidence of his employers in so far as the
|
|
distribution of his time was concerned. He could take such hours off
|
|
as he chose, for it was well known that he fulfilled his managerial
|
|
duties successfully, whatever time he might take. His grace, tact, and
|
|
ornate appearance gave the place an air which was most essential,
|
|
while at the same time his long experience made him a most excellent
|
|
judge of its stock necessities. Bartenders and assistants might come
|
|
and go, singly or in groups, but, so long as he was present, the
|
|
host of old-time customers would barely notice the change. He gave the
|
|
place the atmosphere to which they were used. Consequently, he
|
|
arranged his hours very much to suit himself, taking now an afternoon,
|
|
now an evening, but invariably returning between eleven and twelve
|
|
to witness the last hour or two of the day's business and look after
|
|
the closing details.
|
|
|
|
"You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when you
|
|
go home, George," Moy had once remarked to him, and he never once,
|
|
in all the period of his long service, neglected to do this. Neither
|
|
of the owners had for years been in the resort after five in the
|
|
afternoon, and yet their manager as faithfully fulfilled this
|
|
request as if they had been there regularly to observe.
|
|
|
|
On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous
|
|
visit, he made up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay away
|
|
longer.
|
|
|
|
"Evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any one
|
|
calls, I will be back between four and five."
|
|
|
|
He hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, which
|
|
carried him to Ogden Place in half an hour.
|
|
|
|
Carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light
|
|
grey woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. She had out
|
|
her hat and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about her
|
|
throat when the housemaid brought up the information that Mr.
|
|
Hurstwood wished to see her.
|
|
|
|
She started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to say
|
|
that she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten her
|
|
dressing.
|
|
|
|
Carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was
|
|
glad or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her presence.
|
|
She was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks, but it was
|
|
more nervousness than either fear or favour. She did not try to
|
|
conjecture what the drift of the conversation would be. She only
|
|
felt that she must be careful, and that Hurstwood had an indefinable
|
|
fascination for her. Then she gave her tie its last touch with her
|
|
fingers and went below.
|
|
|
|
The deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the nerves
|
|
by the thorough consciousness of his mission. He felt that he must
|
|
make a strong play on this occasion, but now that the hour was come,
|
|
and he heard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his nerve failed him. He
|
|
sank a little in determination, for he was not so sure, after all,
|
|
what her opinion might be.
|
|
|
|
When she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him courage.
|
|
She looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the daring of
|
|
any lover. Her apparent nervousness dispelled his own.
|
|
|
|
"How are you?" he said, easily. "I could not resist the temptation
|
|
to come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant."
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie, halting before him, "I was just preparing to
|
|
go for a walk myself."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, were you?" he said. "Supposing, then, you get your hat and we
|
|
both go?"
|
|
|
|
They crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard,
|
|
beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses
|
|
set back from the sidewalks. It was a street where many of the more
|
|
prosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood could not
|
|
help feeling nervous over the publicity of it. They had gone but a few
|
|
blocks when a livery stable sign in one of the side streets solved the
|
|
difficulty for him. He would take her to drive along the new
|
|
Boulevard.
|
|
|
|
The Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road.
|
|
The part he intended showing her was much farther out on this same
|
|
West Side, where there was scarcely a house. It connected Douglas Park
|
|
with Washington or South Park, and was nothing more than a neatly made
|
|
road, running due south for some five miles over an open, grassy
|
|
prairie, and then due east over the same kind of prairie for the
|
|
same distance. There was not a house to be encountered anywhere
|
|
along the larger part of the route, and any conversation would be
|
|
pleasantly free of interruption.
|
|
|
|
At the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of
|
|
range of either public observation or hearing.
|
|
|
|
"Can you drive?" he said, after a time.
|
|
|
|
"I never tried," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
He put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms.
|
|
|
|
"You see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly.
|
|
|
|
"Not when you have a gentle horse," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little
|
|
practice," he added, encouragingly.
|
|
|
|
He had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation
|
|
when he could give it a serious turn. Once or twice he had held his
|
|
peace, hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the colour of
|
|
his own, but she had lightly continued the subject. Presently,
|
|
however, his silence controlled the situation. The drift of his
|
|
thoughts began to tell. He gazed fixedly at nothing in particular,
|
|
as if he were thinking of something which concerned her not at all.
|
|
His thoughts, however, spoke for themselves. She was very much aware
|
|
that a climax was pending.
|
|
|
|
"Do you know," he said, "I have spent the happiest evenings in years
|
|
since I have known you?"
|
|
|
|
"Have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by
|
|
the conviction which the tone of his voice carried.
|
|
|
|
"I was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "but
|
|
somehow the opportunity slipped away."
|
|
|
|
Carrie was listening without attempting to reply. She could think of
|
|
nothing worth while to say. Despite all the ideas concerning right
|
|
which had troubled her vaguely since she had last seen him, she was
|
|
now influenced again strongly in his favour.
|
|
|
|
"I came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you just
|
|
how I feel- to see if you wouldn't listen to me."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He was
|
|
capable of strong feelings- often poetic ones- and under a stress of
|
|
desire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, his
|
|
feelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repression
|
|
and pathos which is the essence of eloquence.
|
|
|
|
"You know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a
|
|
strange silence while he formulated words, "that I love you?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not stir at the words. She was bound up completely in the
|
|
man's atmosphere. He would have church-like silence in order to
|
|
express his feelings, and she kept it. She did not move her eyes
|
|
from the flat, open scene before her. Hurstwood waited for a few
|
|
moments, and then repeated the words.
|
|
|
|
"You must not say that," she said, weakly.
|
|
|
|
Her words were not convincing at all. They were the result of a
|
|
feeble thought that something ought to be said. He paid no attention
|
|
to them whatever.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie," he said, using her first name with sympathetic
|
|
familiarity, "I want you to love me. You don't know how much I need
|
|
some one to waste a little affection on me. I am practically alone.
|
|
There is nothing in my life that is pleasant or delightful. It's all
|
|
work and worry with people who are nothing to me."
|
|
|
|
As he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state was
|
|
pitiful. He had the ability to get off at a distance and view
|
|
himself objectively- of seeing what he wanted to see in the things
|
|
which made up his existence. Now, as he spoke, his voice trembled with
|
|
that peculiar vibration which is the result of tensity. It went
|
|
ringing home to his companion's heart.
|
|
|
|
"Why, I should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes which
|
|
were full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very happy.
|
|
You know so much of the world."
|
|
|
|
"That is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "I know
|
|
too much of the world."
|
|
|
|
It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned
|
|
and powerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling the
|
|
strangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little a while,
|
|
the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, and
|
|
the city, with all its mystery, taken its place? Here was this
|
|
greatest mystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her,
|
|
appealing to her. Behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength was
|
|
great, his position high, his clothing rich, and yet he was
|
|
appealing to her. She could formulate no thought which would be just
|
|
and right. She troubled herself no more upon the matter. She only
|
|
basked in the warmth of his feeling, which was as a grateful blaze
|
|
to one who is cold. Hurstwood glowed with his own intensity, and the
|
|
heat of his passion was already melting the wax of his companion's
|
|
scruples.
|
|
|
|
"You think," he said, "I am happy; that I ought not to complain?
|
|
If you were to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothing
|
|
about you, if you went day after day to a place where there was
|
|
nothing but show and indifference, if there was not one person in
|
|
all those you knew to whom you could appeal for sympathy or talk to
|
|
with pleasure, perhaps you would be unhappy too."
|
|
|
|
He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in
|
|
her own situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who were
|
|
indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing
|
|
about you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone?
|
|
Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for
|
|
sympathy? Not one. She was left to herself to brood and wonder.
|
|
|
|
"I could be content," went on Hurstwood, "if I had you to love me.
|
|
If I had you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I simply move
|
|
about from place to place without any satisfaction. Time hangs heavily
|
|
on my hands. Before you came I did nothing but idle and drift into
|
|
anything that offered itself. Since you came- well, I've had you to
|
|
think about."
|
|
|
|
The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began
|
|
to grow in Carrie's mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. To
|
|
think that all his fine state should be so barren for want of her;
|
|
that he needed to make such an appeal when she herself was lonely
|
|
and without anchor. Surely, this was too bad.
|
|
|
|
"I am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to
|
|
her to explain on this score. "You think, probably, that I roam
|
|
around, and get into all sorts of evil? I have been rather reckless,
|
|
but I could easily come out of that. I need you to draw me back, if my
|
|
life ever amounts to anything."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels
|
|
in its hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need
|
|
reclaiming? His errors, what were they, that she could correct?
|
|
Small they must be, where all was so fine. At worst, they were
|
|
gilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed.
|
|
|
|
He put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved.
|
|
|
|
"Is it that way?" she mused.
|
|
|
|
He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart
|
|
to draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. A
|
|
breath of soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some
|
|
brown twigs of the previous autumn before it. The horse paced
|
|
leisurely on, unguided.
|
|
|
|
"Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me."
|
|
|
|
Her eyes fell consciously.
|
|
|
|
"Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?"
|
|
|
|
She made no answer, but he felt his victory.
|
|
|
|
"Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips
|
|
were near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it
|
|
to touch her cheek.
|
|
|
|
"You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own.
|
|
|
|
For answer, her lips replied.
|
|
|
|
"Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own girl,
|
|
aren't you?"
|
|
|
|
By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XIV.
|
|
|
|
WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING: ONE INFLUENCE WANES
|
|
|
|
Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically
|
|
and mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for
|
|
Hurstwood and his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their
|
|
next meeting Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of
|
|
enforced secrecy, that she should come down town and meet him, though,
|
|
after all, the need of it was the cause.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.
|
|
|
|
"Um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man when
|
|
her husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her."
|
|
|
|
The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought
|
|
on this score. The house-maid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her
|
|
opinion also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took
|
|
to be cold and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the
|
|
merry and easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now
|
|
and then, and in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard
|
|
which he had for all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved
|
|
and critical in his manner. He did not appeal to this bodiced
|
|
functionary in the same pleasant way. She wondered that he came so
|
|
frequently, that Mrs. Drouet should go out with him this afternoon
|
|
when Mr. Drouet was absent. She gave vent to her opinions in the
|
|
kitchen where the cook was. As a result, a hum of gossip was set going
|
|
which moved about the house in that secret manner common to gossip.
|
|
|
|
Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to
|
|
confess her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards
|
|
him. Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of
|
|
the dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection
|
|
for her. On the first evening, she did little but go over the
|
|
details of the afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had
|
|
ever been thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on her
|
|
character. She had some power of initiative, latent before, which
|
|
now began to exert itself. She looked more practically upon her
|
|
state and began to see glimmerings of a way out. Hurstwood seemed a
|
|
drag in the direction of honour. Her feelings were exceedingly
|
|
creditable, in that they constructed out of these recent
|
|
developments something which conquered freedom from dishonour. She had
|
|
no idea what Hurstwood's next word would be. She only took his
|
|
affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more generous
|
|
results accordingly.
|
|
|
|
As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without
|
|
responsibility. He did not feel that he was doing anything to
|
|
complicate his life. His position was secure, his home-life, if not
|
|
satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty rather
|
|
untrammelled. Carrie's love represented only so much added pleasure.
|
|
He would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowance
|
|
of pleasure. He would be happy with her and his own affairs would go
|
|
on as they had, undisturbed.
|
|
|
|
On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected
|
|
in East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was
|
|
then a pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th
|
|
Street. In the process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrie
|
|
took his love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept
|
|
him at a distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those
|
|
tender tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced
|
|
lover. Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the
|
|
asking, and deferred pressing his suit too warmly.
|
|
|
|
Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he
|
|
had to carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a
|
|
little distance. How far he could not guess.
|
|
|
|
They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:
|
|
|
|
"When will I see you again?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she answered, wondering herself.
|
|
|
|
"Why not come down to The Fair," he suggested, "next Tuesday?"
|
|
|
|
She shook her head.
|
|
|
|
"Not so soon," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you what I'll do," he added. "I'll write you, care of
|
|
this West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie assented.
|
|
|
|
The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.
|
|
|
|
"Good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away.
|
|
|
|
Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet
|
|
returned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next
|
|
afternoon when he saw Drouet enter.
|
|
|
|
"Why, hello, Charles," he called affably; "back again?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood arose.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?"
|
|
|
|
They began talking of the people they knew and things that had
|
|
happened.
|
|
|
|
"Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"No, I am going, though," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"I remembered the little girl out there," said Hurstwood, "and
|
|
called once. Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone."
|
|
|
|
"Right you are," agreed Drouet. "How is she?"
|
|
|
|
"Very well," said Hurstwood. "Rather anxious about you, though.
|
|
You'd better go out now and cheer her up."
|
|
|
|
"I will," said Drouet, smilingly.
|
|
|
|
"Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me
|
|
Wednesday," concluded Hurstwood at parting.
|
|
|
|
"Thanks, old man," said his friend, "I'll see what the girl says and
|
|
let you know."
|
|
|
|
They separated in the most cordial manner.
|
|
|
|
"There's a nice fellow," Drouet thought to himself as he turned
|
|
the corner towards Madison.
|
|
|
|
"Drouet is a good fellow," Hurstwood thought to himself as he went
|
|
back into his office, "but he's no man for Carrie."
|
|
|
|
The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein,
|
|
and he wondered how he would get ahead of the drummer.
|
|
|
|
When Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms
|
|
as usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "I had a great trip."
|
|
|
|
"Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were
|
|
telling me about?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,
|
|
representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn't
|
|
in it. I made him look like nothing at all."
|
|
|
|
As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to
|
|
washing his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip.
|
|
Carrie could not help listening with amusement to his animated
|
|
descriptions.
|
|
|
|
"I tell you," he said, "I surprised the people at the office. I've
|
|
sold more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on
|
|
the road. I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La Crosse."
|
|
|
|
He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he
|
|
rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him
|
|
with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was
|
|
still wiping his face, when he continued:
|
|
|
|
"I'm going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it,
|
|
as much business as I turn in. I'll get it too, don't you forget."
|
|
|
|
"I hope you do," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goes
|
|
through, we'll get married," he said with a great show of earnestness,
|
|
the while he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his
|
|
hair.
|
|
|
|
"I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie," Carrie
|
|
said ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her
|
|
courage to say this.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes I do- course I do- what put that into your head?"
|
|
|
|
He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over
|
|
to her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"But you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with her
|
|
pretty face upturned into his.
|
|
|
|
"Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to.
|
|
Now, when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things
|
|
all right, and I'll do it. Now, don't you worry, girlie."
|
|
|
|
He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how
|
|
really futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this
|
|
easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply
|
|
letting things drift because he preferred the free round of his
|
|
present state to any legal trammellings.
|
|
|
|
In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy
|
|
manner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her what
|
|
her true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own
|
|
success and more of her helplessness, "you never will."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded. "I'll marry
|
|
you all right."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for
|
|
something which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light,
|
|
airy disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully
|
|
promised to marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise.
|
|
|
|
"Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed
|
|
of the marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us
|
|
to go to the theatre with him."
|
|
|
|
Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid
|
|
notice.
|
|
|
|
"When?" she asked, with assumed indifference.
|
|
|
|
"Wednesday. We'll go, won't we?"
|
|
|
|
"If you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedly
|
|
reserved as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something,
|
|
but he thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk
|
|
about marriage.
|
|
|
|
"He called once, he said."
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie, "he was out here Sunday evening."
|
|
|
|
"Was he?" said Drouet. "I thought from what he said that he had
|
|
called a week or so ago."
|
|
|
|
"So he did," answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what
|
|
conversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea
|
|
mentally, and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what
|
|
she would answer.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, then he called twice?" said Drouet, the first shade of
|
|
misunderstanding showing in his face.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must
|
|
have mentioned but one call.
|
|
|
|
Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did
|
|
not attach particular importance to the information, after all.
|
|
|
|
"What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased
|
|
curiosity.
|
|
|
|
"He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn't
|
|
been in there so long he wondered what had become of you."
|
|
|
|
"George is a fine fellow," said Drouet, rather gratified by his
|
|
conception of the manager's interest. "Come on and we'll go out to
|
|
dinner."
|
|
|
|
When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to
|
|
Carrie, saying:
|
|
|
|
"I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not
|
|
say how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything
|
|
you may have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and,
|
|
darling, I must see you. Let me know if you can't meet me at Jackson
|
|
and Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I want to speak
|
|
with you before we meet at the theatre."
|
|
|
|
Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West
|
|
Side branch of the post-office, and answered at once.
|
|
|
|
"I said you called twice," she wrote. "He didn't seem to mind. I
|
|
will try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be
|
|
getting very bad. It's wrong to act as I do, I know."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score.
|
|
|
|
"You mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said. "Just as soon as he goes
|
|
on the road again we will arrange something. We'll fix it so that
|
|
you won't have to deceive any one."
|
|
|
|
Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not
|
|
directly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the
|
|
best of the situation until Drouet left again.
|
|
|
|
"Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have," Hurstwood
|
|
counselled concerning the evening at the theatre.
|
|
|
|
"You mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of the
|
|
power of his eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the
|
|
glance she had just cautioned against.
|
|
|
|
"There," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.
|
|
|
|
"The show hasn't begun yet," he returned.
|
|
|
|
He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth
|
|
and prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.
|
|
|
|
At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favour. If
|
|
he had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now.
|
|
His grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium.
|
|
Carrie watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot
|
|
poor Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a
|
|
change. He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than
|
|
usual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a
|
|
lover in favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his
|
|
heart. If anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and
|
|
was not cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.
|
|
|
|
Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to
|
|
Drouet alone.
|
|
|
|
The scene was one in "The Covenant," in which the wife listened to
|
|
the seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.
|
|
|
|
"Served him right," said Drouet afterward, even in view of her
|
|
keen expiation of her error. "I haven't any pity for a man who would
|
|
be such a chump as that."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you never can tell," returned Hurstwood gently. "He
|
|
probably thought he was right."
|
|
|
|
"Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if
|
|
he wants to keep her."
|
|
|
|
They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the
|
|
showy crush about the entrance way.
|
|
|
|
"Say, mister," said a voice at Hurstwood's side, "would you mind
|
|
giving me the price of a bed?"
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep."
|
|
|
|
The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked
|
|
the picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to
|
|
see. He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his
|
|
heart. Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XV.
|
|
|
|
THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES: THE MAGIC OF YOUTH
|
|
|
|
The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the
|
|
growth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related
|
|
to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at
|
|
breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies,
|
|
which reached far without the realm of their interests. He read his
|
|
paper, which was heightened in interest by the shallowness of the
|
|
themes discussed by his son and daughter. Between himself and his wife
|
|
ran a river of indifference.
|
|
|
|
Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.
|
|
There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth in
|
|
the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to
|
|
experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's
|
|
feet. When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes-
|
|
and her eyes were young.
|
|
|
|
When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when
|
|
the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale
|
|
practice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which
|
|
bound his feet.
|
|
|
|
"George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had
|
|
long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we want
|
|
you to get us a season ticket to the races."
|
|
|
|
"Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising
|
|
inflection.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered.
|
|
|
|
The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the
|
|
South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among those
|
|
who did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs.
|
|
Hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this
|
|
year certain considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing,
|
|
one of her neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were
|
|
possessors of money, made out of the coal business, had done so. In
|
|
the next place, her favourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman
|
|
inclined to horses and betting, had talked with her concerning his
|
|
intention to enter a two-year-old in the Derby. In the third place,
|
|
she wished to exhibit Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty,
|
|
and whom she hoped to marry to a man of means. Her own desire to be
|
|
about in such things and parade among her acquaintances and the common
|
|
throng was as much an incentive as anything.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without
|
|
answering. They were in the sitting-room on the second floor,
|
|
waiting for supper. It was the evening of his engagement with Carrie
|
|
and Drouet to see "The Covenant," which had brought him home to make
|
|
some alterations in his dress.
|
|
|
|
"You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked,
|
|
hesitating to say anything more rugged.
|
|
|
|
"No," she replied impatiently.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get
|
|
mad about it. I'm just asking you."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a season
|
|
ticket."
|
|
|
|
"And I'm telling you," be returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on
|
|
her, "that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the manager
|
|
will give it to me."
|
|
|
|
He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the
|
|
race-track magnates.
|
|
|
|
"We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply.
|
|
|
|
"You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs one
|
|
hundred and fifty dollars."
|
|
|
|
"I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "I want
|
|
the ticket and that's all there is to it."
|
|
|
|
She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified tone
|
|
of voice.
|
|
|
|
As usual, the table was one short that evening.
|
|
|
|
The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the
|
|
ticket was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not
|
|
mind giving his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he
|
|
did not like to be forced to provide against his will.
|
|
|
|
"Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencers
|
|
are getting ready to go away?"
|
|
|
|
"No. Where, I wonder?"
|
|
|
|
"Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she told me.
|
|
She just put on more airs about it."
|
|
|
|
"Did she say when?"
|
|
|
|
"Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again- they
|
|
always do."
|
|
|
|
"Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of
|
|
these days."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.
|
|
|
|
"'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed,
|
|
mocking her acquaintance. "'Expect to spend most of the "summah" in
|
|
France,'- vain thing. As if it was anything to go to Europe."
|
|
|
|
"It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.
|
|
|
|
"Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day,
|
|
thus revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.
|
|
|
|
"Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. He had never before
|
|
been kept in ignorance concerning departures.
|
|
|
|
"He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight put
|
|
upon her father.
|
|
|
|
"What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to
|
|
think that he should be made to pump for information in this manner.
|
|
|
|
"A tennis match," said Jessica.
|
|
|
|
"He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding it
|
|
difficult to refrain from a bitter tone.
|
|
|
|
"I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly.
|
|
|
|
In the past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect,
|
|
which was a compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in
|
|
part still existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As
|
|
it was, it did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The tone
|
|
was always modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection,
|
|
and now he saw that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledge
|
|
was no longer intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and
|
|
sometimes did not. He heard of their doings occasionally, more often
|
|
not. Some days he found that he was all at sea as to what they were
|
|
talking about- things they had arranged to do or that they had done in
|
|
his absence. More affecting was the feeling that there were little
|
|
things going on of which he no longer heard. Jessica was beginning
|
|
to feel that her affairs were her own. George, Jr., flourished about
|
|
as if he were a man entirely and must needs have private matters.
|
|
All this Hurstwood could see, and it left a trace of feeling, for he
|
|
was used to being considered- in his official position, at least-
|
|
and felt that his importance should not begin to wane here. To
|
|
darken it all, he saw the same indifference and independence growing
|
|
in his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills.
|
|
|
|
He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he
|
|
was not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house,
|
|
but he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into
|
|
her comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such
|
|
delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when
|
|
Drouet was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in
|
|
cosey little quarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby
|
|
Drouet would be led to inform Carrie concerning his married state,
|
|
he felt hopeful. Things were going so smoothly that he believed they
|
|
would not change. Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would
|
|
be satisfactory.
|
|
|
|
The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly-
|
|
a letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He
|
|
was not literary by any means, but experience of the world and his
|
|
growing affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at
|
|
his office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of
|
|
delicately coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he
|
|
kept locked in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the
|
|
cleric and very official-looking nature of his position. The five
|
|
bartenders viewed with respect the duties which could call a man to do
|
|
so much desk-work and penmanship.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law
|
|
which governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began
|
|
to feel those subtleties which he could find words to express. With
|
|
every expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings
|
|
which there found words took bold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy
|
|
of all the affection he could there express.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to
|
|
command that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom.
|
|
Experience had not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which
|
|
is the charm of the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid
|
|
lustre no suggestion of the knowledge of disappointment. She had
|
|
been troubled in a way by doubt and longing, but these had made no
|
|
deeper impression than could be traced in a certain open wistfulness
|
|
of glance and speech. The mouth had the expression at times, in
|
|
talking and in repose, of one who might be upon the verge of tears. It
|
|
was not that grief was thus ever present. The pronunciation of certain
|
|
syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity of formation- a
|
|
formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself.
|
|
|
|
There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught her
|
|
domination- superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of
|
|
some women. Her longing for consideration was not sufficiently
|
|
powerful to move her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance,
|
|
but there was that in what she had already experienced which left
|
|
her a little less than timid. She wanted pleasure, she wanted
|
|
position, and yet she was confused as to what these things might be.
|
|
Every hour the kaleidoscope of human affairs threw a new lustre upon
|
|
something, and therewith it became for her the desired- the all.
|
|
Another shift of the box, and some other had become the beautiful, the
|
|
perfect.
|
|
|
|
On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a
|
|
nature well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle-
|
|
an uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. She
|
|
was constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men
|
|
who slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor.
|
|
The poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings,
|
|
hurrying home from some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied from
|
|
the depths of her heart. She would stand and bite her lips as they
|
|
passed, shaking her little head and wondering. They had so little, she
|
|
thought. It was so sad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded
|
|
clothes pained her eyes.
|
|
|
|
"And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment.
|
|
|
|
On the street sometimes she would see men working- Irishmen with
|
|
picks, coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy about
|
|
some work which was a mere matter of strength- and they touched her
|
|
fancy. Toil, now that she was free of it, seemed even a more
|
|
desolate thing than when she was part of it. She saw it through a mist
|
|
of fancy- a pale, sombre half-light, which was the essence of poetic
|
|
feeling. Her old father, in his flour-dusted miller's suit,
|
|
sometimes returned to her in memory, revived by a face in a window.
|
|
A shoemaker pegging at his last, a blastman seen through a narrow
|
|
window in some basement where iron was being melted, a bench-worker
|
|
seen high aloft in some window, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up;
|
|
these took her back in fancy to the details of the mill. She felt,
|
|
though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts upon this score. Her
|
|
sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil from which she
|
|
had so recently sprung, and which she best understood.
|
|
|
|
Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose
|
|
feelings were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know,
|
|
but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. He never
|
|
attempted to analyse the nature of his affection. It was sufficient
|
|
that there was tenderness in her eye, weakness in her manner,
|
|
good-nature and hope, in her thoughts. He drew near this lily, which
|
|
had sucked its waxen beauty and perfume from below a depth of waters
|
|
which he had never penetrated, and out of ooze and mould which he
|
|
could not understand. He drew near because it was waxen and fresh.
|
|
It lightened his feelings for him. It made the morning worth while.
|
|
|
|
In a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardness
|
|
had all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was
|
|
as pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted her
|
|
smartly and had high heels. She had learned much about laces and those
|
|
little neck-pieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her form
|
|
had filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson
|
|
Park, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more,
|
|
even when Drouet was at home.
|
|
|
|
The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and
|
|
had found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush
|
|
which bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the year
|
|
when the fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a little
|
|
pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas
|
|
boats. In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the
|
|
law was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An old
|
|
gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking
|
|
after some bushes. High overhead was the clear blue sky of the new
|
|
summer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the trees
|
|
hopped and twittered the busy sparrows.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much
|
|
of the same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being no
|
|
need to write. He had come away to this place with the lightness of
|
|
heart which characterises those who put weariness behind. Now, in
|
|
the shade of this cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy
|
|
of the lover. He heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouring
|
|
streets, but they were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. The
|
|
hum of the surrounding city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell
|
|
was as music. He looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which
|
|
concerned his present fixed condition not at all. He got back in fancy
|
|
to the old Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solid
|
|
position for life. He remembered the light spirit in which he once
|
|
looked after the girls- how he had danced, escorted them home, hung
|
|
over their gates. He almost wished he was back there again- here in
|
|
this pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly free.
|
|
|
|
At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and
|
|
clean. She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a
|
|
hand of pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich blue
|
|
material, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin stripe of blue
|
|
upon a snow-white ground- stripes that were as fine as hairs. Her
|
|
brown shoes peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carried
|
|
her gloves in her hand.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood looked up at her with delight.
|
|
|
|
"You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and
|
|
taking her hand.
|
|
|
|
"Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?"
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know," he replied.
|
|
|
|
He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Then
|
|
he took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and
|
|
touched her face here and there.
|
|
|
|
"Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right."
|
|
|
|
They were happy in being near one another- in looking into each
|
|
other's eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had subsided, he
|
|
said:
|
|
|
|
"When is Charlie going away again?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to do
|
|
for the house here now."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. He
|
|
looked up after a time to say:
|
|
|
|
"Come away and leave him."
|
|
|
|
He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request
|
|
were of little importance.
|
|
|
|
"Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling
|
|
her gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree.
|
|
|
|
"Where do you want to go?" he enquired.
|
|
|
|
There was something in the tone in which he said this which made her
|
|
feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation.
|
|
|
|
"We can't stay in Chicago," she replied.
|
|
|
|
He had no thought that this was in her mind- that any removal
|
|
would be suggested.
|
|
|
|
"Why not?" he asked softly.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to."
|
|
|
|
He listened to this, with but dull perception of what it meant. It
|
|
had no serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate
|
|
decision.
|
|
|
|
"I would have to give up my position," he said.
|
|
|
|
The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only
|
|
slight consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying
|
|
the pretty scene.
|
|
|
|
"I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said,
|
|
thinking of Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be as good
|
|
as moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side."
|
|
|
|
He had fixed upon that region as an objective point.
|
|
|
|
"Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long as
|
|
he is here. I wouldn't want to run away."
|
|
|
|
The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly
|
|
that this was her idea- he felt that it was not to be gotten over
|
|
easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a
|
|
moment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out.
|
|
He could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard.
|
|
When he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it
|
|
was to have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased
|
|
in, value in his eyes because of her objection. She was something to
|
|
struggle for, and that was everything. How different from the women
|
|
who yielded willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.
|
|
|
|
"And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood, quietly.
|
|
|
|
She shook her head.
|
|
|
|
He sighed.
|
|
|
|
"You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a
|
|
few moments, looking up into her eyes.
|
|
|
|
She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at
|
|
what seemed his admiration- affection for the man who could feel
|
|
this concerning her.
|
|
|
|
"No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?"
|
|
|
|
Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the
|
|
street.
|
|
|
|
"I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don't
|
|
like to be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting?
|
|
You're not any happier, are you?"
|
|
|
|
"Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that."
|
|
|
|
"Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our
|
|
days. If you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to
|
|
you the biggest part of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie," he
|
|
exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into his voice and
|
|
fixing her with his eyes, "I can't live without you, and that's all
|
|
there is to it. Now," he concluded, showing the palm of one of his
|
|
white hands in a sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall I
|
|
do?"
|
|
|
|
This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance
|
|
of the load without the weight touched the woman's heart.
|
|
|
|
"Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'll try
|
|
and find out when he's going."
|
|
|
|
"What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of
|
|
feeling.
|
|
|
|
"Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere."
|
|
|
|
She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was
|
|
getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman
|
|
yields.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be
|
|
persuaded- what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to
|
|
wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was
|
|
thinking of some question which would make her tell.
|
|
|
|
Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which
|
|
often disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of
|
|
the difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a
|
|
way. It had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his
|
|
part, and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's
|
|
serious thought.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look
|
|
which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next week, or
|
|
this week for that matter- tonight say- and tell you I had to go away-
|
|
that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more-
|
|
would you come with me?"
|
|
|
|
His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her
|
|
answer ready before the words were out of his mouth.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she said.
|
|
|
|
"You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?"
|
|
|
|
"Not if you couldn't wait."
|
|
|
|
He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought
|
|
what a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or
|
|
two. He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush
|
|
away her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful.
|
|
He let it stand.
|
|
|
|
"Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an
|
|
afterthought striking him.
|
|
|
|
"If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey
|
|
it would be all right."
|
|
|
|
"I meant that," he said.
|
|
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
|
|
The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered
|
|
whatever could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it
|
|
was, he could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she
|
|
loved him. There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way
|
|
to win her.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these
|
|
evenings," and then he laughed.
|
|
|
|
"I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," Carrie
|
|
added reflectively.
|
|
|
|
"I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand.
|
|
|
|
She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the
|
|
more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the
|
|
marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with
|
|
such affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.
|
|
|
|
"Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all the
|
|
lovely park.
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious
|
|
eyes.
|
|
|
|
"'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must be rich."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XVI.
|
|
|
|
A WITLESS ALADDIN: THE GATE TO THE WORLD
|
|
|
|
In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some
|
|
slight attention to the secret order to which he belonged. During
|
|
his last trip he had received a new light on its importance.
|
|
|
|
"I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. Look
|
|
at Hazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good
|
|
house behind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree.
|
|
He's a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret
|
|
sign that stands for something."
|
|
|
|
Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in
|
|
such matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his
|
|
local lodge headquarters.
|
|
|
|
"I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was
|
|
very prominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the man
|
|
that can help us out."
|
|
|
|
It was after the business meeting and things were going socially
|
|
with a hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score
|
|
of individuals whom he knew.
|
|
|
|
"What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face
|
|
upon his secret brother.
|
|
|
|
"We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from
|
|
to-day, and we want to know if you don't know some young lady who
|
|
could take a part- it's an easy part."
|
|
|
|
"Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to remember
|
|
that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His
|
|
innate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr.
|
|
Quincel. "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge.
|
|
There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we
|
|
thought we would raise it by a little entertainment."
|
|
|
|
"Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea."
|
|
|
|
"Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry
|
|
Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at
|
|
heavy dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?"
|
|
|
|
"Never did."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I tell you, he does it fine."
|
|
|
|
"And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned
|
|
Drouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else.
|
|
"What are you going to play?"
|
|
|
|
"'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly's
|
|
famous production, which had worn from a great public success down
|
|
to an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome
|
|
accessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to the
|
|
smallest possible number.
|
|
|
|
Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.
|
|
|
|
"That's it," he said; "that's a fine play. It will go all right. You
|
|
ought to make a lot of money out of that."
|
|
|
|
"We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied. "Don't you
|
|
forget now," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; "some
|
|
young woman to take the part of Laura."
|
|
|
|
"Sure, I'll attend to it."
|
|
|
|
He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel
|
|
had ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.
|
|
|
|
Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt
|
|
of a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the
|
|
following Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young
|
|
lady's address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to
|
|
her.
|
|
|
|
"Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively,
|
|
scratching his rosy ear. "I don't know any one that knows anything
|
|
about amateur theatricals."
|
|
|
|
He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and
|
|
finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of
|
|
her home on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out
|
|
that evening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the
|
|
car he forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item
|
|
in the "Evening News"- a small three-line affair under the head of
|
|
Secret Society Notes- which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of
|
|
Elks would give a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th,
|
|
when "Under the Gaslight" would be produced.
|
|
|
|
"George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that."
|
|
|
|
"What?" inquired Carrie.
|
|
|
|
They were at their little table in the room which might have been
|
|
used for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal.
|
|
To-night the fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread
|
|
with a pleasing repast.
|
|
|
|
"Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and they
|
|
wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part."
|
|
|
|
"What is it they're going to play?"
|
|
|
|
"'Under the Gaslight.'"
|
|
|
|
"When?"
|
|
|
|
"On the 16th."
|
|
|
|
"Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know any one," he replied.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly he looked up.
|
|
|
|
"Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?"
|
|
|
|
"Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act."
|
|
|
|
"How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively.
|
|
|
|
"Because," answered Carrie, "I never did."
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyes
|
|
brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies
|
|
it was the art of the stage.
|
|
|
|
True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out.
|
|
|
|
"That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there."
|
|
|
|
"No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the
|
|
proposition and yet fearful.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and
|
|
it will be lots of fun for you."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously.
|
|
|
|
"You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around
|
|
here and giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever
|
|
enough, all right."
|
|
|
|
"No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly.
|
|
|
|
"Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll
|
|
be fun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good.
|
|
They haven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?"
|
|
|
|
He frowned as he thought of their ignorance.
|
|
|
|
"Hand me the coffee," he added.
|
|
|
|
"I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly.
|
|
"You don't think I could, do you?"
|
|
|
|
"Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I
|
|
know you do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you."
|
|
|
|
"What is the play, did you say?"
|
|
|
|
"'Under the Gaslight.'"
|
|
|
|
"What part would they want me to take?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, one of the heroines- I don't know."
|
|
|
|
"What sort of a play is it?"
|
|
|
|
"Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the
|
|
best, "it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks- a
|
|
man and a woman that live in the slums. She had some money or
|
|
something and they wanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go
|
|
exactly."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you know what part I would have to take?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment. "Yes, I do,
|
|
too. Laura, that's the thing- you're to be Laura."
|
|
|
|
"And you can't remember what the part is like?"
|
|
|
|
"To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered. "I ought to, too; I've seen
|
|
the play enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was
|
|
an infant- was picked off the street or something- and she's the one
|
|
that's hounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about." He
|
|
stopped with a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face.
|
|
"She comes very near getting drowned- no, that's not it. I'll tell you
|
|
what I'll do," he concluded hopelessly, "I'll get you the book. I
|
|
can't remember now for the life of me."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, her
|
|
interest and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity
|
|
for the mastery. "I might go if you thought I'd do all right."
|
|
|
|
"Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts to
|
|
enthuse Carrie, had interested himself. "Do you think I'd come home
|
|
here and urge you to do something that I didn't think you would make a
|
|
success of? You can act all right. It'll be good for you."
|
|
|
|
"When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively.
|
|
|
|
"The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for you
|
|
to-night."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make a
|
|
failure now it's your fault."
|
|
|
|
"You won't fail," assured Drouet. "Just act as you do around here.
|
|
Be natural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make a
|
|
corking good actress."
|
|
|
|
"Did you really?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"That's right," said the drummer.
|
|
|
|
He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret
|
|
flame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carrie
|
|
was possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever
|
|
in the most developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She was
|
|
created with that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of
|
|
the active world. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and no
|
|
small ability. Even without practice, she could sometimes restore
|
|
dramatic situations she had witnessed by re-creating, before her
|
|
mirror, the expressions of the various faces taking part in the scene.
|
|
She loved to modulate her voice after the conventional manner of the
|
|
distressed heroine, and repeat such pathetic fragments as appealed
|
|
most to her sympathies. Of late, seeing the airy grace of the
|
|
ingenue in several well-constructed plays, she had been moved to
|
|
secretly imitate it, and many were the little movements and
|
|
expressions of the body in which she indulged from time to time in the
|
|
privacy of her chamber. On several occasions, when Drouet had caught
|
|
her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror, she was doing
|
|
nothing more than recalling some little grace of the mouth or the eyes
|
|
which she had witnessed in another. Under his airy accusation she
|
|
mistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with a faint sense of
|
|
error, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing more than the first
|
|
subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring to re-create
|
|
the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed to her. In
|
|
such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of desire to
|
|
reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art.
|
|
|
|
Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic
|
|
ability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame which
|
|
welds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united those
|
|
floating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed,
|
|
concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred of
|
|
hope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She felt
|
|
that she could do things if she only had a chance. How often had she
|
|
looked at the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she
|
|
would look, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their
|
|
place. The glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the
|
|
applause, these had lured her until she felt that she, too, could act-
|
|
that she, too, could compel acknowledgment of power. Now she was
|
|
told that she really could- that little things she had done about
|
|
the house had made even him feel her power. It was a delightful
|
|
sensation while it lasted.
|
|
|
|
When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the
|
|
window to think about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated the
|
|
possibilities for her. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand
|
|
and she had exercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She saw
|
|
herself in a score of pathetic situations in which she assumed a
|
|
tremulous voice and suffering manner. Her mind delighted itself with
|
|
scenes of luxury and refinement, situations in which she was the
|
|
cynosure of all eyes, the arbiter of all fates. As she rocked to and
|
|
fro she felt the tensity of woe in abandonment, the magnificence of
|
|
wrath after deception, the languour of sorrow after defeat. Thoughts
|
|
of all the charming women she had seen in plays- every fancy, every
|
|
illusion which she had concerning the stage- now came back as a
|
|
returning tide after the ebb. She built up feelings and a
|
|
determination which the occasion did not warrant.
|
|
|
|
Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashed
|
|
around with a great air, as Quincel met him.
|
|
|
|
"Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked the
|
|
latter.
|
|
|
|
"I've got her," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness;
|
|
"that's good. What's her address?" and he pulled out his note-book
|
|
in order to be able to send her part to her.
|
|
|
|
"You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer.
|
|
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning."
|
|
|
|
"What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we have
|
|
any information to send her."
|
|
|
|
"Twenty-nine Ogden Place."
|
|
|
|
"And her name?"
|
|
|
|
"Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. The lodge
|
|
members knew him to be single.
|
|
|
|
"That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said Quincel.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, it does."
|
|
|
|
He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the manner
|
|
of one who does a favour.
|
|
|
|
"He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now that
|
|
I've said I would."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company.
|
|
The rest of them aren't as good as you are."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all her
|
|
misgivings.
|
|
|
|
He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to
|
|
make his next remark.
|
|
|
|
"They were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and I
|
|
gave them the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. She was
|
|
thinking it was slightly strange.
|
|
|
|
"If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It was
|
|
clever for Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worse
|
|
then if you didn't go. They all know me so well. But you'll go all
|
|
right. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately. She was determined
|
|
now to have a try at the fascinating game.
|
|
|
|
Drouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he was
|
|
about to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question.
|
|
|
|
The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it,
|
|
was one of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was true
|
|
to the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he
|
|
began his career. The sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, the
|
|
long, explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there.
|
|
|
|
"Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her
|
|
voice out pathetically. "Martin, be sure and give him a glass of
|
|
wine before he goes."
|
|
|
|
She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing
|
|
that she must be on the stage while others were talking, and not
|
|
only be there, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic
|
|
movement of the scenes.
|
|
|
|
"I think I can do that, though," she concluded.
|
|
|
|
When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with
|
|
her day's study.
|
|
|
|
"Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"All right," she laughed. "I think I have it memorised nearly."
|
|
|
|
"That's good," he said. "Let's hear some of it."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," she
|
|
said bashfully.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here than
|
|
it will there."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know about that," she answered.
|
|
|
|
Eventually she took off the ball-room episode with considerable
|
|
feeling, forgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about Drouet,
|
|
and letting herself rise to a fine state of feeling.
|
|
|
|
"Good," said Drouet; "fine; out o' sight! You're all right,
|
|
Caddie, I tell you."
|
|
|
|
He was really moved by her excellent representation and the
|
|
general appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and
|
|
finally fainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, and
|
|
now held her laughing in his arms.
|
|
|
|
"Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything like
|
|
that."
|
|
|
|
"I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed with
|
|
delight.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You can
|
|
take my word for that. You won't fail."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XVII.
|
|
|
|
A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY: HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE
|
|
|
|
The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take
|
|
place at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy
|
|
than was at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had written
|
|
to Hurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was
|
|
going to take part in a play.
|
|
|
|
"I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest;
|
|
"I have my part now, honest, truly."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this.
|
|
|
|
"I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that."
|
|
|
|
He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability.
|
|
"I haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You must
|
|
come to the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it."
|
|
|
|
Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the
|
|
undertaking as she understood it.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, you
|
|
will do well, you're so clever."
|
|
|
|
He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her
|
|
tendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared.
|
|
As she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much
|
|
of the pleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her
|
|
misgivings- and they were as plentiful as the moments of the day-
|
|
she was still happy. She could not repress her delight in doing this
|
|
little thing which, to an ordinary observer, had no importance at all.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl
|
|
had capabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight
|
|
of a legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour,
|
|
force, and beauty to the possessor.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She
|
|
drew to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had not
|
|
earned. Their affection for her naturally heightened their
|
|
perception of what she was trying to do and their approval of what she
|
|
did. Her inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran
|
|
riot with every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining
|
|
rod whereby the treasure of life was to be discovered.
|
|
|
|
"Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys in
|
|
the lodge. I'm an Elk myself."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you."
|
|
|
|
"That's so," said the manager.
|
|
|
|
"I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't
|
|
see how you can unless he asks you."
|
|
|
|
"I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately. "I can fix it so
|
|
he won't know you told me. You leave it to me."
|
|
|
|
This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the
|
|
performance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth
|
|
talking about. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and
|
|
flowers for Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give
|
|
the little girl a chance.
|
|
|
|
Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort,
|
|
and he was at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon
|
|
and the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers,
|
|
politicians, a goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted,
|
|
starchy-bosomed, beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. John
|
|
L. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar,
|
|
surrounded by a company of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a
|
|
most animated conversation. Drouet came across the floor with a
|
|
festive stride, a new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at his
|
|
progress.
|
|
|
|
"Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of
|
|
you. I thought you had gone out of town again."
|
|
|
|
Drouet laughed.
|
|
|
|
"If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the
|
|
list."
|
|
|
|
"Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy."
|
|
|
|
They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company
|
|
of notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times
|
|
in as many minutes.
|
|
|
|
"I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed
|
|
Hurstwood, in the most offhand manner.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, who told you?"
|
|
|
|
"No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of tickets,
|
|
which I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to get
|
|
me to get some woman to take a part."
|
|
|
|
"I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "I'll
|
|
subscribe, of course. How are things over there?"
|
|
|
|
"All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds."
|
|
|
|
"Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it. Have
|
|
another?"
|
|
|
|
He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the
|
|
scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to
|
|
come along. Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of
|
|
confusion.
|
|
|
|
"I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said
|
|
abruptly, after thinking it over.
|
|
|
|
"You don't say so! How did that happen?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told
|
|
Carrie, and she seems to want to try."
|
|
|
|
"Good for her," said the manager. "It'll be a real nice affair. Do
|
|
her good, too. Has she ever had any experience?"
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious."
|
|
|
|
"She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputation
|
|
against Carrie's ability. "She picks up her part quick enough."
|
|
|
|
"You don't say so!" said the manager.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she
|
|
didn't."
|
|
|
|
"We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "I'll
|
|
look after the flowers."
|
|
|
|
Drouet smiled at his good-nature.
|
|
|
|
"After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little
|
|
supper."
|
|
|
|
"I think she'll do all right," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her,"
|
|
and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a
|
|
compound of good-nature and shrewdness.
|
|
|
|
Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance
|
|
Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some
|
|
qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood
|
|
by any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however,
|
|
that he came very near being rude- failing to remember, as he did,
|
|
that the individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer
|
|
players and not salaried underlings.
|
|
|
|
"Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one
|
|
part uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand
|
|
like that. Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled
|
|
over the intrusion of the stranger. Walk so," and he struck out across
|
|
the Avery stage in a most drooping manner.
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of
|
|
the situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous,
|
|
and the desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her
|
|
timid. She walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly
|
|
feeling that there was something strangely lacking.
|
|
|
|
"Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman who
|
|
was to take the part of Pearl, "you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger,
|
|
you stand here, so. Now, what is it you say?"
|
|
|
|
"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray,
|
|
Laura's lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts
|
|
of marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by
|
|
birth.
|
|
|
|
"How is that- what does your text say?"
|
|
|
|
"Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to
|
|
look shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked."
|
|
|
|
"Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.
|
|
|
|
"No, no, that won't do! Say it this way- explain."
|
|
|
|
"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.
|
|
|
|
"That's better. Now go on."
|
|
|
|
"One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father and
|
|
mother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway,
|
|
the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms-"
|
|
|
|
"Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended.
|
|
"Put more feeling into what you are saying."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her
|
|
eye lightened with resentment.
|
|
|
|
"Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying
|
|
his manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now
|
|
supposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requires
|
|
feeling, repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted
|
|
them for alms.'"
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Mrs. Morgan.
|
|
|
|
"Now, go on."
|
|
|
|
"As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a
|
|
cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse."
|
|
|
|
"Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head
|
|
significantly.
|
|
|
|
"A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines
|
|
that here fell to him.
|
|
|
|
"No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not that
|
|
way. 'A pickpocket- well?' so. That's the idea."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been
|
|
proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let
|
|
alone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we just
|
|
went through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up
|
|
some points."
|
|
|
|
"A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the
|
|
side of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which
|
|
the director did not heed.
|
|
|
|
"All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well to
|
|
do it." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose we run
|
|
right through, putting in as much expression as we can."
|
|
|
|
"Good," said Mr. Quincel.
|
|
|
|
"This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and
|
|
down at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in her
|
|
own, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of
|
|
pain. Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged
|
|
girl."
|
|
|
|
"Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle.
|
|
|
|
"The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.
|
|
|
|
"Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to
|
|
keep his hands off.
|
|
|
|
"The thief!" roared poor Bamberger.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's.
|
|
'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?'
|
|
|
|
"'Trying to steal,' said the child.
|
|
|
|
"'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father.
|
|
|
|
"'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.'
|
|
|
|
"'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother.
|
|
|
|
"'She- there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a
|
|
doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old
|
|
Judas,' said the girl."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in
|
|
despair. He fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.
|
|
|
|
"What do you think of them?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the
|
|
latter, with an air of strength under difficulties.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said the director. "That fellow Bamberger strikes me
|
|
as being a pretty poor shift for a lover."
|
|
|
|
"He's all we've got," said! Quincel, rolling up his eyes.
|
|
"Harrison went back on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick up."
|
|
|
|
At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking with
|
|
me."
|
|
|
|
"Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand.
|
|
"My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like
|
|
that?"
|
|
|
|
"Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly.
|
|
|
|
The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie,
|
|
as Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing
|
|
Pearl's statement about her birth, had written the letter
|
|
repudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was
|
|
just concluding the words of Ray, "I must go before she returns. Her
|
|
step! Too late," and was cramming the letter in his pocket, when she
|
|
began sweetly with:
|
|
|
|
"Ray!"
|
|
|
|
"Miss- Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company
|
|
present. She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile
|
|
to her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as
|
|
if he were not present. She did it with a grace which was
|
|
fascinating to look upon.
|
|
|
|
"Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in her
|
|
little scene with Bamberger.
|
|
|
|
"Miss Madenda," said Quincel.
|
|
|
|
"I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Quincel. "She's a friend of one of our
|
|
members."
|
|
|
|
"Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far-
|
|
seems to take an interest in what she's doing."
|
|
|
|
"Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel.
|
|
|
|
The director strolled away without answering.
|
|
|
|
In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in
|
|
the ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director,
|
|
who volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over
|
|
and speak with her.
|
|
|
|
"Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly.
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience."
|
|
|
|
Carrie only smiled consciously.
|
|
|
|
He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting
|
|
some ardent line.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with
|
|
envious and snapping black eyes.
|
|
|
|
"She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfaction
|
|
of thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.
|
|
|
|
The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that
|
|
she had acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director
|
|
were ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell
|
|
Hurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet,
|
|
too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until he
|
|
should ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up.
|
|
The drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her
|
|
little experience did not appeal to him as important. He let the
|
|
conversation drop, save for what she chose to recite without
|
|
solicitation, and Carrie was not good at that. He took it for
|
|
granted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of further
|
|
worry. Consequently he threw Carrie into repression, which was
|
|
irritating. She felt his indifference keenly and longed to see
|
|
Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend she had on
|
|
earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the damage
|
|
had been done.
|
|
|
|
She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time
|
|
she got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came,
|
|
he shone upon her as the morning sun.
|
|
|
|
"Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?"
|
|
|
|
"Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she
|
|
proceeded.
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I must
|
|
get over there to see you. When is the next rehearsal?"
|
|
|
|
"Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors."
|
|
|
|
"I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly.
|
|
|
|
She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration,
|
|
but she made him promise not to come around.
|
|
|
|
"Now you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly.
|
|
"Just remember that I want you to succeed. We will make the
|
|
performance worth while. You do that now."
|
|
|
|
"I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.
|
|
|
|
"That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember," shaking
|
|
an affectionate finger at her, "your best."
|
|
|
|
"I will," she answered, looking back.
|
|
|
|
The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped
|
|
along, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed
|
|
are the children of endeavour in this, that they try and are
|
|
hopeful. And blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XVIII.
|
|
|
|
JUST OVER THE BORDER: A HAIL AND FAREWELL
|
|
|
|
By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made
|
|
itself apparent. He had given the word among his friends- and they
|
|
were many and influential- that here was something which they ought to
|
|
attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel,
|
|
acting for the lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes had
|
|
appeared in all of the daily newspapers. These he had arranged for
|
|
by the aid of one of his newspaper friends on the "Times," Mr. Harry
|
|
McGarren, the managing editor.
|
|
|
|
"Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood
|
|
at the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, "you
|
|
can help the boys out, I guess."
|
|
|
|
"What is it?" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the
|
|
opulent manager.
|
|
|
|
"The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own
|
|
good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean-
|
|
a squib or two saying that it's going to take place."
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," said McGarren, "I can fix that for you, George."
|
|
|
|
At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background.
|
|
The members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their little
|
|
affair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon as
|
|
quite a star for this sort of work.
|
|
|
|
By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied
|
|
like Romans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured,
|
|
flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he
|
|
thought of assisting Carrie.
|
|
|
|
That little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction,
|
|
much as she trembled for her fate when she should once face the
|
|
gathered throng, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried to
|
|
console herself with the thought that a score of other persons, men
|
|
and women, were equally tremulous concerning the outcome of their
|
|
efforts, but she could not disassociate the general danger from her
|
|
own individual liability. She feared that she would forget her
|
|
lines, that she might be unable to master the feeling which she now
|
|
felt concerning her own movements in the play. At times she wished
|
|
that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled
|
|
lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and gasping,
|
|
not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire performance.
|
|
|
|
In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That
|
|
hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's
|
|
criticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and
|
|
determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at
|
|
least. A loafing professional had been called in to assume the role of
|
|
Ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled
|
|
by any of those qualms which attack the spirit of those who have never
|
|
faced an audience. He swashed about (cautioned though he was to
|
|
maintain silence concerning his past theatrical relationships) in such
|
|
a self-confident manner that he was like to convince every one of
|
|
his identity by mere matter of circumstantial evidence.
|
|
|
|
"It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage
|
|
voice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's the
|
|
spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult."
|
|
|
|
Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not
|
|
to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must
|
|
suffer his fictitious love for the evening.
|
|
|
|
At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been
|
|
provided over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the
|
|
morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by
|
|
one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at her part,
|
|
waiting for the evening to come.
|
|
|
|
On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her
|
|
as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores,
|
|
looking for some good cigars. The little actress marched nervously
|
|
into her dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter
|
|
of make-up which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura,
|
|
The Belle of Society.
|
|
|
|
The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and
|
|
display, the scattered contents of the make-up box- rouge, pearl
|
|
powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eyelids, wigs,
|
|
scissors, looking-glasses, drapery- in short, all the nameless
|
|
paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their
|
|
own. Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but
|
|
always in a far-removed manner. This new atmosphere was more friendly.
|
|
It was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her
|
|
coldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder. This took her
|
|
by the hand kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened for
|
|
her as if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of the
|
|
names upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the
|
|
papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of
|
|
carriages, flowers, refinement. Here was no illusion. Here was an open
|
|
door to see all of that. She had come upon it as one who stumbles upon
|
|
a secret passage, and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds
|
|
and delight!
|
|
|
|
As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the
|
|
voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting
|
|
Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation,
|
|
seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying
|
|
over what the result would be, she could not help thinking what a
|
|
delight this would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if
|
|
she could only do well now, and then some time get a place as a real
|
|
actress. The thought had taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed in
|
|
her ears as the melody of an old song.
|
|
|
|
Outside in the little lobby another scene was being enacted. Without
|
|
the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been
|
|
comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately
|
|
interested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however, had gone the
|
|
rounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had been
|
|
taken. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. This
|
|
was quite a card. C. R. Walker, drygoods merchant and possessor of
|
|
at least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known
|
|
coal merchant had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and
|
|
his friends the fourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people who
|
|
were now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even local
|
|
notabilities, in a general sense. They were the lights of a certain
|
|
circle- the circle of small fortunes and secret order distinctions.
|
|
These gentlemen Elks knew the standing of one another. They had regard
|
|
for the ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home,
|
|
keep a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and
|
|
maintain a good mercantile position. Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a
|
|
little above the order of mind which accepted this standard as
|
|
perfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who held
|
|
an imposing and authoritative position, and commanded friendship by
|
|
intuitive tact in handling people, was quite a figure. He was more
|
|
generally known than most others in the same circle, and was looked
|
|
upon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of influence and solid
|
|
financial prosperity.
|
|
|
|
To-night he was in his element. He came with several friends
|
|
directly from Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet,
|
|
who was just returning from a trip for more cigars. All five now
|
|
joined in an animated conversation concerning the company present
|
|
and the general drift of lodge affairs.
|
|
|
|
"Who's here?" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where
|
|
the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and
|
|
talking in the open space back of the seats.
|
|
|
|
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?" came from the first
|
|
individual recognised.
|
|
|
|
"Glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.
|
|
|
|
"Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, indeed," said the manager.
|
|
|
|
"Custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed the
|
|
friend.
|
|
|
|
"So it should," said the knowing manager. "I'm glad to see it."
|
|
|
|
"Well, George," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois
|
|
made necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom,
|
|
"how goes it with you?"
|
|
|
|
"Excellent," said the manager.
|
|
|
|
"What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer."
|
|
|
|
"Good-nature," returned the manager. "Like to see the boys, you
|
|
know."
|
|
|
|
"Wife here?"
|
|
|
|
"She couldn't come to-night. She's not well."
|
|
|
|
"Sorry to hear it- nothing serious, I hope."
|
|
|
|
"No, just feeling a little ill."
|
|
|
|
"I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you
|
|
over to St. Joe-" and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial
|
|
recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more friends.
|
|
|
|
"Why, George, how are you?" said another genial West Side politician
|
|
and lodge member. "My, but I'm glad to see you again; how are
|
|
things, anyhow?"
|
|
|
|
"Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble."
|
|
|
|
"What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, you
|
|
know."
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know that," said the manager. "Felt pretty sore, I
|
|
suppose, over his defeat."
|
|
|
|
"Perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly.
|
|
|
|
Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began
|
|
to roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a great
|
|
show of finery and much evident feeling of content and importance.
|
|
|
|
"Here we are," said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom
|
|
he was talking.
|
|
|
|
"That's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about
|
|
forty-five.
|
|
|
|
"And say," he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the
|
|
shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a good
|
|
show, I'll punch your head."
|
|
|
|
"You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!"
|
|
|
|
To another who inquired, "Is it something really good?" the
|
|
manager replied:
|
|
|
|
"I don't know. I don't suppose so." Then, lifting his hand
|
|
graciously, "For the lodge."
|
|
|
|
"Lots of boys out, eh?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago."
|
|
|
|
It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of
|
|
successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of
|
|
good-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding. Look at
|
|
him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up, he was
|
|
a member of an eminent group- a rounded company of five or more
|
|
whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke
|
|
the character of their success. The gentlemen who brought their
|
|
wives called him out to shake hands. Seats clicked, ushers bowed while
|
|
he looked blandly on. He was evidently a light among them,
|
|
reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those who greeted
|
|
him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised. Through it
|
|
all one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness in a
|
|
way, small as it was.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XIX.
|
|
|
|
AN HOUR IN ELFLAND: A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD
|
|
|
|
At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the
|
|
make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader
|
|
of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack
|
|
with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood
|
|
ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison
|
|
around to the box.
|
|
|
|
"Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in a
|
|
tone which no one else could hear.
|
|
|
|
On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the
|
|
opening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that
|
|
Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs.
|
|
Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part
|
|
were representing the principal roles in this scene. The professional,
|
|
whose name was Patton, had little to recommend him outside of his
|
|
assurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed.
|
|
Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was
|
|
husky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that the
|
|
lines were merely spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope and
|
|
uncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity
|
|
by that unrest which is the agony of failure.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that
|
|
it would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable
|
|
enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward.
|
|
|
|
After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the
|
|
danger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the
|
|
expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the
|
|
extreme, when Carrie came in.
|
|
|
|
One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that
|
|
she also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying:
|
|
|
|
"And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock,"
|
|
but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was
|
|
positively painful.
|
|
|
|
"She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
The manager made no answer.
|
|
|
|
She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill."
|
|
|
|
It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet
|
|
fidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.
|
|
|
|
There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense
|
|
of impending disaster, say, sadly:
|
|
|
|
"I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Call
|
|
a maid by a married name.'"
|
|
|
|
The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not
|
|
get it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as
|
|
if she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless
|
|
than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her
|
|
lines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the
|
|
audience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change,
|
|
of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her
|
|
into doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in her
|
|
direction. He felt sorry for her.
|
|
|
|
In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by
|
|
the strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a
|
|
conversation between the professional actor and a character called
|
|
Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really
|
|
developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned
|
|
messenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiance
|
|
that, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, they
|
|
were funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with
|
|
Carrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wandered
|
|
through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain,
|
|
straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to
|
|
their relief.
|
|
|
|
"She's too nervous," said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the
|
|
remark that he was lying for once.
|
|
|
|
"Better go back and say a word to her."
|
|
|
|
Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled
|
|
around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly
|
|
door-keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next
|
|
cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.
|
|
|
|
"Say, Cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous. Wake
|
|
up. Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraid
|
|
of?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie. "I just don't seem to be able to do
|
|
it."
|
|
|
|
She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had found
|
|
the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.
|
|
|
|
"Come on," said Drouet. "Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out
|
|
there now, and do the trick. What do you care?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous
|
|
condition.
|
|
|
|
"Did I do so very bad?"
|
|
|
|
"Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you
|
|
showed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night."
|
|
|
|
Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she
|
|
could do it.
|
|
|
|
"What's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had been
|
|
studying.
|
|
|
|
"Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him."
|
|
|
|
"Well, now you do that lively," said the drummer. "Put in snap,
|
|
that's the thing. Act as if you didn't care."
|
|
|
|
"Your turn next, Miss Madenda," said the prompter.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you're a chump for being afraid," said Drouet. "Come on
|
|
now, brace up. I'll watch you from right here."
|
|
|
|
"Will you?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid."
|
|
|
|
The prompter signalled her.
|
|
|
|
She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially
|
|
returned. She thought of Drouet looking.
|
|
|
|
"Ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than
|
|
when she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the
|
|
director at the rehearsal.
|
|
|
|
"She's easier," thought Hurstwood to himself.
|
|
|
|
She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better.
|
|
The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work
|
|
of the entire company took away direct observation from her. They were
|
|
making very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be
|
|
passable, in the less trying parts at least.
|
|
|
|
Carrie came off warm and nervous.
|
|
|
|
"Well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You did
|
|
that about a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene.
|
|
Now go on and fire up. You can do it. Knock 'em."
|
|
|
|
"Was it really better?"
|
|
|
|
"Better, I should say so. What comes next?"
|
|
|
|
"That ballroom scene."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you can do that all right," he said.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," answered Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! Now you go out there
|
|
and do it. It'll be fun for you. Just do as you did in the room. If
|
|
you'll reel it off that way, I'll bet you make a hit. Now, what'll you
|
|
bet? You do it."
|
|
|
|
The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the better
|
|
of his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted this
|
|
particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in
|
|
public. His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion.
|
|
|
|
When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He began
|
|
to make her feel as if she had done very well. The old melancholy of
|
|
desire began to come back as he talked at her, and by the time the
|
|
situation rolled around she was running high in feeling.
|
|
|
|
"I think I can do this."
|
|
|
|
"Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see."
|
|
|
|
On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation
|
|
against Laura.
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something- she did
|
|
not know what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly.
|
|
|
|
"It means," the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, "that
|
|
society is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of the
|
|
Siberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness, the
|
|
others devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is
|
|
something wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, and
|
|
society, which is made up of pretence, will bitterly resent the
|
|
mockery."
|
|
|
|
At the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel the
|
|
bitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast descended
|
|
upon her. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her own mounting
|
|
thoughts. She hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood.
|
|
|
|
"Come, girls," said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, "let us look after our
|
|
things. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief
|
|
enters."
|
|
|
|
"Cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear.
|
|
Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born of
|
|
inspiration. She dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud,
|
|
shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold, white,
|
|
helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her scornfully.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiating
|
|
waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the
|
|
farthest walls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yet
|
|
dissolve the world, was here at work.
|
|
|
|
There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling,
|
|
heretofore wandering.
|
|
|
|
"Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of Pearl.
|
|
|
|
Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They
|
|
moved as she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes.
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her.
|
|
|
|
"Let us go home," she said.
|
|
|
|
"No," answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a
|
|
penetrating quality which it had never known. "Stay with him!"
|
|
|
|
She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with a
|
|
pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "He shall
|
|
not suffer long."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily
|
|
good. It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the
|
|
curtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now that
|
|
she was beautiful. She had done something which was above his
|
|
sphere. He felt a keen delight in realising that she was his.
|
|
|
|
"Fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and
|
|
went about to the stage door.
|
|
|
|
When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. His
|
|
feelings for her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away by
|
|
the strength and feeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forth
|
|
his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but here was
|
|
Drouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. The latter was more
|
|
fascinated, if anything, than Hurstwood. At least, in the nature of
|
|
things, it took a more ruddy form.
|
|
|
|
"Well, well," said Drouet, "you did out of sight. That was simply
|
|
great. I knew you could do it. Oh, but you're a little daisy!"
|
|
|
|
Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement.
|
|
|
|
"Did I do all right?"
|
|
|
|
"Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause?"
|
|
|
|
There was some faint sound of clapping yet.
|
|
|
|
"I thought I got it something like- I felt it."
|
|
|
|
Just then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change in
|
|
Drouet. He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy
|
|
leaped alight in his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproached
|
|
himself for having sent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder.
|
|
He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where he would have
|
|
to congratulate Carrie as a friend. Nevertheless, the man mastered
|
|
himself, and it was a triumph. He almost jerked the old subtle light
|
|
to his eyes.
|
|
|
|
"I thought," he said, looking at Carrie, "I would come around and
|
|
tell you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful."
|
|
|
|
Carrie took the cue, and replied:
|
|
|
|
"Oh, thank you."
|
|
|
|
"I was just telling her," put in Drouet, now delighted with his
|
|
possession, "that I thought she did fine."
|
|
|
|
"Indeed you did," said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in
|
|
which she read more than the words.
|
|
|
|
Carrie laughed luxuriantly.
|
|
|
|
"If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all
|
|
think you are a born actress."
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's position,
|
|
and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did not
|
|
understand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found that he could not
|
|
talk, repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet every moment of his
|
|
presence, he bowed himself out with the elegance of a Faust. Outside
|
|
he set his teeth with envy.
|
|
|
|
"Damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" He was
|
|
moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking
|
|
of his wretched situation.
|
|
|
|
As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was very
|
|
much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but Hurstwood
|
|
pretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carrie
|
|
was not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her
|
|
entrance. He did not see what was going on, however. He was thinking
|
|
his own thoughts, and they were wretched.
|
|
|
|
The progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie,
|
|
from now on, was easily the centre of interest. The audience, which
|
|
had been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after the first
|
|
gloomy impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where
|
|
it was not. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented her
|
|
part with some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had
|
|
aroused the feeling at the end of the long first act.
|
|
|
|
Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising
|
|
feelings. The fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that
|
|
they should see it set forth under such effective circumstances,
|
|
framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights
|
|
of sentiment and personality, heightened her charm for them. She was
|
|
more than the old Carrie to Drouet. He longed to be at home with her
|
|
until he could tell her. He awaited impatiently the end, when they
|
|
should go home alone.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new
|
|
attractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the man
|
|
beside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he
|
|
would. For once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth.
|
|
|
|
It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers
|
|
assumed its most effective character.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come
|
|
on. He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of
|
|
sending all the merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came in
|
|
alone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had had a chance to see
|
|
her facing the audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been
|
|
without a foil of some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that
|
|
her old strength- the power that had grasped him at the end of the
|
|
first act- had come back. She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that
|
|
the play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great action
|
|
was passing.
|
|
|
|
"Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a sad
|
|
thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another
|
|
groping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp."
|
|
|
|
She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting
|
|
listlessly upon the polished door-post.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself.
|
|
He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a
|
|
combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that
|
|
quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music,
|
|
seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality,
|
|
that it seems ever addressed to one alone.
|
|
|
|
"And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little
|
|
actress. "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home."
|
|
|
|
She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so
|
|
much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then
|
|
she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a
|
|
thought to them.
|
|
|
|
"With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed in
|
|
conclusion- and it was almost a sigh- "my existence hidden from all
|
|
save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that
|
|
innocent girl who will soon be his wife."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom,
|
|
interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on.
|
|
He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl
|
|
grey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the air
|
|
of one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the
|
|
fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he
|
|
was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by
|
|
adding to his own delight.
|
|
|
|
In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation:
|
|
|
|
"I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here.
|
|
I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must."
|
|
|
|
There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice
|
|
saying:
|
|
|
|
"No, I shall not ride again. Put him up."
|
|
|
|
He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with
|
|
the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in
|
|
his peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make
|
|
something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to
|
|
take a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the
|
|
rising sentiment as she proceeded.
|
|
|
|
"I thought you had gone with Pearl," she said to her lover.
|
|
|
|
"I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the
|
|
road."
|
|
|
|
"You and Pearl had no disagreement?"
|
|
|
|
"No- yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always
|
|
stand at 'cloudy' and 'overcast.'
|
|
|
|
"And whose fault is that?" she said, easily.
|
|
|
|
"Not mine," he answered, pettishly. "I know I do all I can- I say
|
|
all I can- but she-"
|
|
|
|
This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with
|
|
a grace which was inspiring.
|
|
|
|
"But she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention upon
|
|
the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was
|
|
again low and musical. "Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from
|
|
which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let
|
|
yours be discontented and unhappy."
|
|
|
|
She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting with
|
|
satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
"To be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was weak
|
|
by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere
|
|
which Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that
|
|
he was wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of
|
|
wood. The accessories she needed were within her own imagination.
|
|
The acting of others could not affect them.
|
|
|
|
"And you repent already?" she said, slowly.
|
|
|
|
"I lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and I was at the
|
|
mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was
|
|
your fault- you know it was- why did you leave me?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse
|
|
in silence. Then she turned back.
|
|
|
|
"Ray," she said, "the greatest happiness I have ever felt has been
|
|
the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a
|
|
virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments.
|
|
What a revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you
|
|
continually war with your happiness?"
|
|
|
|
The last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience
|
|
and the lover as a personal thing.
|
|
|
|
At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "Be to me
|
|
as you used to be."
|
|
|
|
Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "I cannot be that to you,
|
|
but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you
|
|
forever."
|
|
|
|
"Be it as you will," said Patton.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and intent.
|
|
|
|
"Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said Carrie, her eyes
|
|
bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, "beautiful or
|
|
homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or
|
|
refuse- her heart,"
|
|
|
|
Drouet felt a scratch in his throat.
|
|
|
|
"Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you;
|
|
but her love is the treasure without money and without price."
|
|
|
|
The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as if
|
|
they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow
|
|
over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whom
|
|
he loved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was resolving that he
|
|
would be to Carrie what he had never been before. He would marry
|
|
her, by George! She was worth it.
|
|
|
|
"She asks only in return," said Carrie, scarcely hearing the
|
|
small, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even more
|
|
in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra,
|
|
"that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that when
|
|
you address her your voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that you
|
|
shall not despise her because she cannot understand all at once your
|
|
vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil
|
|
have defeated your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you.
|
|
You look to the trees," she continued, while Hurstwood restrained
|
|
his feelings only by the grimmest repression, "for strength and
|
|
grandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is all
|
|
they have to give. Remember," she concluded, tenderly, "love is all
|
|
a woman has to give," and she laid a strange, sweet accent on the all,
|
|
"but it is the only thing which God permits us to carry beyond the
|
|
grave."
|
|
|
|
The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They
|
|
scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded.
|
|
They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace,
|
|
continuing a power which to them was a revelation.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood resolved a thousand things, Drouet as well. They joined
|
|
equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drouet
|
|
pounded his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again and
|
|
started out. As he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing an immense
|
|
basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward her, she waited.
|
|
They were Hurstwood's. She looked toward the manager's box for a
|
|
moment, caught his eye, and smiled. He could have leaped out of the
|
|
box to enfold her. He forgot the need of circumspectness which his
|
|
married state enforced. He almost forgot that he had with him in the
|
|
box those who knew him. By the Lord, he would have that lovely girl if
|
|
it took his all. He would act at once. This should be the end of
|
|
Drouet, and don't you forget it. He would not wait another day. The
|
|
drummer should not have her.
|
|
|
|
He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went into
|
|
the lobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did not
|
|
return. In a few minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy to
|
|
have Carrie alone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling,
|
|
bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when
|
|
he wanted to whisper to her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopes
|
|
were futile. He must even take her to supper, shamming. He finally
|
|
went about and asked how she was getting along. The actors were all
|
|
dressing, talking, hurrying about. Drouet was palavering himself
|
|
with the looseness of excitement and passion. The manager mastered
|
|
himself only by a great effort.
|
|
|
|
"We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that
|
|
was a mockery of his heart.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling.
|
|
|
|
The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now what
|
|
it was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. The
|
|
independence of success now made its first faint showing. With the
|
|
tables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover. She
|
|
did not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in
|
|
condescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she was
|
|
ready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once,
|
|
only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was
|
|
when the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her.
|
|
Before Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a
|
|
gentle, impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with
|
|
affection. He could have sold his soul to be with her alone. "Ah,"
|
|
he thought, "the agony of it."
|
|
|
|
Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled
|
|
by his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die
|
|
if he did not find affectionate relief. He whispered "to-morrow"
|
|
passionately to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the
|
|
drummer and his prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and
|
|
not regret. Carrie also felt the misery of it.
|
|
|
|
"Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness.
|
|
|
|
"Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly.
|
|
|
|
"The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet. "The idiot! I'll do him yet,
|
|
and that quick! We'll see to-morrow."
|
|
|
|
"Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently,
|
|
squeezing Carrie's arm. "You are the dandiest little girl on earth."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XX.
|
|
|
|
THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT
|
|
|
|
Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. It
|
|
is no musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to sing
|
|
outside of my lady's window- to languish and repine in the face of
|
|
difficulties. In the night he was long getting to sleep because of too
|
|
much thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing with
|
|
alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. He
|
|
was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for did
|
|
he not delight in a new manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet in
|
|
the way? Never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of his
|
|
love being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have
|
|
given anything, it seemed to him, to have the complication ended- to
|
|
have Carrie acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of
|
|
Drouet effectually and forever.
|
|
|
|
What to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same
|
|
chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence.
|
|
|
|
At breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to which
|
|
he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grew
|
|
cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. Here and there he read
|
|
a little thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down.
|
|
His wife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her own
|
|
in silence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgot
|
|
the napkins. On this account the silence was irritably broken by a
|
|
reproof.
|
|
|
|
"I've told you about this before, Maggie," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "I'm
|
|
not going to tell you again."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now
|
|
her manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed to
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your
|
|
vacation?"
|
|
|
|
It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at
|
|
this season of the year.
|
|
|
|
"Not yet," he said, "I'm very busy just now."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you, if
|
|
we're going?" she returned.
|
|
|
|
"I guess we have a few days yet," he said.
|
|
|
|
"Hmff," she returned. "Don't wait until the season's over."
|
|
|
|
She stirred in aggravation as she said this.
|
|
|
|
"There you go again," he observed. "One would think I never did
|
|
anything, the way you begin."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I want to know about it," she reiterated.
|
|
|
|
"You've got a few days yet," he insisted. "You'll not want to
|
|
start before the races are over."
|
|
|
|
He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to
|
|
have his thoughts for other purposes.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we may. Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the
|
|
races."
|
|
|
|
"What did you want with a season ticket, then?"
|
|
|
|
"Uh!" she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust,
|
|
"I'll not argue with you," and therewith arose to leave the table.
|
|
|
|
"Say," he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his voice
|
|
which caused her to delay her departure, "what's the matter with you
|
|
of late? Can't I talk with you any more?"
|
|
|
|
"Certainly, you can talk with me," she replied, laying emphasis on
|
|
the word.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. Now, you want to
|
|
know when I'll be ready- not for a month yet. Maybe not then."
|
|
|
|
"We'll go without you."
|
|
|
|
"You will, eh?" he sneered.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, we will."
|
|
|
|
He was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only
|
|
irritated him the more.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we'll see about that. It seems to me you're trying to run
|
|
things with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settled
|
|
my affairs for me. Well, you don't. You don't regulate anything that's
|
|
connected with me. If you want to go, go, but you won't hurry me by
|
|
any such talk as that."
|
|
|
|
He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he
|
|
crunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing
|
|
more. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went out
|
|
into the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment, as if
|
|
hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafter
|
|
arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor.
|
|
|
|
His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She had
|
|
come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with
|
|
herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessica
|
|
had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they
|
|
were supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had
|
|
thought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found going
|
|
every day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year of
|
|
people who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In her
|
|
own circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she was
|
|
interested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would like
|
|
to go too, and her mother agreed with her.
|
|
|
|
Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was
|
|
thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some
|
|
reason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all
|
|
over, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however,
|
|
that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances,
|
|
would she let this go by unsettled. She would have more lady-like
|
|
treatment or she would know why.
|
|
|
|
For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new
|
|
argument until he reached his office and started from there to meet
|
|
Carrie. Then the other complications of love, desire, and opposition
|
|
possessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon eagles' wings.
|
|
He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie face to face. What
|
|
was the night, after all, without her- what the day? She must and
|
|
should be his.
|
|
|
|
For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling
|
|
since she had left him, the night before. She had listened to Drouet's
|
|
enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part which
|
|
concerned herself, with very little for that which affected his own
|
|
gain. She kept him at such lengths as she could, because her
|
|
thoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hurstwood's passion as
|
|
a delightful background to her own achievement, and she wondered
|
|
what he would have to say. She was sorry for him, too, with that
|
|
peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the
|
|
misery of another. She was now experiencing the first shades of
|
|
feeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks of
|
|
the suppliants into the lines of the dispensers of charity. She was,
|
|
all in all, exceedingly happy.
|
|
|
|
On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerning
|
|
the event, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday things
|
|
about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Drouet
|
|
himself was not talking so much of as for her. He felt instinctively
|
|
that, for some reason or other, he needed reconstruction in her
|
|
regard.
|
|
|
|
"I think," he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next
|
|
morning, preparatory to going down town, "that I'll straighten out
|
|
that little deal of mine this month and then we'll get married. I
|
|
was talking with Mosher about that yesterday."
|
|
|
|
"No, you won't," said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint
|
|
power to jest with the drummer.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I will," he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, with
|
|
the tone of one who pleads, "Don't you believe what I've told you?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie laughed a little.
|
|
|
|
"Of course I do," she answered.
|
|
|
|
Drouet's assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mental
|
|
observation, there was that in the things which had happened which
|
|
made his little power of analysis useless. Carrie was still with
|
|
him, but not helpless and pleading. There was a lilt in her voice
|
|
which was new. She did not study him with eyes expressive of
|
|
dependence. The drummer was feeling the shadow of something which
|
|
was coming. It coloured his feelings and made him develop those little
|
|
attentions and say those little words which were mere forefendations
|
|
against danger.
|
|
|
|
Shortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her meeting
|
|
with Hurstwood. She hurried at her toilet, which was soon made, and
|
|
hastened down the stairs. At the corner she passed Drouet, but they
|
|
did not see each other.
|
|
|
|
The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into
|
|
his house. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room, but
|
|
found only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up.
|
|
|
|
"Hello," he exclaimed, half to himself, "has Carrie gone?"
|
|
|
|
"Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago."
|
|
|
|
"That's strange," thought Drouet. "She didn't say a word to me. I
|
|
wonder where she went?"
|
|
|
|
He hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted, and
|
|
finally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his fair
|
|
neighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards him.
|
|
|
|
"What are you up to?" he said, smiling.
|
|
|
|
"Just cleaning," she replied, stopping and winding a dusting towel
|
|
about her hand.
|
|
|
|
"Tired of it?"
|
|
|
|
"Not so very."
|
|
|
|
"Let me show you something," he said, affably, coming over and
|
|
taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had been
|
|
issued by a wholesale tobacco company. On this was printed a picture
|
|
of a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the colours of which
|
|
could be changed by means of a revolving disk in the back, which
|
|
showed red, yellow, green, and blue through little interstices made in
|
|
the ground occupied by the umbrella top.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't that clever?" he said, handing it to her and showing her
|
|
how it worked. "You never saw anything like that before."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't it nice?" she answered.
|
|
|
|
"You can have it if you want it," he remarked.
|
|
|
|
"That's a pretty ring you have," he said, touching a commonplace
|
|
setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think so?"
|
|
|
|
"That's right," he answered, making use of a pretence at examination
|
|
to secure her finger. "That's fine."
|
|
|
|
The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation,
|
|
pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his.
|
|
She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest
|
|
against the window-sill.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't see you for a long time," she said, coquettishly,
|
|
repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. "You must have been away."
|
|
|
|
"I was," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Do you travel far?"
|
|
|
|
"Pretty far- yes."
|
|
|
|
"Do you like it?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, not very well. You get tired of it after a while."
|
|
|
|
"I wish I could travel," said the girl, gazing idly out of the
|
|
window.
|
|
|
|
"What has become of your friend, Hurstwood?" she suddenly asked,
|
|
bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation,
|
|
seemed to contain promising material.
|
|
|
|
"He's here in town. What makes you ask about him?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back."
|
|
|
|
"How did you come to know him?"
|
|
|
|
"Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?"
|
|
|
|
"Get out," said the drummer, lightly. "He hasn't called more than
|
|
half a dozen times since we've been here."
|
|
|
|
"He hasn't, eh?" said the girl, smiling. "That's all you know
|
|
about it."
|
|
|
|
Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as
|
|
to whether she was joking or not.
|
|
|
|
"Tease," he said, "what makes you smile that way?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, nothing."
|
|
|
|
"Have you seen him recently?"
|
|
|
|
"Not since you came back," she laughed.
|
|
|
|
"Before?"
|
|
|
|
"Certainly."
|
|
|
|
"How often?"
|
|
|
|
"Why, nearly every day."
|
|
|
|
She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what
|
|
the effect of her words would be.
|
|
|
|
"Who did he come to see?" asked the drummer, incredulously.
|
|
|
|
"Mrs. Drouet."
|
|
|
|
He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to
|
|
correct himself so as not to appear a dupe.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "what of it?"
|
|
|
|
"Nothing," replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one
|
|
side.
|
|
|
|
"He's an old friend," he went on, getting deeper into the mire.
|
|
|
|
He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the
|
|
taste for it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when the
|
|
girl's name was called from below.
|
|
|
|
"I've got to go," she said, moving away from him airily.
|
|
|
|
"I'll see you later," he said, with a pretence of disturbance at
|
|
being interrupted.
|
|
|
|
When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. His face,
|
|
never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and
|
|
disturbance which he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received so
|
|
many visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood lying? What
|
|
did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had thought there was
|
|
something odd about Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look so
|
|
disturbed when he had asked her how many times Hurstwood had called?
|
|
By George! he remembered now. There was something strange about the
|
|
whole thing.
|
|
|
|
He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one
|
|
leg on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a great
|
|
rate.
|
|
|
|
And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be,
|
|
by George, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why,
|
|
even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and
|
|
Hurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could hardly believe they would
|
|
try to deceive him.
|
|
|
|
His thoughts burst into words.
|
|
|
|
"She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed and gone
|
|
out this morning and never said a word."
|
|
|
|
He scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was still
|
|
frowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was
|
|
now looking after another chamber. She had on a white dusting cap,
|
|
beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Drouet almost
|
|
forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him. He put his
|
|
hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing.
|
|
|
|
"Got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not mad," he answered.
|
|
|
|
"I thought you were," she said, smiling.
|
|
|
|
"Quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way. "Were
|
|
you serious?"
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," she answered. Then, with an air of one who did not
|
|
intentionally mean to create trouble, "He came lots of times. I
|
|
thought you knew."
|
|
|
|
The game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to simulate
|
|
indifference further.
|
|
|
|
"Did he spend the evenings here?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Sometimes. Sometimes they went out."
|
|
|
|
"In the evening?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not," he said. "Did any one else see him?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in
|
|
particular.
|
|
|
|
"How long ago was this?"
|
|
|
|
"Just before you came back."
|
|
|
|
The drummer pinched his lip nervously.
|
|
|
|
"Don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm a
|
|
gentle squeeze.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly not," she returned. "I wouldn't worry over it."
|
|
|
|
"All right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and
|
|
yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most
|
|
excellent impression upon the chambermaid.
|
|
|
|
"I'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately, feeling
|
|
that he had been unduly wronged. "I'll find out, b'George, whether
|
|
she'll act that way or not."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXI.
|
|
|
|
THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT
|
|
|
|
When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His
|
|
blood was warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman
|
|
who had stirred him so profoundly the night before.
|
|
|
|
"Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his
|
|
limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood
|
|
drank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty
|
|
skirt was like music to him.
|
|
|
|
"Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the
|
|
night before.
|
|
|
|
"Are you?"
|
|
|
|
He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.
|
|
|
|
"It was wonderful."
|
|
|
|
Carrie laughed ecstatically.
|
|
|
|
"That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," he
|
|
added.
|
|
|
|
He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening
|
|
before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for
|
|
her. Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt
|
|
his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice.
|
|
|
|
"Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a moment
|
|
or two. "They were beautiful."
|
|
|
|
"Glad you liked them," he answered, simply.
|
|
|
|
He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was
|
|
being delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings.
|
|
All was ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in
|
|
and expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words
|
|
and feeling for a way.
|
|
|
|
"You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tone
|
|
modifying itself to one of self-commiseration.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie, easily.
|
|
|
|
He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and
|
|
fixing her with his eye.
|
|
|
|
She felt the flood of feeling.
|
|
|
|
"How about me?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the floodgates
|
|
were open. She didn't know exactly what to answer.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she answered.
|
|
|
|
He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let
|
|
it go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his
|
|
toe. He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance.
|
|
|
|
"Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and
|
|
finding nothing at which to catch.
|
|
|
|
As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a
|
|
man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her,
|
|
sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed
|
|
of a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen
|
|
eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before
|
|
her a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her
|
|
with a feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the
|
|
glow of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep
|
|
from feeling what he felt.
|
|
|
|
And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did
|
|
he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or
|
|
what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened,
|
|
and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself
|
|
if Drouet had told him they were not married. There was never anything
|
|
at all convincing about what Drouet said.
|
|
|
|
And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of
|
|
bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently
|
|
sincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what he
|
|
said. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answering
|
|
vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, until
|
|
she was on a borderless sea of speculation.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "I will arrange for
|
|
you whatever-"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, don't," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Don't what?" he asked. "What do you mean?"
|
|
|
|
There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was
|
|
wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She was
|
|
struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outside
|
|
the pale of marriage.
|
|
|
|
He himself realised that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in.
|
|
He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He
|
|
went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened,
|
|
intensely enlisted in his plan.
|
|
|
|
"Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent
|
|
feeling. "You know I can't do without you- you know it- it can't go on
|
|
this way- can it?"
|
|
|
|
"I know," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I wouldn't ask if I- I wouldn't argue with you if I could help
|
|
it. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to
|
|
stay away from me, do you?"
|
|
|
|
She shook her head as if in deep thought.
|
|
|
|
"Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment
|
|
me. Be serious."
|
|
|
|
"I am," said Carrie, softly.
|
|
|
|
"You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love
|
|
you. Look at last night."
|
|
|
|
His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face
|
|
and body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they
|
|
flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of
|
|
the man's nature was distilling itself.
|
|
|
|
Carrie made no answer.
|
|
|
|
"How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time. "You
|
|
love me, don't you?"
|
|
|
|
He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed.
|
|
For the moment all doubts were cleared away.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly.
|
|
|
|
"Well, then you'll come, won't you- come to-night?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.
|
|
|
|
"I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood. "If that is too soon,
|
|
come Saturday."
|
|
|
|
"When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her
|
|
difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's
|
|
wife.
|
|
|
|
The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more
|
|
difficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like
|
|
messages to his mind.
|
|
|
|
"Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his
|
|
present delight with this miserable problem.
|
|
|
|
"Saturday?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
He nodded his head.
|
|
|
|
"Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go."
|
|
|
|
The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so
|
|
difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had
|
|
gotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with
|
|
reason. He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the
|
|
face of so much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all its
|
|
difficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which cold
|
|
truth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, and
|
|
trust to fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise,
|
|
whatever might be the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it
|
|
cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his
|
|
shoulder, so delightful did it all seem.
|
|
|
|
"Well," she said, "I'll try and get ready then."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows
|
|
of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more
|
|
lovely.
|
|
|
|
"I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll talk
|
|
over the plans."
|
|
|
|
He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been
|
|
the result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her,
|
|
though there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began
|
|
to realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the
|
|
world.
|
|
|
|
"To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding
|
|
wonderfully to his brave demeanour.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.
|
|
|
|
There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was
|
|
believing herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her
|
|
handsome adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go,
|
|
and they would be happy.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXII.
|
|
|
|
THE BLAZE OF THE TINDER: FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH
|
|
|
|
The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that
|
|
jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs.
|
|
Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences
|
|
could transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a
|
|
physical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon
|
|
him, but in a social sense he fell short. With his regard died his
|
|
power to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater
|
|
than outright crime toward another. Our self-love dictates our
|
|
appreciation of the good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hurstwood it
|
|
discoloured the very hue of her husband's indifferent nature. She
|
|
saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from a faded
|
|
appreciation of her presence.
|
|
|
|
As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy
|
|
that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little
|
|
amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her
|
|
notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She could
|
|
see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his
|
|
personal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot.
|
|
Every motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt
|
|
in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his
|
|
days. Mrs. Hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do
|
|
danger, afar off.
|
|
|
|
This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent
|
|
nature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation
|
|
he shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement
|
|
or satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more
|
|
recently, he resented her irritating goads. These little rows were
|
|
really precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with
|
|
dissension. That it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening
|
|
thunder-clouds, would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus,
|
|
after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his
|
|
blank declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood
|
|
encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her
|
|
hair. Hurstwood had already left the house.
|
|
|
|
"I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she said,
|
|
addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. "Now here the
|
|
things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten."
|
|
|
|
Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to
|
|
feel the fag end of the storm.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not hungry," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,
|
|
instead of keeping her waiting all morning?"
|
|
|
|
"She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow, I
|
|
don't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such
|
|
an air with your mother."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, mamma, don't row," answered Jessica. "What's the matter this
|
|
morning, anyway?"
|
|
|
|
"Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think because
|
|
I indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I
|
|
won't have it."
|
|
|
|
"I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply,
|
|
stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. "I said I
|
|
wasn't hungry. I don't want any breakfast."
|
|
|
|
"Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'll
|
|
not have it!"
|
|
|
|
Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss
|
|
of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the
|
|
independence and indifference she felt. She did not propose to be
|
|
quarrelled with.
|
|
|
|
Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a
|
|
growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish.
|
|
George, Jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in
|
|
the matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all feel
|
|
that he was a man with a man's privileges- an assumption which, of all
|
|
things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it
|
|
irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more
|
|
by a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a
|
|
lessening understanding.
|
|
|
|
Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start
|
|
to Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He was
|
|
being made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharp
|
|
temper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of
|
|
his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer
|
|
or a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into
|
|
hardly repressed passion, and wished himself clear of the whole
|
|
household. It seemed a most irritating drag upon all his desires and
|
|
opportunities.
|
|
|
|
For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and
|
|
control, even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display
|
|
of temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing
|
|
more than the feeling that she could do it. She had no special
|
|
evidence wherewith to justify herself- the knowledge of something
|
|
which would give her both authority and excuse. The latter was all
|
|
that was lacking, however, to give a solid foundation to what, in a
|
|
way, seemed groundless discontent. The clear proof of one overt deed
|
|
was the cold breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicion
|
|
into a rain of wrath.
|
|
|
|
An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come.
|
|
Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood,
|
|
met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood and
|
|
Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale,
|
|
coming east on the same drive, had recognised Hurstwood, but not
|
|
before he was quite past him. He was not so sure of Carrie- did not
|
|
know whether it was Hurstwood's wife or daughter.
|
|
|
|
"You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving,
|
|
do you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"If I see them, I do. Where was I?"
|
|
|
|
"On Washington Boulevard," he answered, expecting her eye to light
|
|
with immediate remembrance.
|
|
|
|
She shook her head.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband."
|
|
|
|
"I guess you're mistaken," she answered. Then, remembering her
|
|
husband's 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 sound 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 though 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 could 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.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXIII.
|
|
|
|
A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL: ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND
|
|
|
|
When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to
|
|
those doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of
|
|
decision. She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her
|
|
promise, or that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She
|
|
went over the whole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discovered
|
|
little objections that had not occurred to her in the warmth of the
|
|
manager's argument. She saw where she had put herself in a peculiar
|
|
light, namely, that of agreeing to marry when she was already
|
|
supposedly married. She remembered a few things Drouet had done, and
|
|
now that it came to walking away from him without a word, she felt
|
|
as if she were doing wrong. Now, she was comfortably situated, and
|
|
to one who is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent
|
|
matter, and one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments. "You do
|
|
not know what will come. There are miserable things outside. People go
|
|
a-begging. Women are wretched. You never can tell what will happen.
|
|
Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to what you have."
|
|
|
|
Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken a
|
|
firm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,
|
|
and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on his
|
|
part, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from
|
|
its seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled
|
|
mass, and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This
|
|
majesty of passion is possessed by nearly every man once in his
|
|
life, but it is usually an attribute of youth and conduces to the
|
|
first successful mating.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain
|
|
the fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and
|
|
unreasoning. It was strong enough to induce the leaning toward him
|
|
which, on Carrie's part, we have seen. She might have been said to
|
|
be imagining herself in love, when she was not. Women frequently do
|
|
this. It flows from the fact that in each exists a bias towards
|
|
affection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved. The longing to
|
|
be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is one of the attributes of
|
|
the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and a natural tendency to
|
|
emotion, often makes refusing difficult. It persuades them that they
|
|
are in love.
|
|
|
|
Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for
|
|
herself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never
|
|
took the house-maid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one
|
|
of the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved
|
|
it out. To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so
|
|
absorbed was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room
|
|
until Drouet put in appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was
|
|
flushed and excited and full of determination to know all about her
|
|
relations with Hurstwood. Nevertheless, after going over the subject
|
|
in his mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished
|
|
it over with. He did not foresee serious consequences of any sort, and
|
|
yet he rather hesitated to begin. Carrie was sitting by the window
|
|
when he came in, rocking and looking out.
|
|
|
|
"Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion
|
|
and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makes
|
|
you hurry so?"
|
|
|
|
Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to
|
|
what course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor
|
|
see.
|
|
|
|
"When did you get home?" he asked foolishly.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?"
|
|
|
|
"You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and I
|
|
thought you had gone out."
|
|
|
|
"So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk."
|
|
|
|
Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in
|
|
such matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the
|
|
most flagrant manner until at last she said:
|
|
|
|
"What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?"
|
|
|
|
"Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking."
|
|
|
|
"Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his
|
|
attitude.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, nothing- nothing much."
|
|
|
|
"Well, then, what makes you look so?"
|
|
|
|
Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner.
|
|
He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the
|
|
little toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe
|
|
that the pretty woman before him was involved in anything so
|
|
unsatisfactory to himself. He was very much inclined to feel that it
|
|
was all right, after all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the
|
|
chambermaid was rankling in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a
|
|
straight remark of some sort, but he knew not what.
|
|
|
|
"Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly.
|
|
|
|
"Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Sure you did?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, what makes you ask?"
|
|
|
|
She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she
|
|
drew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched
|
|
slightly.
|
|
|
|
"I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in the
|
|
most useless manner.
|
|
|
|
Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted.
|
|
She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition
|
|
realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.
|
|
|
|
"What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty
|
|
forehead. "You act so funny to-night."
|
|
|
|
"I feel funny," he answered.
|
|
|
|
They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged
|
|
desperately into his subject.
|
|
|
|
"What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Me and Hurstwood- what do you mean?"
|
|
|
|
"Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?"
|
|
|
|
"A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do you
|
|
mean?"
|
|
|
|
"Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came
|
|
here every night."
|
|
|
|
"No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told you
|
|
that?"
|
|
|
|
She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did
|
|
not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the
|
|
room. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with
|
|
denials.
|
|
|
|
"Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?"
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came."
|
|
|
|
Drouet paused for a moment and thought.
|
|
|
|
"I know what you told me," he said finally.
|
|
|
|
He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that," said
|
|
Carrie, recovering herself.
|
|
|
|
"If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I
|
|
wouldn't have anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know."
|
|
|
|
"Who- who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word.
|
|
|
|
"Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he
|
|
was delivering a telling blow.
|
|
|
|
"Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed
|
|
several shades since this announcement was made. She looked within and
|
|
without herself in a half-dazed way.
|
|
|
|
"Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out
|
|
of order and exceedingly incriminating.
|
|
|
|
"Why, I know it. I've always known it," said Drouet.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a
|
|
most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her
|
|
which were anything but crumbling cowardice.
|
|
|
|
"I thought I told you," he added.
|
|
|
|
"No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice.
|
|
"You didn't do anything of the kind."
|
|
|
|
Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.
|
|
|
|
"I thought I did," he said.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked around her very solemnly and then went over to the
|
|
window.
|
|
|
|
"You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet in
|
|
an injured tone, "after all I've done for you."
|
|
|
|
"You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?"
|
|
|
|
Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings- shame
|
|
at exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet's
|
|
deception, the mockery he had made of her. Now one clear idea came
|
|
into her head. He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did
|
|
he bring Hurstwood out- Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word
|
|
to her? Never mind now about Hurstwood's perfidy- why had he done
|
|
this? Why hadn't he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of this
|
|
miserable breach of confidence and talking about what he had done
|
|
for her!
|
|
|
|
"Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his
|
|
remark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal."
|
|
|
|
"You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me- that's what
|
|
you've done. You've brought your friends out here under false
|
|
pretences. You've made me out to be- Oh," and with this her voice
|
|
broke and she pressed her two little hands together tragically.
|
|
|
|
"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer
|
|
quaintly.
|
|
|
|
"No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth.
|
|
"No, of course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You
|
|
couldn't have told me in the first place, could you? You had to make
|
|
me out wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking around
|
|
with your information and your talk about what you have done."
|
|
|
|
Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was
|
|
alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole
|
|
body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.
|
|
|
|
"Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part,
|
|
but certain that he was wronged.
|
|
|
|
"You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward,
|
|
that's what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you
|
|
wouldn't have thought of doing any such thing."
|
|
|
|
The drummer stared.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not a coward," he said. "What do you mean by going with other
|
|
men, anyway?"
|
|
|
|
"Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men- you know better than
|
|
that. I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn't
|
|
you bring him here? You told him yourself that he should come out here
|
|
and take me out. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that I
|
|
oughtn't to go with him and that he's a married man."
|
|
|
|
She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands.
|
|
The knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife.
|
|
|
|
"Oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her
|
|
eyes dry. "Oh, oh!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was
|
|
away," insisted Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's
|
|
peculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what would be
|
|
to your satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me- a plaything.
|
|
Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to do
|
|
with you at all. You can take your old things and keep them," and
|
|
unfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously
|
|
upon the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the things
|
|
which belonged to her.
|
|
|
|
By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He
|
|
looked at her in amazement, and finally said:
|
|
|
|
"I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of this
|
|
thing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after
|
|
all I did for you."
|
|
|
|
"What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown
|
|
back and her lips parted.
|
|
|
|
"I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around.
|
|
"I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've taken
|
|
you everywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, and
|
|
more too."
|
|
|
|
Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so
|
|
far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received.
|
|
She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not
|
|
placated. She felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably.
|
|
|
|
"Did I ask you to?" she returned.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it."
|
|
|
|
"You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "You
|
|
stand there and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old
|
|
things. I'll not have them. You take them to-night and do what you
|
|
please with them. I'll not stay here another minute."
|
|
|
|
"That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his
|
|
own approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walk
|
|
off. That's just like a woman. I take you when you haven't got
|
|
anything, and then when some one else comes along, why I'm no good.
|
|
I always thought it'd come out that way."
|
|
|
|
He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if
|
|
he saw no way of obtaining justice.
|
|
|
|
"It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else.
|
|
You have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate
|
|
you, I tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're a
|
|
big, insulting"- here she hesitated and used no word at all- "or you
|
|
wouldn't talk that way."
|
|
|
|
She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over
|
|
her little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from
|
|
the bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot,
|
|
red cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes
|
|
were full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet.
|
|
She was distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an
|
|
aim or conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the
|
|
whole difficulty would end.
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out,
|
|
eh? You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood
|
|
or you wouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn't
|
|
pull out for me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, you
|
|
haven't done me right."
|
|
|
|
"I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live with
|
|
you. You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here."
|
|
|
|
"Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered.
|
|
|
|
Carrie walked over to the door.
|
|
|
|
"Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off.
|
|
|
|
"Let me out," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Where are you going?" he repeated.
|
|
|
|
He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering
|
|
out, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.
|
|
|
|
Carrie merely pulled at the door.
|
|
|
|
The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She
|
|
made one more vain effort and then burst into tears.
|
|
|
|
"Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you want
|
|
to rush out for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stay
|
|
here now and be quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stay
|
|
here any longer."
|
|
|
|
Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so
|
|
overcome she could not speak.
|
|
|
|
"Be reasonable now," he said. "I don't want to hold you. You can
|
|
go if you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows, I
|
|
don't want to stop you."
|
|
|
|
He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the
|
|
influence of his plea.
|
|
|
|
"You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last.
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken
|
|
loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by
|
|
this thought, angered by that- her own injustice, Hurstwood's,
|
|
Drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the
|
|
threat of the world outside, in which she had failed once before,
|
|
the impossibility of this state inside, where the chambers were no
|
|
longer justly hers, the effect of the argument upon her nerves, all
|
|
combined to make her a mass of jangling fibres- an anchorless,
|
|
storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift.
|
|
|
|
"Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a
|
|
new idea, and putting his hand upon her.
|
|
|
|
"Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her
|
|
handkerchief from her eyes.
|
|
|
|
"Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here until
|
|
the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want to
|
|
do. Eh?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie made no answer.
|
|
|
|
"You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing up
|
|
now. You can't go anywhere."
|
|
|
|
Still he got nothing for his words.
|
|
|
|
"If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get
|
|
out."
|
|
|
|
Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the
|
|
window.
|
|
|
|
"Will you do that?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
Still no answer.
|
|
|
|
"Will you?" he repeated.
|
|
|
|
She only looked vaguely into the street.
|
|
|
|
"Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer.
|
|
|
|
"Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking
|
|
about it. It'll be the best thing for you."
|
|
|
|
Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer
|
|
reasonably. She felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest in
|
|
her had not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She was
|
|
in a most helpless plight.
|
|
|
|
As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover.
|
|
Now his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at
|
|
losing Carrie, misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in
|
|
some way or other, and yet his rights included the retaining of
|
|
Carrie, the making her feel her error.
|
|
|
|
"Will you?" he urged.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'll see," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It
|
|
looked as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get
|
|
some way of talking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and Drouet
|
|
aggrieved. He pretended to take up the task of packing some things
|
|
in a valise.
|
|
|
|
Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain
|
|
sound thoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what had
|
|
she done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism.
|
|
Throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh. On the
|
|
other hand there was Hurstwood- a greater deceiver than he. He had
|
|
pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was lying to
|
|
her all the while. Oh, the perfidy of men! And she had loved him.
|
|
There could be nothing more in that quarter. She would see Hurstwood
|
|
no more. She would write him and let him know what she thought.
|
|
Thereupon what would she do? Here were these rooms. Here was Drouet,
|
|
pleading for her to remain. Evidently things could go on here somewhat
|
|
as before, if all were arranged. It would be better than the street,
|
|
without a place to lay her head.
|
|
|
|
All this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for collars
|
|
and laboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. He was in
|
|
no hurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie which
|
|
would not down. He could not think that the thing would end by his
|
|
walking out of the room. There must be some way round, some way to
|
|
make her own up that he was right and she was wrong- to patch up a
|
|
peace and shut out Hurstwood for ever. Mercy how he turned at the
|
|
man's shameless duplicity.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "that
|
|
you'll try and get on the stage?"
|
|
|
|
He was wondering what she was intending.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know what I'll do yet," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends in
|
|
that line."
|
|
|
|
She made no answer to this.
|
|
|
|
"Don't go and try to knock around now without any money. Let me help
|
|
you," he said. "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here."
|
|
|
|
Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair.
|
|
|
|
"I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way."
|
|
|
|
He bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time,
|
|
"and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?"
|
|
|
|
"Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie. "You were
|
|
to blame."
|
|
|
|
"No, I wasn't," he answered.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, you were, too," said Carrie. "You shouldn't have ever told
|
|
me such a story as that."
|
|
|
|
"But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on
|
|
Drouet, anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial
|
|
from her.
|
|
|
|
"I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn
|
|
the peace arrangement had taken.
|
|
|
|
"What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the drummer,
|
|
stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "You might
|
|
let me know where I stand, at least."
|
|
|
|
"I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "Whatever
|
|
has happened is your own fault."
|
|
|
|
"Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely and
|
|
experiencing a rush of feeling.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, stop!" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed Drouet. "You may
|
|
trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. You
|
|
can tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any longer!"
|
|
|
|
He shoved the last few remaining things. he had laid out into his
|
|
valise and snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat,
|
|
which he had laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out.
|
|
|
|
"You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as he
|
|
reached the door. "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with a
|
|
jerk and closed it equally vigorously.
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything
|
|
else at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardly
|
|
believe her senses- so good-natured and tractable had he invariably
|
|
been. It was not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A
|
|
real flame of love is a subtle thing. It burns as a
|
|
will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to fairy lands of delight. It roars
|
|
as a furnace. Too often jealousy is the quality upon which it feeds.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXIV.
|
|
|
|
ASHES OF TINDER: A FACE AT THE WINDOW
|
|
|
|
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 today. 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. 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 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 rain-coat.
|
|
|
|
"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!
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXV.
|
|
|
|
ASHES OF TINDER: THE LOOSING OF STAYS
|
|
|
|
When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater
|
|
quandary than ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into?
|
|
How could things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? He
|
|
could hardly realise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous,
|
|
unnatural, unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him
|
|
without his let or hindrance.
|
|
|
|
Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could be
|
|
the trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of any
|
|
kind, and yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to
|
|
meet him that morning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off-
|
|
where? He saw that in the excitement of recent events he had not
|
|
formulated a plan upon that score. He was desperately in love, and
|
|
would have taken great chances to win her under ordinary
|
|
circumstances, but now- now what? Supposing she had found out
|
|
something? Supposing she, too, wrote him and told him that she knew
|
|
all- that she would have nothing more to do with him? It would be just
|
|
like this to happen as things were going now. Meanwhile he had not
|
|
sent the money.
|
|
|
|
He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his
|
|
hands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was getting
|
|
some vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for
|
|
the ill which affected him. Every once in a while he would clinch
|
|
his fingers and tap his foot- signs of the stirring mental process
|
|
he was undergoing. His whole nature was vigorously and powerfully
|
|
shaken up, and he was finding what limits the mind has to endurance.
|
|
He drank more brandy and soda than he had any evening in months. He
|
|
was altogether a fine example of great mental perturbation.
|
|
|
|
For all his study nothing came of the evening except this- he sent
|
|
the money. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of
|
|
the most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got
|
|
an envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it
|
|
up.
|
|
|
|
Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.
|
|
|
|
"You take this to this address," he said, handing him the
|
|
envelope, "and give it to Mrs. Hurstwood."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," said the boy.
|
|
|
|
"If she isn't there bring it back."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir."
|
|
|
|
"You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the
|
|
boy turned to go.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes, sir. I know her."
|
|
|
|
"All right, now. Hurry right back."
|
|
|
|
"Any answer?"
|
|
|
|
"I guess not."
|
|
|
|
The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now he
|
|
had done it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten for
|
|
to-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, the
|
|
wretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting the
|
|
boy at the door and smiling sardonically. She would take the
|
|
envelope and know that she had triumphed. If he only had that letter
|
|
back he wouldn't send it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture
|
|
from his face.
|
|
|
|
For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends
|
|
who were drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him,
|
|
but it was not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to his
|
|
home and see the scene being therein enacted. All the time he was
|
|
wondering what she would say when the boy handed her the envelope.
|
|
|
|
In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He had
|
|
evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign
|
|
of taking anything out of his pocket.
|
|
|
|
"Well?" said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"I gave it to her."
|
|
|
|
"My wife?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Any answer?"
|
|
|
|
"She said it was high time."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood scowled fiercely.
|
|
|
|
There was no more to be done upon that score that night. He went
|
|
on brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired
|
|
again to the Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bring
|
|
forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it.
|
|
|
|
Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious
|
|
and hopeful of its contents. No word from Carrie. Nothing from his
|
|
wife, which was pleasant.
|
|
|
|
The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it
|
|
worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done
|
|
it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. He
|
|
fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a
|
|
week or two. Meanwhile, he would have time to think.
|
|
|
|
This process of thinking began by a reversion to Carrie and the
|
|
arrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet. How about
|
|
that now? His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly
|
|
increased as he devoted himself to this subject. He decided to write
|
|
her care of the West Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, as
|
|
well as to have her meet him. The thought that this letter would
|
|
probably not reach her until Monday chafed him exceedingly. He must
|
|
get some speedier method- but how?
|
|
|
|
He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or
|
|
a cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding
|
|
that time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and
|
|
then began to think again.
|
|
|
|
The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union
|
|
he had contemplated. He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie by
|
|
now in the task of joining her interests to his, and here it was
|
|
afternoon and nothing done. Three o'clock came, four, five, six, and
|
|
no letter. The helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the
|
|
gloom of defeat. He saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in,
|
|
and nothing done. All day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone,
|
|
shut out from home, from the excitement of his resort, from Carrie,
|
|
and without the ability to alter his condition one iota. It was the
|
|
worst Sunday he had spent in his life.
|
|
|
|
In Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter
|
|
which held his interest for some time. It bore the imprint of the
|
|
law offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal "Dear
|
|
Sir," and "We beg to state," went on to inform him briefly that they
|
|
had been retained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood to adjust certain matters
|
|
which related to her sustenance and property rights, and would he
|
|
kindly call and see them about the matter at once.
|
|
|
|
He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook
|
|
his head. It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning.
|
|
|
|
"Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know."
|
|
|
|
Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket.
|
|
|
|
To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie. He was quite
|
|
certain now that she knew he was married and was angered at his
|
|
perfidy. His loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed her
|
|
most. He thought he would go out and insist on seeing her if she did
|
|
not send him word of some sort soon. He was really affected most
|
|
miserably of all by this desertion. He had loved her earnestly enough,
|
|
but now that the possibility of losing her stared him in the face
|
|
she seemed much more attractive. He really pined for a word, and
|
|
looked out upon her with his mind's eye in the most wistful manner. He
|
|
did not propose to lose her, whatever she might think. Come what
|
|
might, he would adjust this matter, and soon. He would go to her and
|
|
tell her all his family complications. He would explain to her just
|
|
where he stood and how much he needed her. Surely she couldn't go back
|
|
on him now? It wasn't possible. He would plead until her anger would
|
|
melt- until she would forgive him.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there- suppose she has
|
|
gone?"
|
|
|
|
He was forced to take his feet. It was too much to think of and
|
|
sit still.
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.
|
|
|
|
On Tuesday it was the same way. He did manage to bring himself
|
|
into the mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place he
|
|
thought he saw a man watching him and went away. He did not go
|
|
within a block of the house.
|
|
|
|
One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back
|
|
on a Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite
|
|
the building of the concern with which his son was connected. This
|
|
sent a pang through his heart. He had called on his boy there
|
|
several times. Now the lad had not sent him a word. His absence did
|
|
not seem to be noticed by either of his children. Well, well,
|
|
fortune plays a man queer tricks. He got back to his office and joined
|
|
in a conversation with friends. It was as if idle chatter deadened the
|
|
sense of misery.
|
|
|
|
That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his
|
|
office. In the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. He
|
|
troubled over many little details and talked perfunctorily to
|
|
everybody. He stayed at his desk long after all others had gone, and
|
|
only quitted it when the night watchman on his round pulled at the
|
|
front door to see if it was safely locked.
|
|
|
|
On Wednesday, he received another polite note from McGregor, James
|
|
and Hay. It read:
|
|
|
|
Dear Sir:
|
|
|
|
We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait until tomorrow
|
|
(Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit against you, on behalf
|
|
of Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and alimony. If we do not hear
|
|
from you before that time we shall consider that you do not wish to
|
|
compromise the matter in any way and act accordingly.
|
|
|
|
Very truly yours, etc.
|
|
|
|
"Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly. "Compromise!" Again he
|
|
shook his head.
|
|
|
|
So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what
|
|
to expect. If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly.
|
|
If he did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil.
|
|
He folded the letter and put it with the other one. Then he put on his
|
|
hat and went for a turn about the block.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXVI.
|
|
|
|
THE AMBASSADOR FALLEN: A SEARCH FOR THE GATE
|
|
|
|
Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps,
|
|
scarcely realising what had happened. She knew that he had stormed
|
|
out. It was some moments before she questioned whether he would
|
|
return, not now exactly, but ever. She looked around her upon the
|
|
rooms, out of which the evening light was dying, and wondered why
|
|
she did not feel quite the same towards them. She went over to the
|
|
dresser and struck a match, lighting the gas. Then she went back to
|
|
the rocker to think.
|
|
|
|
It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she
|
|
did, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone.
|
|
Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hear
|
|
anything more of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not last
|
|
long. She would have to quit them.
|
|
|
|
To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood.
|
|
She could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret.
|
|
For a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of
|
|
human depravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash.
|
|
She would have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yet
|
|
she could not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Only
|
|
this one deed seemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply with
|
|
all she felt and knew concerning the man.
|
|
|
|
But she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. How
|
|
about that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to look
|
|
around in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spoken
|
|
about that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deep
|
|
and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell
|
|
completely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat,
|
|
thinking it over.
|
|
|
|
She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard
|
|
in the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts.
|
|
She looked at these things with certain misgivings. The
|
|
contemplation of food had more significance than usual.
|
|
|
|
While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had.
|
|
It struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to
|
|
look for her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were seven
|
|
dollars in bills and some change. She quailed as she thought of the
|
|
insignificance of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid
|
|
until the end of the month. She began also to think what she would
|
|
have done if she had gone out into the street when she first
|
|
started. By the side of that situation, as she looked at it now, the
|
|
present seemed agreeable. She had a little time at least, and then,
|
|
perhaps, everything would come out all right, after all.
|
|
|
|
Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. He
|
|
only acted as if he were hurry. He would come back- of course he
|
|
would. There was his cane in the corner. Here was one of his
|
|
collars. He had left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She looked
|
|
about and tried to assure herself with the sight of a dozen such
|
|
details, but, alas, the secondary thought arrived. Supposing he did
|
|
come back. Then what?
|
|
|
|
Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing.
|
|
She would have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her to
|
|
admit that he was right. It would be impossible for her to live with
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and
|
|
the passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have
|
|
been in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her
|
|
exceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind she
|
|
felt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street
|
|
dress, and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion
|
|
once again. She must look for work.
|
|
|
|
The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served
|
|
equally well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors
|
|
as it did to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day.
|
|
|
|
The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters,
|
|
and besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass
|
|
shining exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When she
|
|
went out the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses.
|
|
She could not help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that
|
|
life was a joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she
|
|
wished over and over that something might interfere now to preserve
|
|
for her the comfortable state which she had occupied. She did not want
|
|
Drouet or his money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do
|
|
with Hurstwood, but only the content and ease of mind she had
|
|
experienced, for, after all, she had been happy- happier, at least,
|
|
than she was now when confronted by the necessity of making her way
|
|
alone.
|
|
|
|
When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock,
|
|
and the business had little longer to run. She did not realise this at
|
|
first, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result
|
|
of her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. She
|
|
wandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to
|
|
look for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was
|
|
not necessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult to
|
|
encounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure that
|
|
she was really face to face again with the bitter problem of
|
|
self-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knew
|
|
that she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed.
|
|
Her clothes were becoming, and men- well-dressed men, some of the kind
|
|
who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished
|
|
railings and imposing office partitions- now gazed into her face
|
|
with a soft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power and
|
|
satisfaction of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. She
|
|
looked for nothing save what might come legitimately and without the
|
|
appearance of special favour. She wanted something, but no man
|
|
should buy her by false protestations or favour. She proposed to
|
|
earn her living honestly.
|
|
|
|
"This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and
|
|
satisfactory legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to
|
|
enter and inquire for work. It gave her an excuse, and after
|
|
encountering quite a number of them, and noting that the clock
|
|
registered 12.15, she decided that it would be no use to seek
|
|
further to-day, so she got on a car and went to Lincoln Park. There
|
|
was always something to see there- the flowers, the animals, the lake-
|
|
and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be up betimes and
|
|
searching. Besides, many things might happen between now and Monday.
|
|
|
|
Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven
|
|
knows what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the
|
|
thought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing
|
|
whip, that action- immediate action- was imperative. At other times
|
|
she would look about her and assure herself that things were not so
|
|
bad- that certainly she would come out safe and sound. At such times
|
|
she would think of Drouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw
|
|
some chance for herself in that quarter. She decided to take up that
|
|
opportunity on the morrow.
|
|
|
|
Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
|
|
carefully. She did not know just how such applications were made,
|
|
but she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the
|
|
theatre buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one
|
|
about the theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was
|
|
anything, you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how.
|
|
|
|
She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever,
|
|
and did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe.
|
|
She only knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all
|
|
things, she did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of
|
|
her intimacy with his wife.
|
|
|
|
There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera
|
|
House, which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager,
|
|
David A. Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one
|
|
or two elaborate performances there and had heard of several others.
|
|
She knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but
|
|
she instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and
|
|
accordingly strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely
|
|
enough to the showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded
|
|
lobby, set with framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading
|
|
up to the quiet box-office, but she could get no further. A noted
|
|
comic opera comedian was holding forth that week, and the air of
|
|
distinction and prosperity overawed her. She could not imagine that
|
|
there would be anything in such a lofty sphere for her. She almost
|
|
trembled at the audacity which might have carried her on to a terrible
|
|
rebuff. She could find heart only to look at the pictures which were
|
|
showy and then walk out. It seemed to her as if she had made a
|
|
splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy to think of applying in
|
|
that quarter again.
|
|
|
|
This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked
|
|
around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of
|
|
several playhouses fixed in her mind- notably the Grand Opera House
|
|
and McVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions- and then
|
|
came away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly
|
|
restored sense of magnitude of the great interests and the
|
|
insignificance of her claims upon society, such as she understood them
|
|
to be.
|
|
|
|
That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and
|
|
protracted stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or
|
|
the fortune of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to
|
|
think, and gave herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet
|
|
had not put in an appearance. She had had no word from any quarter,
|
|
she had spent a dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and
|
|
paying car fare. It was evident that she would not endure long.
|
|
Besides, she had discovered no resource.
|
|
|
|
In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren
|
|
Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to
|
|
her home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that
|
|
could not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction.
|
|
Nothing but sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which
|
|
would return. That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a
|
|
manner seemed a cruel thing.
|
|
|
|
Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation.
|
|
She was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten
|
|
forth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for
|
|
what she considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she
|
|
started out to revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely
|
|
enough courage to approach.
|
|
|
|
She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.
|
|
|
|
"Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed
|
|
individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed
|
|
by Carrie's looks.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question.
|
|
|
|
"You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow,"
|
|
volunteered the young man. "He's out of town."
|
|
|
|
He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish to
|
|
see about?"
|
|
|
|
"I want to see about getting a position," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but
|
|
he isn't here now."
|
|
|
|
"When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
|
|
information.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's here
|
|
after two o'clock."
|
|
|
|
Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed
|
|
after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.
|
|
|
|
"Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
|
|
condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to
|
|
himself.
|
|
|
|
One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
|
|
engagement at the Grand opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the
|
|
manager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of
|
|
this individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would
|
|
have been sent on from New York to fill it.
|
|
|
|
"His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office.
|
|
|
|
Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a
|
|
window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk-
|
|
the manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that
|
|
she should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two
|
|
of whom- the occupants of the window- were already observing her
|
|
carefully.
|
|
|
|
"I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr.
|
|
Frohman's never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!"
|
|
|
|
Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one
|
|
motioned her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been
|
|
talking went away quite crest-fallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at
|
|
some papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.
|
|
|
|
"Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,
|
|
Harris?"
|
|
|
|
"No," said the person addressed. "What was it?"
|
|
|
|
"Made quite a curtain address at Hooley's last night. Better look it
|
|
up."
|
|
|
|
Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "Herald."
|
|
|
|
"What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her
|
|
for the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free
|
|
tickets.
|
|
|
|
Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She
|
|
realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were
|
|
certain. Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend
|
|
she had called for advice.
|
|
|
|
"Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?"
|
|
|
|
It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She was
|
|
interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the
|
|
simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as
|
|
did the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to
|
|
conceal their humour.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have you
|
|
ever had any experience upon the stage?"
|
|
|
|
"A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateur
|
|
performances."
|
|
|
|
She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to
|
|
retain his interest.
|
|
|
|
"Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intended
|
|
as much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his
|
|
chair while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on the
|
|
stage?"
|
|
|
|
She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer
|
|
to his engaging smirk, and say:
|
|
|
|
"I need to make a living."
|
|
|
|
"Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and
|
|
feeling as if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "That's a
|
|
good reason, isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what
|
|
you want to do. You ought to be in New York. There's more chance
|
|
there. You could hardly expect to get started out here."
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled genially, grateful that he should condescend to advise
|
|
her even so much. He noticed the smile, and put a slightly different
|
|
construction on it. He thought he saw an easy chance for a little
|
|
flirtation.
|
|
|
|
"Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his
|
|
desk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not
|
|
hear. Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so
|
|
addressing the manager. "See you this afternoon."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said the manager.
|
|
|
|
The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.
|
|
|
|
"Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?"
|
|
asked the manager softly.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with."
|
|
|
|
"I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir."
|
|
|
|
The manager smiled most blandly.
|
|
|
|
"Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuming
|
|
a more confidential air.
|
|
|
|
Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and
|
|
unnatural in his manner.
|
|
|
|
"No," she said.
|
|
|
|
"That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage.
|
|
It's a good way to get experience."
|
|
|
|
He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive
|
|
manner.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know that," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a
|
|
chance, you know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out
|
|
his watch and consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he said,
|
|
"and I've got to go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with
|
|
me? We can talk it over there."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her
|
|
at once. "I have an engagement myself."
|
|
|
|
"That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little
|
|
beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. "Come in
|
|
later. I may know of something."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation, and went out.
|
|
|
|
"She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion,
|
|
who had not caught all the details of the game he had played.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been
|
|
lost. "She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus
|
|
girl-that's all."
|
|
|
|
This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon
|
|
the manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after
|
|
a time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that
|
|
there was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search
|
|
foolish.
|
|
|
|
"Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be in
|
|
New York."
|
|
|
|
Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not
|
|
find any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the person to
|
|
whom she was referred was not to be found.
|
|
|
|
These little expeditions took up her time until quite four
|
|
o'clock, when she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she
|
|
ought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were
|
|
too dispiriting. She took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in
|
|
three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the West Side
|
|
branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to receive
|
|
Hurstwood's letters. There was one there now, written Saturday,
|
|
which she tore open and read with mingled feelings. There was so
|
|
much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her having failed to
|
|
meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied the
|
|
man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished and
|
|
dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the
|
|
thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would
|
|
write and let him know that she knew of his married state and was
|
|
justly incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all
|
|
over between them.
|
|
|
|
At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time,
|
|
for she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.
|
|
|
|
"You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she
|
|
wrote in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me to
|
|
have anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any circumstances.
|
|
Oh, how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "You
|
|
have caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get
|
|
over your infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye."
|
|
|
|
She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it
|
|
reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she
|
|
should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.
|
|
|
|
This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
|
|
listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young
|
|
women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was
|
|
asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.
|
|
|
|
"What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are
|
|
you experienced?"
|
|
|
|
At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was much
|
|
the same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later,
|
|
possibly they would like to have her.
|
|
|
|
When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
|
|
disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His
|
|
umbrella and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other
|
|
things, but could not be sure. Everything had not been taken.
|
|
|
|
So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?
|
|
Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a
|
|
day or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together
|
|
in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears
|
|
gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,
|
|
very much alone.
|
|
|
|
Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from
|
|
that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify
|
|
his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of
|
|
his wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.
|
|
|
|
Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie
|
|
out. He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the
|
|
neighbourhood and would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting
|
|
to hear her foot on the stair.
|
|
|
|
When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had
|
|
just come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would
|
|
explain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood.
|
|
|
|
Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering
|
|
around among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival,
|
|
he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to resting
|
|
himself in the rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow
|
|
restless and lit a cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he
|
|
looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an
|
|
appointment at three. He began to think that it would be useless to
|
|
wait, and got hold of his umbrella and light coat, intending to take
|
|
these things, any way. It would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he
|
|
would come back for the others. He would find out how things stood.
|
|
|
|
As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her.
|
|
There was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed
|
|
in the little jacket he had first bought her- her face a little more
|
|
wistful than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and
|
|
looked into the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.
|
|
|
|
"You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing her
|
|
in the flesh.
|
|
|
|
Then he went to the door, took a good look around, and went out.
|
|
|
|
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 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 America 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 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 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."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXVIII.
|
|
|
|
A PILGRIM, AN OUTLAW: THE SPIRIT DETAINED
|
|
|
|
The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling
|
|
herself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"
|
|
|
|
"It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He was
|
|
very much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carrie
|
|
with him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law.
|
|
Therefore he was in no mood for anything save such words as would
|
|
further his plans distinctly.
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between
|
|
her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The
|
|
one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.
|
|
|
|
"Where is he?"
|
|
|
|
"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take the
|
|
train. It's the quickest way."
|
|
|
|
Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of
|
|
the city by night held her attention. She looked at the long
|
|
receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.
|
|
|
|
"How did he hurt himself?" she asked- meaning what was the nature of
|
|
his injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than
|
|
necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go and
|
|
get you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for
|
|
alarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you."
|
|
|
|
The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
|
|
wondering.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one
|
|
in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think
|
|
of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie
|
|
seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated himself.
|
|
|
|
In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he
|
|
handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.
|
|
|
|
"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the
|
|
waiting-room, "while I get the tickets."
|
|
|
|
"Have I much time to catch the train for Detroit?" he asked of the
|
|
agent.
|
|
|
|
"Four minutes," said the latter.
|
|
|
|
He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.
|
|
|
|
"Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.
|
|
|
|
"Not very," he said. "We must get right in."
|
|
|
|
He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the
|
|
ticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could
|
|
not see, and then hurried after.
|
|
|
|
There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two
|
|
common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up and
|
|
few passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen
|
|
waiting. They entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almost
|
|
immediately, "All aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and the
|
|
train started.
|
|
|
|
Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious- this going to a
|
|
depot- but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the
|
|
natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she
|
|
imagined.
|
|
|
|
"How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed
|
|
easier.
|
|
|
|
"Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not
|
|
bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous
|
|
to reach Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood
|
|
contemplated her and felt this. He was not disturbed that it should be
|
|
so. He did not trouble because she was moved sympathetically in the
|
|
matter. It was one of the qualities in her which pleased him
|
|
exceedingly. He was only thinking how he should explain. Even this was
|
|
not the most serious thing in his mind, however. His own deed and
|
|
present flight were the great shadows which weighed upon him.
|
|
|
|
"What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a
|
|
mistake!"
|
|
|
|
In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had
|
|
been done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from
|
|
justice. He had often read of such things, and had thought they must
|
|
be terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and
|
|
looked into the past. The future was a thing which concerned the
|
|
Canadian line. He wanted to reach that. As for the rest, he surveyed
|
|
his actions for the evening, and counted them parts of a great
|
|
mistake.
|
|
|
|
"Still," he said, "what could I have done?"
|
|
|
|
Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do
|
|
so by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless,
|
|
harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the
|
|
proposition he had in the presence of Carrie.
|
|
|
|
The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran
|
|
rather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible
|
|
without. The engine gave short calls with its whistle, and
|
|
frequently the bell rang. Several brakemen came through, bearing
|
|
lanterns. They were locking the vestibules and putting the cars in
|
|
order for a long run.
|
|
|
|
Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent
|
|
streets flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its
|
|
whistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger to
|
|
important crossings.
|
|
|
|
"Is it very far?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could hardly repress a smile at
|
|
her simplicity. He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but he also
|
|
wanted to be well out of Chicago.
|
|
|
|
In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie
|
|
that it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.
|
|
|
|
"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond
|
|
the city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at
|
|
a great rate.
|
|
|
|
"No," he said, "not where we are going."
|
|
|
|
There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in
|
|
an instant.
|
|
|
|
Her pretty brow began to contract.
|
|
|
|
"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come
|
|
now as later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle
|
|
negative.
|
|
|
|
"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the
|
|
errand being different from what she had thought.
|
|
|
|
He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.
|
|
|
|
"Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice
|
|
showing the quality of fright.
|
|
|
|
"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come along
|
|
with me to another city."
|
|
|
|
"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off.
|
|
I don't want to go with you."
|
|
|
|
She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something
|
|
which had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was
|
|
to get off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the
|
|
terrible trick would be amended.
|
|
|
|
She arose and tried to push out into the aisle- anywhere. She knew
|
|
she had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her.
|
|
|
|
"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any good
|
|
to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a
|
|
moment."
|
|
|
|
She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one
|
|
saw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and
|
|
they were attempting to doze.
|
|
|
|
"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her
|
|
will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears began
|
|
to gather in her eyes.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and
|
|
ceased to think of his own situation. He must do something with this
|
|
girl, or she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion
|
|
with all his powers aroused.
|
|
|
|
"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.
|
|
|
|
When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.
|
|
|
|
"You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't mean
|
|
to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay
|
|
away from you after the first time I saw you."
|
|
|
|
He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the
|
|
board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a
|
|
factor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shut
|
|
out of his mind.
|
|
|
|
"Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go
|
|
away from me. I am going to get out at the very next station."
|
|
|
|
She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.
|
|
|
|
"All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After
|
|
all you have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't want
|
|
to do you any harm. I'll give you the money to go back with when you
|
|
go. I merely want to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from loving
|
|
you, whatever you may think."
|
|
|
|
He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply.
|
|
|
|
"You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do
|
|
it willingly. I'm through with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me.
|
|
I'll never see her any more. That's why I'm here to-night. That's
|
|
why I came and got you."
|
|
|
|
"You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You deceived
|
|
me. You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force
|
|
me to run away with you."
|
|
|
|
She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He
|
|
let her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.
|
|
|
|
"Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me explain.
|
|
If you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my
|
|
wife is nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or I
|
|
wouldn't have ever come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just as
|
|
soon as I can. I'll never see her again. I'm done with all that.
|
|
You're the only person I want. If I can have you I won't ever think of
|
|
another woman again."
|
|
|
|
Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere
|
|
enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in
|
|
Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did
|
|
not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived
|
|
her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there
|
|
is something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,
|
|
especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by
|
|
love of her.
|
|
|
|
The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
|
|
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
|
|
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie
|
|
could feel that she was being borne a long distance off- that the
|
|
engine was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt
|
|
at times as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one
|
|
would come to her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless
|
|
thing- so far was she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the
|
|
while Hurstwood was endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way
|
|
that it would strike home and bring her into sympathy with him.
|
|
|
|
"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."
|
|
|
|
Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.
|
|
|
|
"When I saw you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided to
|
|
put everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'm
|
|
going off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while,
|
|
and then anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if you
|
|
say."
|
|
|
|
"I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to get
|
|
off this train. Where are we going?"
|
|
|
|
"To Detroit," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite
|
|
a point seemed to increase the difficulty.
|
|
|
|
"Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great
|
|
danger that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but travel
|
|
with me. I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New
|
|
York, and then if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will be
|
|
better than trying to go back to-night."
|
|
|
|
The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It
|
|
seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if
|
|
she tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was
|
|
speeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if
|
|
she liked. She thought, but made no sign.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled
|
|
his ardour.
|
|
|
|
"Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago
|
|
any more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't
|
|
come with me. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood kept silent for a while.
|
|
|
|
Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act
|
|
if she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.
|
|
|
|
"Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for me
|
|
at all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say.
|
|
I'll marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to think
|
|
it over. I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. I
|
|
tell you, Carrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!"
|
|
|
|
There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed
|
|
deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating
|
|
him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up
|
|
in this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and
|
|
pressed it with all the force of an appeal.
|
|
|
|
The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on
|
|
a side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few
|
|
sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining.
|
|
Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and
|
|
helplessness. Now the train stopped, and she was listening to his
|
|
plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was still.
|
|
|
|
She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute
|
|
slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading.
|
|
|
|
"Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she now
|
|
had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.
|
|
|
|
"Of course," he answered, "you know I will."
|
|
|
|
Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She
|
|
began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.
|
|
|
|
The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.
|
|
|
|
"Aren't you very tired?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"No," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"
|
|
|
|
She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she
|
|
was beginning to notice what she had always felt- his thoughtfulness.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."
|
|
|
|
She shook her head.
|
|
|
|
"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged
|
|
his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.
|
|
|
|
"There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little."
|
|
He could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside
|
|
her and thought a moment.
|
|
|
|
"I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.
|
|
|
|
"So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
|
|
sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on
|
|
frantically through the shadow to a newer world.
|
|
|
|
The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of
|
|
satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary
|
|
relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of
|
|
his time to devote to the consideration of his own error.
|
|
|
|
His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
|
|
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum
|
|
or any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus
|
|
foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends,
|
|
his name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have
|
|
her. He was shut out from Chicago- from his easy, comfortable state.
|
|
He had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant
|
|
evenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more
|
|
unbearable it became. He began to think that he would try and
|
|
restore himself to his old state. He would return the miserable
|
|
thievings of the night and explain. Perhaps Moy would understand.
|
|
Perhaps they would forgive him and let him come back.
|
|
|
|
By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
|
|
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They
|
|
had probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives
|
|
would be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters
|
|
had been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled
|
|
somewhat. His hands felt as if they must have something to do. He
|
|
simulated interest in several scenes without which he did not feel. He
|
|
repeatedly beat his foot upon the floor.
|
|
|
|
Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what
|
|
it meant or that it was important.
|
|
|
|
He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on
|
|
through to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have
|
|
saved time. He jumped up and sought the conductor.
|
|
|
|
"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, the next sleeper back does."
|
|
|
|
He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to
|
|
inquire at the depot.
|
|
|
|
The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.
|
|
|
|
"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said
|
|
to Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."
|
|
|
|
He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm
|
|
exterior. Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was
|
|
drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.
|
|
|
|
The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily
|
|
around him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that
|
|
indicated studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.
|
|
|
|
"The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"In twenty minutes," said the man.
|
|
|
|
He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to
|
|
Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie
|
|
looked tired and weary.
|
|
|
|
"I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.
|
|
|
|
"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.
|
|
|
|
The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they
|
|
stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering
|
|
at the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood
|
|
had been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he
|
|
had stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he
|
|
heard it called anew by a busman.
|
|
|
|
"We'll go right up and get rooms," he said.
|
|
|
|
At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while the
|
|
clerk came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down.
|
|
With the latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name
|
|
he had seen out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing
|
|
enough. With an easy hand he wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was
|
|
the largest concession to necessity he felt like making. His
|
|
initials he could not spare.
|
|
|
|
When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had
|
|
secured her a lovely chamber.
|
|
|
|
"You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you are
|
|
ready."
|
|
|
|
Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked
|
|
at himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk,
|
|
no change of linen, not even a hair-brush.
|
|
|
|
"I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a
|
|
hair-brush. Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll go
|
|
for a shave and come back and get you, and then we'll go out and
|
|
look for some clothes for you."
|
|
|
|
He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited
|
|
for the boy, who soon knocked.
|
|
|
|
"Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir."
|
|
|
|
"I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding
|
|
out his hands, but she did not move to take them.
|
|
|
|
"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you care for me at all?"
|
|
|
|
She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking one
|
|
of her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once said you
|
|
did."
|
|
|
|
"What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much."
|
|
|
|
"You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking
|
|
cleanly home.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now.
|
|
Won't you try and care for me a little?"
|
|
|
|
He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.
|
|
|
|
She shook her head negatively.
|
|
|
|
"Let me start all over again. Be my wife from today on."
|
|
|
|
Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he
|
|
slipped his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held
|
|
her quite close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the
|
|
all-compelling desire. His affection took an ardent form.
|
|
|
|
"Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him.
|
|
|
|
"Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment
|
|
before she had been listening with some complacency, remembering her
|
|
old affection for him. He was so handsome, so daring!
|
|
|
|
Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which
|
|
rose feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she
|
|
was, began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose
|
|
bosom she was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved
|
|
her, and she was alone. If she did not turn to him- accept of his
|
|
love- where else might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the
|
|
flood of his strong feeling.
|
|
|
|
She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What
|
|
magnetism there was she could never know. His many sins, however, were
|
|
for the moment all forgotten.
|
|
|
|
He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
|
|
opposition was useless.
|
|
|
|
"Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how.
|
|
|
|
"This very day," he said, with all delight.
|
|
|
|
Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon
|
|
her regretfully.
|
|
|
|
"You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour."
|
|
|
|
Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.
|
|
|
|
Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop.
|
|
For the moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie
|
|
seemed to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life
|
|
seemed worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things
|
|
customary and attached seemed as if it might have happiness in
|
|
store. The storm showed a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot
|
|
of gold.
|
|
|
|
He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which
|
|
was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly.
|
|
Instantly his heart sank.
|
|
|
|
"Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are you doing
|
|
down here?"
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny,
|
|
the stock-broker.
|
|
|
|
"Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind
|
|
working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently
|
|
did not know- he had not read the papers.
|
|
|
|
"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny
|
|
genially. "Stopping here?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the
|
|
register.
|
|
|
|
"Going to be in town long?"
|
|
|
|
"No, only a day or so."
|
|
|
|
"Is that so? Had your breakfast?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave."
|
|
|
|
"Won't you come have a drink?"
|
|
|
|
"Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later.
|
|
Are you stopping here?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: "How
|
|
are things out in Chicago?"
|
|
|
|
"About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.
|
|
|
|
"Wife with you?"
|
|
|
|
"No."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for
|
|
breakfast. Come in when you're through."
|
|
|
|
"I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was
|
|
a trial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. This
|
|
man called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had
|
|
left. Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort- all these were in his
|
|
greeting and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting
|
|
to confer with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with
|
|
him. All at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers
|
|
would have accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph
|
|
with Carrie in the possibility of soon being known for what he was, in
|
|
this man's eyes, a safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into
|
|
the barber shop. He decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.
|
|
|
|
Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,
|
|
and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by
|
|
the ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more
|
|
inconspicuous place.
|
|
|
|
Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him.
|
|
He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed,
|
|
and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward
|
|
politician's. This individual had been evidently talking with the
|
|
clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.
|
|
Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective- that he was
|
|
being watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his
|
|
mind was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could
|
|
these people do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition
|
|
laws. He did not understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be
|
|
arrested. Oh, if Carrie should find out! Montreal was too warm for
|
|
him. He began to long to be out of it.
|
|
|
|
Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked
|
|
refreshed- more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had
|
|
gone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love
|
|
was not blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed
|
|
increased. He could not take her in his arms; he did not even try.
|
|
Something about her forbade it. In part his opinion was the result
|
|
of his own experiences and reflections below stairs.
|
|
|
|
"You're ready, are you?" he said kindly.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal
|
|
to me very much."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual
|
|
was standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from
|
|
showing that he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in the
|
|
fellow's eye was galling. Still they passed, and he explained to
|
|
Carrie concerning the city. Another restaurant was not long in showing
|
|
itself, and here they entered.
|
|
|
|
"What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely
|
|
because it was not like Chicago.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you like
|
|
it?"
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the
|
|
great Western city.
|
|
|
|
"Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this
|
|
town.
|
|
|
|
"Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort. There's
|
|
some pretty scenery about here."
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much
|
|
about her situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.
|
|
|
|
"We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really glad
|
|
to note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as soon as
|
|
breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll like
|
|
that. It's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago."
|
|
|
|
He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these
|
|
detectives would do- what move his employers at Chicago would make-
|
|
then he would slip away- down to New York, where it was easy to
|
|
hide. He knew enough about that city to know that its mysteries and
|
|
possibilities of mystification were infinite.
|
|
|
|
The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation
|
|
became. He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the
|
|
ground. The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him-
|
|
Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him
|
|
the moment he tried to leave Canada. So he might be compelled to
|
|
remain here months, and in what a state!
|
|
|
|
Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the
|
|
morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal
|
|
deed had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments,
|
|
and went to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious
|
|
faces were about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so
|
|
he sought the main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a
|
|
window there, looked them over. Very little was given to his crime,
|
|
but it was there, several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff of
|
|
telegraphed murders, accidents, marriages, and other news. He
|
|
wished, half sadly, that he could undo it all. Every moment of his
|
|
time in this far-off abode of safety but added to his feeling that
|
|
he had made a great mistake. There could have been an easier way out
|
|
if he had only known.
|
|
|
|
He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep
|
|
them out of the hands of Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged in
|
|
looking out of the window.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, all right," she answered.
|
|
|
|
He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a
|
|
knock came at their door.
|
|
|
|
"Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual
|
|
whom he had so thoroughly suspected.
|
|
|
|
"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume of
|
|
affected shrewdness and assurance.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that
|
|
some of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as
|
|
these were of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped
|
|
out and closed the door.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man
|
|
confidentially.
|
|
|
|
"I can guess," said Hurstwood softly.
|
|
|
|
"Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?"
|
|
|
|
"That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly.
|
|
|
|
"You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly.
|
|
|
|
"Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't
|
|
understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.
|
|
Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside.
|
|
You'll have to excuse me."
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, there's no use of your talking that way," said the
|
|
man, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make a lot of
|
|
trouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in this
|
|
house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't
|
|
know you're here yet. You might as well be reasonable."
|
|
|
|
"What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Whether you're going to send back that money or not."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.
|
|
|
|
"There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last.
|
|
"There's no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know
|
|
just what you can do and what you can't. You can create a lot of
|
|
trouble if you want to. I know that all right, but it won't help you
|
|
to get the money. Now, I've made up my mind what to do. I've already
|
|
written Fitzgerald and Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait
|
|
until you hear more from them."
|
|
|
|
All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the
|
|
door, down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now
|
|
near the end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour.
|
|
|
|
"You won't give it up?" said the man.
|
|
|
|
The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his
|
|
brain. Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn't
|
|
want the money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy,
|
|
maybe it would be all right again.
|
|
|
|
"See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. I
|
|
respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people
|
|
who know."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man.
|
|
|
|
"I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready
|
|
there'll be nothing to stop me for."
|
|
|
|
He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed
|
|
an intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.
|
|
|
|
"Who was it?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"A friend of mine from Chicago."
|
|
|
|
The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it
|
|
did after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to
|
|
induce a deep gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him
|
|
most was the fact that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to
|
|
see the nature of that social injustice which sees but one side- often
|
|
but a single point in a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one
|
|
thing, his taking the money. How and wherefore were but
|
|
indifferently dealt with. All the complications which led up to it
|
|
were unknown. He was accused without being understood.
|
|
|
|
Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the
|
|
money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then
|
|
send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would
|
|
ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about
|
|
writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.
|
|
|
|
For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the
|
|
tangle. He wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He
|
|
finally narrowed it down to an assertion that he was light-headed from
|
|
entertaining friends, had found the safe open, and having gone so
|
|
far as to take the money out, had accidentally closed it. This act
|
|
he regretted very much. He was sorry he had put them to so much
|
|
trouble. He would undo what he could by sending the money back- the
|
|
major portion of it. The remainder he would pay up as soon as he
|
|
could. Was there any possibility of his being restored? This he only
|
|
hinted at.
|
|
|
|
The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very
|
|
construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful
|
|
thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given
|
|
him. He forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a
|
|
sword, and that if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with
|
|
it, the jagged line of separation and reunion would always show. He
|
|
was always forgetting something- his wife, Carrie, his need of
|
|
money, present situation, or something- and so did not reason clearly.
|
|
Nevertheless, he sent the letter, waiting a reply before sending the
|
|
money.
|
|
|
|
Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting
|
|
what joy out of it he could.
|
|
|
|
Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their
|
|
open windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song
|
|
in the air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She
|
|
seemed the one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would
|
|
only love him wholly- only throw her arms around him in the blissful
|
|
spirit in which he had seen her in the little park in Chicago- how
|
|
happy he would be! It would repay him; it would show him that he had
|
|
not lost all. He would not care.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are
|
|
you going to stay with me from now on?"
|
|
|
|
She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value
|
|
of the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now,
|
|
keen and strong- love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could
|
|
not help smiling.
|
|
|
|
"Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make me
|
|
worry any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a
|
|
nice flat. I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't
|
|
you be mine?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her,
|
|
but the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance
|
|
of affection. She felt rather sorry for him- a sorrow born of what had
|
|
only recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt
|
|
for him. She would have known as much if she could have analysed her
|
|
feelings, but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great
|
|
feeling broke down the barriers between them.
|
|
|
|
"You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she said, nodding her head.
|
|
|
|
He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and
|
|
cheeks.
|
|
|
|
"You must marry me, though," she said.
|
|
|
|
"I'll get a license to-day." he answered.
|
|
|
|
"How?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live a
|
|
new life. From now on I'm Murdock."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Why not?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"I don't like it."
|
|
|
|
"Well, what shall I take?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, anything, only don't take that."
|
|
|
|
He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:
|
|
|
|
"How would Wheeler do?"
|
|
|
|
"That's all right," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license this
|
|
afternoon."
|
|
|
|
They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found
|
|
convenient.
|
|
|
|
At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He
|
|
was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had
|
|
come about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not
|
|
trouble to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As
|
|
for his returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they
|
|
had not quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think
|
|
it over and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little
|
|
time, and so on.
|
|
|
|
The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they
|
|
wanted the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his
|
|
doom. He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they
|
|
would send, keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his
|
|
acquiescence, explained to the representative who called at the
|
|
hotel the same day, took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie
|
|
to pack her trunk. He was slightly depressed over this newest move
|
|
at the time he began to make it, but eventually restored himself. He
|
|
feared that even yet he might be seized and taken back, so he tried to
|
|
conceal his movements, but it was scarcely possible. He ordered
|
|
Carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he had it sent by express to
|
|
New York. No one seemed to be observing him, but he left at night.
|
|
He was greatly agitated lest at the first station across the border or
|
|
at the depot in New York there should be waiting for him an officer of
|
|
the law.
|
|
|
|
Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry
|
|
into the latter city in the morning. The round green hills
|
|
sentinelling the broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her
|
|
attention by their beauty as the train followed the line of the
|
|
stream. She had heard of the Hudson River, the great city of New York,
|
|
and now she looked out, filling her mind with the wonder of it.
|
|
|
|
As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east
|
|
bank of the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention
|
|
to the fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her
|
|
experience with Chicago, she expected long lines of cars- a great
|
|
highway of tracks- and noted the difference. The sight of a few
|
|
boats in the Harlem and more in the East River tickled her young
|
|
heart. It was the first sign of the great sea. Next came a plain
|
|
street with five-story brick flats, and then the train plunged into
|
|
the tunnel.
|
|
|
|
"Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few
|
|
minutes of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose
|
|
and gathered up his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest
|
|
tension. With Carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one
|
|
approached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the
|
|
street entrance. So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie,
|
|
who fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed
|
|
through the depot proper the strain reached its climax and began to
|
|
wane. All at once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed
|
|
him. He heaved a great breath and turned, remembering Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said.
|
|
|
|
"I was trying remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he
|
|
answered.
|
|
|
|
Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.
|
|
|
|
"How large is New York?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, a million or more," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.
|
|
|
|
For the first time in years the thought that he must count these
|
|
little expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.
|
|
|
|
He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a
|
|
flat. Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.
|
|
|
|
"We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more
|
|
important hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he
|
|
knew. He stood up and spoke to the driver.
|
|
|
|
"Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less
|
|
frequented by those whom he knew. Then he sat down.
|
|
|
|
"Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the
|
|
tall five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.
|
|
|
|
"Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well.
|
|
"There are no lawns in New York. All these are houses."
|
|
|
|
"Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have a
|
|
few opinions of her own.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXX.
|
|
|
|
THE KINGDOM OF GREATNESS: THE PILGRIM ADREAM
|
|
|
|
Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very
|
|
evident that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like
|
|
New York. In Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000,
|
|
millionaires were not numerous. The rich had not become so
|
|
conspicuously rich as to drown all moderate incomes in obscurity.
|
|
The attention of the inhabitants was not so distracted by local
|
|
celebrities in the dramatic, artistic, social, and religious fields as
|
|
to shut the well-positioned man from view. In Chicago the two roads to
|
|
distinction were politics and trade. In New York the roads were any
|
|
one of a half-hundred, and each had been diligently pursued by
|
|
hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous. The sea was already
|
|
full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear wholly from view-
|
|
remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.
|
|
|
|
There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which,
|
|
though not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the
|
|
world. The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the
|
|
small. This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the
|
|
magnificent residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops,
|
|
restaurants, resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the
|
|
wines; drink of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious
|
|
content, of the glances which gleam like light from defiant spears;
|
|
feel the quality of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of
|
|
strides born of place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of
|
|
the high and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the
|
|
kingdom of greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this
|
|
and the human heart views this as the one desirable realm which it
|
|
must attain, so long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of
|
|
greatness. So long, also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its
|
|
desperate results in the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent.
|
|
One day of it, like one drop of the other, will so affect and
|
|
discolour the views, the aims, the desire of the mind, that it will
|
|
thereafter remain forever dyed. A day of it to the untried mind is
|
|
like opium to the untried body. A craving is set up which, if
|
|
gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and death. Aye! dreams
|
|
unfulfilled- gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which beckon and lead,
|
|
beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve their power
|
|
and restore us blind to nature's heart.
|
|
|
|
A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the
|
|
illusions and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the
|
|
strength of hope which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth.
|
|
Such an atmosphere could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of
|
|
eighteen, but in so far as they were excited, the lack of hope made
|
|
them proportionately bitter. He could not fail to notice the signs
|
|
of affluence and luxury on every hand. He had been to New York
|
|
before and knew the resources of its folly. In part it was an
|
|
awesome place to him, for here gathered all that he most respected
|
|
on this earth- wealth, place, and fame. The majority of the
|
|
celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day as manager
|
|
hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most inviting
|
|
stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and individuals
|
|
here. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was brushing
|
|
elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or five hundred
|
|
thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than comfortably
|
|
in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample sums, so
|
|
that the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quite
|
|
sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled
|
|
of his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the
|
|
battle for place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but he
|
|
was not so dull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of a
|
|
sudden, then, this show of fine clothes, place, and power took on
|
|
peculiar significance. It was emphasised by contrast with his own
|
|
distressing state.
|
|
|
|
And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of
|
|
arrest was not the sine qua non of his existence. That danger
|
|
dissolved, the next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry
|
|
sum of thirteen hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of
|
|
rent, clothing, food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle
|
|
little calculated to induce peace of mind in one who had been
|
|
accustomed to spend five times that sum in the course of a year. He
|
|
thought upon the subject rather actively the first few days he was
|
|
in New York, and decided that he must act quickly. As a consequence,
|
|
he consulted the business opportunities advertised in the morning
|
|
papers and began investigations on his own account.
|
|
|
|
That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he
|
|
went looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in
|
|
Seventy-eighth Street near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story
|
|
building, and their flat was on the third floor. Owing to the fact
|
|
that the street was not yet built up solidly, it was possible to see
|
|
east to the green tops of the trees in Central Park and west to the
|
|
broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse of which was to be had out of
|
|
the west windows. For the privilege of six rooms and a bath, running
|
|
in a straight line, they were compelled to pay thirty-five dollars a
|
|
month- an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a home at the time.
|
|
Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the rooms here and
|
|
in Chicago and mentioned it.
|
|
|
|
"You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless you
|
|
go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any
|
|
of these conveniences."
|
|
|
|
Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright
|
|
wood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat,
|
|
which was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water,
|
|
dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her
|
|
very much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take
|
|
great satisfaction in these things.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood made arrangement with one of the instalment houses whereby
|
|
they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and
|
|
ten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G.
|
|
W. Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It
|
|
sounded exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the
|
|
janitor, but in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as
|
|
her own.
|
|
|
|
These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the
|
|
advertised opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing
|
|
down-town bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not
|
|
stomach the commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a
|
|
number of days looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did,
|
|
however, gain considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the
|
|
influence of Tammany Hall and the value of standing in with the
|
|
police. The most profitable and flourishing places he found to be
|
|
those which conducted anything but a legitimate business, such as that
|
|
controlled by Fitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and private
|
|
drinking booths on the second floor were usually adjuncts of very
|
|
profitable places. He saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts
|
|
shone with large diamonds, and whose clothes were properly cut, that
|
|
the liquor business here, as elsewhere, yielded the same golden
|
|
profit.
|
|
|
|
At last he found an individual who had a resort in Warren Street,
|
|
which seemed an excellent venture. It was fairly well-appearing and
|
|
susceptible of improvement. The owner claimed the business to be
|
|
excellent, and it certainly looked so.
|
|
|
|
"We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood.
|
|
"Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. No
|
|
bums. We don't allow 'em in the place."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the
|
|
trade for a while.
|
|
|
|
"It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor
|
|
trade," said the owner. "This is only one of the two places I have.
|
|
The other is down in Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone.
|
|
If I had some one who knew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mind
|
|
sharing with him in this one and letting him manage it."
|
|
|
|
"I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt
|
|
a little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor.
|
|
|
|
He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and
|
|
good-will, and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial
|
|
ability on the part of the one who should come in. There was no
|
|
property involved, because the owner of the saloon merely rented
|
|
from an estate.
|
|
|
|
The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwood
|
|
whether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one
|
|
hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in
|
|
order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. It
|
|
was not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted,
|
|
to hesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month
|
|
now. By judicious management and improvement, it might be made to
|
|
pay more. Accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made
|
|
over his thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day.
|
|
|
|
His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie
|
|
that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however,
|
|
introduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be very
|
|
disagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him
|
|
surly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to in
|
|
business. Besides, the business varied. It was nothing like the
|
|
class of patronage which he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that it
|
|
would take a long time to make friends. These people hurried in and
|
|
out without seeking the pleasures of friendship. It was no gathering
|
|
or lounging place. Whole days and weeks passed, without one such
|
|
hearty greeting as he had been wont to enjoy every day in Chicago.
|
|
|
|
For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities- those
|
|
well-dressed, elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars and
|
|
bring news from far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one such
|
|
in a month. Evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally
|
|
read in the evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he
|
|
knew- whom he had drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit a
|
|
bar like Fitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House,
|
|
uptown, but he knew that he would never see them down here.
|
|
|
|
Again, the business did not pay as well as he thought. It
|
|
increased a little, but he found he would have to watch his
|
|
household expenses, which was humiliating.
|
|
|
|
In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night,
|
|
as he did, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinner
|
|
with her between six and seven, and to remain home until nine
|
|
o'clock in the morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time,
|
|
and he began to feel the drag of his duties.
|
|
|
|
The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very
|
|
natural way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress."
|
|
|
|
"What kind?" said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, something for street wear."
|
|
|
|
"All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that
|
|
it would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothing
|
|
was said about it the next day, but the following morning he asked:
|
|
|
|
"Have you done anything about your dress?"
|
|
|
|
"Not yet," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:
|
|
|
|
"Would you mind putting it off a few days?"
|
|
|
|
"No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks.
|
|
She had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before.
|
|
"Why?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood. "This investment of mine is
|
|
taking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly,
|
|
but just at present I am running close."
|
|
|
|
"Oh!" answered Carrie. "Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell me
|
|
before?"
|
|
|
|
"It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way
|
|
Hurstwood spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal
|
|
which he was always about to put through. It was only the thought of a
|
|
second, but it was a beginning. It was something new in her thinking
|
|
of Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
Other things followed from time to time, little things of the same
|
|
sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full
|
|
revelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannot
|
|
long dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another.
|
|
The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether
|
|
he voluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air and
|
|
contributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed as
|
|
nicely as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada.
|
|
Carrie noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his
|
|
own was anything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggest
|
|
many amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about
|
|
his business. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago- not the
|
|
liberal, opulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obvious
|
|
to escape detection.
|
|
|
|
In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she
|
|
was not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his own
|
|
counsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things.
|
|
This is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seem
|
|
reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where great
|
|
love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is
|
|
reached.
|
|
|
|
As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the
|
|
difficulties of a changed condition. He was too shrewd not to
|
|
realise the tremendous mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had
|
|
done well in getting where he was, and yet he could not help
|
|
contrasting his present state with his former, hour after hour, and
|
|
day after day.
|
|
|
|
Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends,
|
|
ever since one such encounter which he made shortly after his
|
|
arrival in the city. It was in Broadway that he saw a man
|
|
approaching him whom he knew. There was no time for simulating
|
|
non-recognition. The exchange of glances had been too sharp, the
|
|
knowledge of each other too apparent. So the friend, a buyer for one
|
|
of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt, perforce, the necessity of
|
|
stopping.
|
|
|
|
"How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture
|
|
of feeling and a lack of plausible interest.
|
|
|
|
"Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "How is it with
|
|
you?"
|
|
|
|
"All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you located
|
|
here now?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street."
|
|
|
|
"Is that so?" said the friend. "Glad to hear it. I'll come down
|
|
and see you."
|
|
|
|
"Do," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on.
|
|
|
|
"He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn't
|
|
think of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and
|
|
hoped sincerely he would meet no one else.
|
|
|
|
These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hope
|
|
was that things would change for the better in a money way. He had
|
|
Carrie. His furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining his
|
|
position. As for Carrie, the amusements he could give her would have
|
|
to do for the present. He could probably keep up his pretensions
|
|
sufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would be
|
|
well. He failed therein to take account of the frailties of human
|
|
nature- the difficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. With
|
|
him and with her varying mental states were common. At any moment
|
|
the extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table.
|
|
This often happens in the best regulated families. Little things
|
|
brought out on such occasions need great love to obliterate them
|
|
afterward. Where that is not, both parties count two and two and
|
|
make a problem after a while.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXI.
|
|
|
|
A PET OF GOOD FORTUNE: BROADWAY FLAUNTS ITS JOYS
|
|
|
|
The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was
|
|
paralleled in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things fortune
|
|
provided with the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her first
|
|
expression of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Its
|
|
clear atmosphere, more populous thoroughfares, and peculiar
|
|
indifference struck her forcibly. She had never seen such a little
|
|
flat as hers, and yet it soon enlisted her affection. The new
|
|
furniture made an excellent showing, the sideboard which Hurstwood
|
|
himself arranged gleamed brightly. The furniture for each room was
|
|
appropriate, and in the so-called parlour, or front room, was
|
|
installed a piano, because Carrie said she would like to learn to
|
|
play. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household tactics
|
|
and information. For the first time in her life she felt settled,
|
|
and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived of
|
|
it. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long while
|
|
she concerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and
|
|
wondered at ten families living in one building and all remaining
|
|
strange and indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the
|
|
whistles of the hundreds of vessels in the harbour- the long, low
|
|
cries of the Sound steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The
|
|
mere fact that these things spoke from the sea made them wonderful.
|
|
She looked much at what she could see of the Hudson from her west
|
|
windows and of the great city building up rapidly on either hand. It
|
|
was much to ponder over, and sufficed to entertain her for more than a
|
|
year without becoming stale.
|
|
|
|
For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his
|
|
affection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his
|
|
difficulties to her. He carried himself with the same self-important
|
|
air, took his new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in
|
|
Carrie's proclivities and successes. Each evening he arrived
|
|
promptly to dinner, and found the little dining-room a most inviting
|
|
spectacle. In a way, the smallness of the room added to its luxury. It
|
|
looked full and replete. The white-covered table was arrayed with
|
|
pretty dishes and lighted with a four-armed candelabra, each light
|
|
of which was topped with a red shade. Between Carrie and the girl
|
|
the steaks and chops came out all right, and canned goods did the rest
|
|
for a while. Carrie studied the art of making biscuit, and soon
|
|
reached the stage where she could show a plate of light, palatable
|
|
morsels for her labour.
|
|
|
|
In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Winter
|
|
came, and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the
|
|
attending of theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made great
|
|
efforts to meet all expenditures without a show of feeling one way
|
|
or the other. He pretended that he was reinvesting his money in
|
|
strengthening the business for greater ends in the future. He
|
|
contented himself with a very moderate allowance of personal
|
|
apparel, and rarely suggested anything for Carrie. Thus the first
|
|
winter passed.
|
|
|
|
In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did
|
|
increase somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month which
|
|
he had anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reached
|
|
certain conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances.
|
|
|
|
Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and
|
|
aggressive nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemed
|
|
satisfactory enough. Once in a while they would go to a theatre
|
|
together, occasionally in season to the beaches and different points
|
|
about the city, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwood
|
|
naturally abandoned his show of fine manners with her and modified his
|
|
attitude to one of easy familiarity. There were no
|
|
misunderstandings, no apparent differences of opinion. In fact,
|
|
without money or visiting friends, he led a life which could neither
|
|
arouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie rather sympathised with his
|
|
efforts and thought nothing upon her lack of entertainment such as she
|
|
had enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a corporate entity and her flat
|
|
temporarily seemed sufficient.
|
|
|
|
However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began
|
|
to pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes.
|
|
He convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him,
|
|
but allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. The
|
|
first time he did this he sent a message saying that he would be
|
|
detained. Carrie ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again.
|
|
The second time, also, he sent word, but at the last moment. The third
|
|
time he forgot entirely and explained afterwards. These events were
|
|
months apart, each.
|
|
|
|
"Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence.
|
|
|
|
"Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some accounts
|
|
I had to straighten."
|
|
|
|
"I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was fixing to
|
|
have such a nice dinner."
|
|
|
|
The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the
|
|
feeling about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the
|
|
ordinary.
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the
|
|
evening, "I was so busy."
|
|
|
|
"Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too
|
|
late to do any good."
|
|
|
|
"And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began to
|
|
imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. He
|
|
really thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was
|
|
finding its natural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding the
|
|
fact that he had observed her act in Chicago, and that during the past
|
|
year he had only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him
|
|
by conditions which he made, and that she had not gained any friends
|
|
or associates, he drew this peculiar conclusion. With it came a
|
|
feeling of satisfaction in having a wife who could thus be content,
|
|
and this satisfaction worked its natural result. That is, since he
|
|
imagined he saw her satisfied, he felt called upon to give only that
|
|
which contributed to such satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the
|
|
decorations, the food, and the necessary clothing. Thoughts of
|
|
entertaining her, leading her out into the shine and show of life,
|
|
grew less and less. He felt attracted to the outer world, but did
|
|
not think she would care to go along. Once he went to the theatre
|
|
alone. Another time he joined a couple of his new friends at an
|
|
evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were beginning to grow
|
|
again he felt like sprucing about. All this, however, in a much less
|
|
imposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He avoided the gay
|
|
places where he would be apt to meet those who had known him.
|
|
|
|
Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was
|
|
not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving
|
|
him greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact,
|
|
she was not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid
|
|
manner, when he should have duly considered it. When he did not come
|
|
home it did not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave
|
|
him credit for having the usual allurements of men- people to talk to,
|
|
places to stop, friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing
|
|
that he should enjoy himself in his way, but she did not care to be
|
|
neglected herself. Her state still seemed fairly reasonable,
|
|
however. All she did observe was that Hurstwood was somewhat
|
|
different.
|
|
|
|
Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth
|
|
Street the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it
|
|
moved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom
|
|
Carrie afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely
|
|
by the arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it
|
|
were, by the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel,
|
|
groceries, and the like were sent up from the basement, and garbage
|
|
and waste sent down, was used by both residents on one floor; that is,
|
|
a small door opened into it from each flat.
|
|
|
|
If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the
|
|
janitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when they
|
|
opened the dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to
|
|
remove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps
|
|
twenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose. She was in
|
|
a night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much tousled, but
|
|
she looked so pretty and good-natured that Carrie instantly
|
|
conceived a liking for her. The newcomer did no more than smile
|
|
shamefacedly, but it was sufficient. Carrie felt that she would like
|
|
to know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the mind of the other,
|
|
who admired Carrie's innocent face.
|
|
|
|
"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrie
|
|
to Hurstwood at the breakfast table.
|
|
|
|
"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Some
|
|
one over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next
|
|
to in this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary
|
|
New York opinion about neighbours.
|
|
|
|
"Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine
|
|
other families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These people
|
|
have been here over a month, and I haven't seen any one before this
|
|
morning."
|
|
|
|
"It's just as well," said Hurstwood. "You never know who you're
|
|
going to get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company."
|
|
|
|
"I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably.
|
|
|
|
The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no
|
|
more upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to
|
|
market, she encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised
|
|
her and nodded, for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the
|
|
probability of acquaintanceship. If there had been no faint
|
|
recognition on this occasion, there would have been no future
|
|
association.
|
|
|
|
Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard
|
|
her play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the
|
|
flats, and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the
|
|
brilliance of their rendition. She could play only moderately herself,
|
|
and such variety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, upon
|
|
the verge of great art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far-
|
|
the merest scraps and shadows- indicated that these people were, in
|
|
a measure, refined and in comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was
|
|
ready for any extension of the friendship which might follow.
|
|
|
|
One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the
|
|
kitchen, pressed the button which caused the front door of the general
|
|
entrance on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carrie
|
|
waited at her own door on the third floor to see who it might be
|
|
coming up to call on her, Mrs. Vance appeared.
|
|
|
|
"I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago and
|
|
forgot my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell."
|
|
|
|
This was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever
|
|
they had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise for
|
|
it, however.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same thing
|
|
sometimes."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for a
|
|
moment.
|
|
|
|
Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was
|
|
well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeable
|
|
companion.
|
|
|
|
On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both
|
|
flats were good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended
|
|
somewhat more to the luxurious.
|
|
|
|
"I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said
|
|
Mrs. Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to meet
|
|
you. You play cards, don't you?"
|
|
|
|
"A little," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home
|
|
bring him over."
|
|
|
|
"He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, when he does come we'll call him in."
|
|
|
|
Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an
|
|
individual a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his
|
|
seemingly comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to
|
|
his good looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance and
|
|
laid himself out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and
|
|
talking to her about New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance played
|
|
some upon the piano, and at last Hurstwood came.
|
|
|
|
"I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie
|
|
introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated
|
|
Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance, extending
|
|
his hand upon introduction.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," said
|
|
Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie saw
|
|
again what she for some time had sub-consciously missed in
|
|
Hurstwood- the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. She
|
|
also saw that she was not well dressed- not nearly as well dressed- as
|
|
Mrs. Vance. These were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation was
|
|
cleared up for her. She felt that her life was becoming stale, and
|
|
therein she felt cause for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholy
|
|
was restored. The desirous Carrie was whispered to concerning her
|
|
possibilities.
|
|
|
|
There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had
|
|
little power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable
|
|
of getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily
|
|
borne along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of the
|
|
marked contrasts which Carrie had observed. He did not even detect the
|
|
shade of melancholy which settled in her eyes. Worst of all, she now
|
|
began to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company of
|
|
Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly.
|
|
|
|
"Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who had
|
|
stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft
|
|
pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and
|
|
Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before.
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and
|
|
well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked as
|
|
though she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "What
|
|
shall we see?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do think
|
|
he is the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play."
|
|
|
|
"What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Let's go at one and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth
|
|
Street," said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's at
|
|
the Madison Square."
|
|
|
|
"I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay for
|
|
seats?"
|
|
|
|
"Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance.
|
|
|
|
The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly
|
|
arrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match.
|
|
Carrie had gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman
|
|
pained her by contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little
|
|
things which Carrie had not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegant
|
|
green leather purse set with her initials, a fancy handkerchief,
|
|
exceedingly rich in design, and the like. Carrie felt that she
|
|
needed more and better clothes to compare with this woman, and that
|
|
any one looking at the two would pick Mrs. Vance for her raiment
|
|
alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust thought, for Carrie had
|
|
now developed an equally pleasing figure, and had grown in
|
|
comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of her colour of
|
|
beauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the two, both
|
|
of quality and age, but this difference was not especially noticeable.
|
|
It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with her
|
|
state.
|
|
|
|
The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable
|
|
features of the city. There gathered, before the matinee and
|
|
afterwards, not only all the pretty women who love a showy parade, but
|
|
the men who love to gaze upon and admire them. It was a very
|
|
imposing procession of pretty faces and fine clothes. Women appeared
|
|
in their very best hats, shoes, and gloves, and walked arm in arm on
|
|
their way to the fine shops or theatres strung along from Fourteenth
|
|
to Thirty-fourth streets. Equally the men paraded with the very latest
|
|
they could afford. A tailor might have secured hints on suit
|
|
measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and colours, a hatter on
|
|
hats. It was literally true that if a lover of fine clothes secured
|
|
a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on Broadway. So
|
|
true and well understood was this fact, that several years later a
|
|
popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the
|
|
afternoon parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on
|
|
Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the
|
|
music-halls of the city.
|
|
|
|
In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy
|
|
parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. On
|
|
the other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not only
|
|
knew of it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely
|
|
to see and be seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any
|
|
tendency to fall short in dressiness by contrasting herself with the
|
|
beauty and fashion of the town.
|
|
|
|
Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car
|
|
at Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely
|
|
company which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She
|
|
noticed suddenly that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under
|
|
the gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances
|
|
were not modified by any rules of propriety. To stare seemed the
|
|
proper and natural thing. Carrie found herself stared at and ogled.
|
|
Men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and silver-headed walking sticks
|
|
elbowed near and looked too often into conscious eyes. Ladies
|
|
rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding affected smiles and
|
|
perfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling of goodness and
|
|
the heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered cheeks and lips,
|
|
the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous eye, were common
|
|
enough. With a start she awoke to find that she was in fashion's
|
|
crowd, on parade in a show place- and such a show place! Jewellers'
|
|
windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency. Florist
|
|
shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners- all followed in rapid
|
|
succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen in immense
|
|
coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of expensive
|
|
salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue jackets
|
|
waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were
|
|
shopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show,
|
|
and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life of
|
|
her, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in her
|
|
beauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must be
|
|
evident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two.
|
|
It cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here
|
|
again until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the
|
|
delight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXII.
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|
|
THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR: A SEER TO TRANSLATE
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|
|
Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in an
|
|
exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the
|
|
play. The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his
|
|
popularity by presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which
|
|
sufficient sorrow was introduced to lend contrast and relief to
|
|
humour. For Carrie, as we well know, the stage had a great attraction.
|
|
She had never forgotten her one histrionic achievement in Chicago.
|
|
It dwelt in her mind and occupied her consciousness during many long
|
|
afternoons in which her rocking-chair and her latest novel contributed
|
|
the only pleasures of her state. Never could she witness a play
|
|
without having her own ability vividly brought to consciousness.
|
|
Some scenes made her long to be a part of them- to give expression
|
|
to the feelings which she, in the place of the character
|
|
represented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vivid
|
|
imaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. She
|
|
lived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her
|
|
daily life.
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|
|
|
It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's
|
|
core by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singing
|
|
in her heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen.
|
|
Oh, these women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong,
|
|
who were they? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the
|
|
astonishingly coloured buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold?
|
|
Where were these lovely creatures housed? Amid what elegancies of
|
|
carved furniture, decorated walls, elaborate tapestries did they move?
|
|
Where were their rich apartments, loaded with all that money could
|
|
provide? In what stables champed these sleek, nervous horses and
|
|
rested the gorgeous carriages? Where lounged the richly groomed
|
|
footmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights, the perfume, the loaded
|
|
boudoirs and tables! New York must be filled with such bowers, or
|
|
the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures could not be. Some
|
|
hot-houses held them. It ached her to know that she was not one of
|
|
them- that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not come true.
|
|
She wondered at her own solitude these two years past- her
|
|
indifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had
|
|
expected.
|
|
|
|
The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which
|
|
charmingly overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love
|
|
and jealousy amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticing
|
|
to those who have all their days longed for such material surroundings
|
|
and have never had them gratified. They have the charm of showing
|
|
suffering under ideal conditions. Who would not grieve upon a gilded
|
|
chair? Who would not suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned
|
|
furniture, and liveried servants? Grief under such circumstances
|
|
becomes an enticing thing. Carrie longed to be of it. She wanted to
|
|
take her sufferings, whatever they were, in such a world, or failing
|
|
that, at least to simulate them under such charming conditions upon
|
|
the stage. So affected was her mind by what she had seen, that the
|
|
play now seemed an extraordinarily beautiful thing. She was soon
|
|
lost in the world it represented, and wished that she might never
|
|
return. Between the acts she studied the galaxy of matinee
|
|
attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a new idea of the
|
|
possibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen it all-
|
|
that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight.
|
|
|
|
Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The
|
|
scene she had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its
|
|
height. Such a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. It
|
|
clinched her convictions concerning her state. She had not lived,
|
|
could not lay claim to having lived, until something of this had
|
|
come into her own life. Women were spending money like water; she
|
|
could see that in every elegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy,
|
|
jewelry, seemed the principal things in which the elegant dames were
|
|
interested. And she had scarcely enough pin money to indulge in such
|
|
outings as this a few times a month.
|
|
|
|
That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It was
|
|
not what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servant
|
|
working at dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were running
|
|
scenes of the play. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress-
|
|
the sweetheart who had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman had
|
|
won Carrie's heart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest,
|
|
her sufferings had been so real. The anguish which she had portrayed
|
|
Carrie could feel. It was done as she was sure she could do it.
|
|
There were places in which she could even do better. Hence she
|
|
repeated the lines to herself. Oh, if she could only have such a part,
|
|
how broad would be her life! She, too, could act appealingly.
|
|
|
|
When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking
|
|
and thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations
|
|
broken in upon; so she said little or nothing.
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time, noticing
|
|
her quiet, almost moody state.
|
|
|
|
"Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well to-night."
|
|
|
|
"Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very good."
|
|
|
|
"That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest
|
|
after his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a show
|
|
to-night."
|
|
|
|
"I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions
|
|
should have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "I've
|
|
been to the matinee this afternoon."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?"
|
|
|
|
"A Gold Mine."
|
|
|
|
"How was it?"
|
|
|
|
"Pretty good," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"And you don't want to go again to-night?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't think I do," she said.
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the
|
|
dinner table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach
|
|
does wonders. She went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered
|
|
her equanimity. The great awakening blow had, however, been delivered.
|
|
As often as she might recover from these discontented thoughts now,
|
|
they would occur again. Time and repetition- ah, the wonder of it! The
|
|
dropping water and the solid stone- how utterly it yields at last!
|
|
|
|
Not long after this matinee experience- perhaps a month- Mrs.
|
|
Vance invited Carrie to an evening at the theater with them. She heard
|
|
Carrie say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We're
|
|
going down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Come
|
|
along with us."
|
|
|
|
"I think I will," answered Carrie.
|
|
|
|
She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past
|
|
five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's for
|
|
position in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence of
|
|
her association with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly had
|
|
her attention called by the latter to novelties in everything which
|
|
pertains to a woman's apparel.
|
|
|
|
"Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen the
|
|
new gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases out
|
|
of a large selection.
|
|
|
|
"The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance,
|
|
"get button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all the
|
|
rage this fall."
|
|
|
|
"I will," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They
|
|
have some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know would
|
|
look stunning on you. I said so when I saw it."
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they
|
|
were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common
|
|
between pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-nature
|
|
so well that she really took pleasure in suggesting to her the
|
|
latest things.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're
|
|
selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're the circular
|
|
style, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one would
|
|
look so nice on you."
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up
|
|
between her and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest one
|
|
thing and another, which Hurstwood agreed to without any expression of
|
|
opinion. He noticed the new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally,
|
|
hearing much of Mrs. Vance and her delightful ways, suspected whence
|
|
the change came. He was not inclined to offer the slightest
|
|
objection so soon, but he felt that Carrie's wants were expanding.
|
|
This did not appeal to him exactly, but he cared for her in his own
|
|
way, and so the thing stood. Still, there was something in the details
|
|
of the transactions which caused Carrie to feel that her requests were
|
|
not a delight to him. He did not enthuse over the purchases. This
|
|
led her to believe that neglect was creeping in, and so another
|
|
small wedge was entered.
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was the
|
|
fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her own
|
|
satisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in the
|
|
thought that if she must confine herself to a best, it was neat and
|
|
fitting. She looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs.
|
|
Vance praised her, which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a
|
|
noticeable brightness into her large eyes. It was threatening rain,
|
|
and Mr. Vance, at his wife's request, had called a coach.
|
|
|
|
"Your husband isn't coming?" suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carrie
|
|
in his little parlour.
|
|
|
|
"No, he said he wouldn't be home for dinner."
|
|
|
|
"Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. He
|
|
might turn up."
|
|
|
|
"I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.
|
|
|
|
"Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows,
|
|
though, I guess."
|
|
|
|
Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note,
|
|
gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat.
|
|
|
|
"Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said
|
|
Mrs. Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?"
|
|
|
|
"I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie.
|
|
|
|
The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart
|
|
figure. She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking,
|
|
and young, but nothing more.
|
|
|
|
"Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance,
|
|
"and we're trying to show him around a little."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer.
|
|
|
|
"Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said
|
|
young Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while
|
|
Mrs. Vance completed the last touches of her toilet.
|
|
|
|
"I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said
|
|
Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.
|
|
|
|
"It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames,
|
|
pleasantly.
|
|
|
|
He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free
|
|
of affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcoming
|
|
the last traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt at
|
|
conversation, but he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly
|
|
courageous. Carrie felt as if it were not going to be hard to talk
|
|
to him.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside."
|
|
|
|
"Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob,
|
|
you'll have to look after Mrs. Wheeler."
|
|
|
|
"I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. "You
|
|
won't need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort of
|
|
ingratiating and help-me-out kind of way.
|
|
|
|
"Not very, I hope," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and
|
|
climbed into the open coach.
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance
|
|
rolled away.
|
|
|
|
"What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames.
|
|
|
|
"Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest man."
|
|
|
|
"I notice the papers praise it," said Ames.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very
|
|
much."
|
|
|
|
Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it
|
|
his bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to
|
|
find her so young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a
|
|
respectful interest. There was nothing of the dashing lady's man about
|
|
him. He had respect for the married state, and thought only of some
|
|
pretty marriageable girls in Indianapolis.
|
|
|
|
"Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no; I've only been here for two years."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow."
|
|
|
|
"I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange to
|
|
me as when I first came here."
|
|
|
|
"You're not from the West, are you?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here
|
|
so very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who are
|
|
here."
|
|
|
|
"What is your line?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth.
|
|
|
|
Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional
|
|
interruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general and
|
|
partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached.
|
|
|
|
Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking
|
|
in the streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous,
|
|
pedestrians many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were
|
|
crowded. At Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights from
|
|
several new hotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestion
|
|
of sumptuous hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, was
|
|
noticeably crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress.
|
|
At Sherry's an imposing doorman opened the coach door and helped
|
|
them out. Young Ames held Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the
|
|
steps. They entered the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then,
|
|
after divesting themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous
|
|
dining-room.
|
|
|
|
In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. In
|
|
the whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state had
|
|
not permitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almost
|
|
indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that
|
|
this was the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter of
|
|
expense limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class.
|
|
Carrie had read of it often in the "Morning" and "Evening World."
|
|
She had seen notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at
|
|
Sherry's. The Misses So-and-so would give a party on Wednesday evening
|
|
at Sherry's. Young Mr. So-and-so would entertain a party of friends at
|
|
a private luncheon on the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of
|
|
conventional, perfunctory notices of the doings of society, which
|
|
she could scarcely refrain from scanning each day, had given her a
|
|
distinct idea of the gorgeousness and luxury of this wonderful
|
|
temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was really in it. She had come
|
|
up the imposing steps, guarded by the large and portly doorman. She
|
|
had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and portly gentleman, and
|
|
been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care of canes,
|
|
overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber, all
|
|
decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was Mrs.
|
|
Vance; young, beautiful, and well off- at least, sufficiently so to
|
|
come here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.
|
|
|
|
Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were
|
|
seated parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance
|
|
and dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the
|
|
novitiate. Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow in
|
|
polished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the walls, combined
|
|
into one tone of light which it requires minutes of complacent
|
|
observation to separate and take particular note of. The white shirt
|
|
fronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of the ladies,
|
|
diamonds, jewels, fine feathers- all were exceedingly noticeable.
|
|
|
|
Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and
|
|
accepted the seat which the head waiter provided for her. She was
|
|
keenly aware of all the little things that were done- the little
|
|
genuflections and attentions of the waiters and head waiter which
|
|
Americans pay for. The air with which the latter pulled out each
|
|
chair, and the wave of the hand with which he motioned them to be
|
|
seated, were worth several dollars in themselves.
|
|
|
|
Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
|
|
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the
|
|
wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over.
|
|
The large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an
|
|
army, sidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure a
|
|
ridiculous impossibility- an order of soup a fifty cents or a
|
|
dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and
|
|
at sixty cents the half-dozen; entrees, fish, and meats at prices
|
|
which would house one over night in an average hotel. One dollar fifty
|
|
and two dollars seemed to be the most common figures upon this most
|
|
tastefully printed bill of fare.
|
|
|
|
Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring
|
|
chicken carried her back to that other bill of fare and far
|
|
different occasion when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet in
|
|
a good restaurant in Chicago. It was only momentary- a sad note as out
|
|
of an old song- and then it was gone. But in that flash was seen the
|
|
other Carrie- poor, hungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and all
|
|
Chicago a cold and closed world, from which she only wandered
|
|
because she could not find work.
|
|
|
|
On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg
|
|
blue, set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate
|
|
mouldings of fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic
|
|
comfort. On the ceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt,
|
|
leading to a centre where spread a cluster of lights- incandescent
|
|
globes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. The
|
|
floor was of a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every direction
|
|
were mirrors- tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors- reflecting and
|
|
re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred
|
|
times.
|
|
|
|
The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint
|
|
of Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware,
|
|
the name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the
|
|
small, red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on
|
|
garments and faces, made them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an
|
|
air of exclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed,
|
|
scraped, touched, and trifled with things. The exclusively personal
|
|
attention which he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to one
|
|
side, elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup- green turtle, yes. One portion,
|
|
yes. Oysters- certainly- half-dozen- yes. Asparagus. Olives- yes."
|
|
|
|
It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order
|
|
for all, inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the
|
|
company with open eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so
|
|
that the rich spent their days and evenings. Her poor little mind
|
|
could not rise above applying each scene to all society. Every fine
|
|
lady must be in the crowd on Broadway in the afternoon, in the theatre
|
|
at the matinee, in the coaches and dining-halls at night. It must be
|
|
glow and shine everywhere, with coaches waiting, and footmen
|
|
attending, and she was out of it all. In two long years she had
|
|
never even been in such a place as this.
|
|
|
|
Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in
|
|
former days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side
|
|
dishes, and had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down
|
|
beside the table in a wicker basket.
|
|
|
|
Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an
|
|
interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose
|
|
rather large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a
|
|
good, wide, well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted
|
|
slightly on one side. He seemed to have the least touch of
|
|
boyishness to Carrie, and yet he was a man full grown.
|
|
|
|
"Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his
|
|
reflection, "I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so
|
|
much money this way."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at
|
|
his seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which
|
|
she had never pondered.
|
|
|
|
"Do you?" she answered, interestedly.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are
|
|
worth. They put on so much show."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said
|
|
Mrs. Vance.
|
|
|
|
"It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the
|
|
bill of fare, though he had ordered.
|
|
|
|
Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his
|
|
forehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As
|
|
he studied the crowd his eye was mild.
|
|
|
|
"Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to
|
|
Carrie, and nodding in a direction.
|
|
|
|
"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.
|
|
|
|
"Over there in the corner- way over. Do you see that brooch?"
|
|
|
|
"Isn't it large?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames.
|
|
|
|
"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to
|
|
be agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or
|
|
perhaps preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was
|
|
better educated than she was- that his mind was better. He seemed to
|
|
look it, and the saving grace in Carrie was that she could
|
|
understand that people could be wiser. She had seen a number of people
|
|
in her life who reminded her of what she had vaguely come to think
|
|
of as scholars. This strong young man beside her, with his clear,
|
|
natural look, seemed to get a hold of things which she did not quite
|
|
understand, but approved of. It was fine to be so, as a man, she
|
|
thought.
|
|
|
|
The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at
|
|
the time- "Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it.
|
|
Vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers.
|
|
|
|
"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I
|
|
notice this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking
|
|
at Carrie as he spoke.
|
|
|
|
"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This
|
|
last story is pretty good."
|
|
|
|
"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.
|
|
|
|
Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.
|
|
|
|
"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.
|
|
|
|
Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or
|
|
had a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she
|
|
supposed that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed,
|
|
fine-headed youth, who looked something like a student to her, made
|
|
fun of it. It was poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, and
|
|
for the first time felt the pain of not understanding.
|
|
|
|
Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames
|
|
spoke. He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just
|
|
kindly thought of a high order- the right thing to think, and wondered
|
|
what else was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that she
|
|
listened and rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talked
|
|
mostly to her.
|
|
|
|
As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if
|
|
they were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those
|
|
little attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the
|
|
situation upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and
|
|
told her of Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a very
|
|
bright mind, which was finding its chief development in electrical
|
|
knowledge. His sympathies for other forms of information, however, and
|
|
for types of people, were quick and warm. The red glow on his head
|
|
gave it a sandy tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrie
|
|
noticed all these things as he leaned toward her and felt
|
|
exceedingly young. This man was far ahead of her. He seemed wiser than
|
|
Hurstwood, saner and brighter than Drouet. He seemed innocent and
|
|
clean, and she thought that he was exceedingly pleasant. She
|
|
noticed, also, that his interest in her was a far-off one. She was not
|
|
in his life, nor any of the things that touched his life, and yet now,
|
|
as he spoke of these things, they appealed to her.
|
|
|
|
"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner
|
|
proceeded and the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich
|
|
enough to spend my money this way."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing
|
|
itself distinctly upon her for the first time.
|
|
|
|
"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this
|
|
sort of thing to be happy."
|
|
|
|
Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had
|
|
weight with her.
|
|
|
|
"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone.
|
|
He's so strong."
|
|
|
|
Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and
|
|
these impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were
|
|
sufficient, however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth
|
|
impressed itself upon Carrie without words. There was something in
|
|
him, or the world he moved in, which appealed to her. He reminded
|
|
her of scenes she had seen on the stage- the sorrows and sacrifices
|
|
that always went with she knew not what. He had taken away some of the
|
|
bitterness of the contrast between this life and her life, and all
|
|
by a certain calm indifference which concerned only him.
|
|
|
|
As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and
|
|
then they were off again, and so to the show.
|
|
|
|
During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very
|
|
attentively. He mentioned things in the play which she most approved
|
|
of- things which swayed her deeply.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great
|
|
thing."
|
|
|
|
Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she
|
|
could only be an actress- a good one! This man was wise- he knew-
|
|
and he approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he
|
|
would approve of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had,
|
|
although it did not concern her at all. She did not know why she
|
|
felt this way.
|
|
|
|
At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going
|
|
back with them.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third
|
|
Street."
|
|
|
|
Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development
|
|
shocked her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening,
|
|
but she had thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours,
|
|
the minutes of the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into
|
|
them!
|
|
|
|
She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it
|
|
make? Still, the coach seemed lorn.
|
|
|
|
When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did
|
|
not know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference
|
|
could it make- what difference could it make?
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were
|
|
scattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then
|
|
retreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think.
|
|
It was disagreeable to her.
|
|
|
|
Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her
|
|
little hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of
|
|
longing and conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye
|
|
legions of hope and pity- of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, and
|
|
beginning to see.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXIII.
|
|
|
|
WITHOUT THE WALLED CITY: THE SLOPE OF THE YEARS
|
|
|
|
The immediate result of this was nothing. Results from such things
|
|
are usually long in growing. Morning brings a change of feeling. The
|
|
existent condition invariably pleads for itself. It is only at odd
|
|
moments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. The heart
|
|
understands when it is confronted with contrasts. Take them away and
|
|
the ache subsides.
|
|
|
|
Carrie went on, leading much this same life for six months
|
|
thereafter or more. She did not see Ames any more. He called once upon
|
|
the Vances, but she only heard about it through the young wife. Then
|
|
he went West, and there was a gradual subsidence of whatever
|
|
personal attraction had existed. The mental effect of the thing had
|
|
not gone, however, and never would entirely. She had an ideal to
|
|
contrast men by- particularly men close to her.
|
|
|
|
During all this time- a period rapidly approaching three years-
|
|
Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. There was no apparent
|
|
slope downward, and 'distinctly none upward, so far as the casual
|
|
observer might have seen. But psychologically there was a change,
|
|
which was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctly
|
|
indeed. This was in the mere matter of the halt his career had
|
|
received when he departed from Chicago. A man's fortune or material
|
|
progress is very much the same as his bodily growth. Either he is
|
|
growing stronger, healthier, wiser, as the youth approaching
|
|
manhood, or he is growing weaker, older, less incisive mentally, as
|
|
the man approaching old age. There are no other states. Frequently
|
|
there is a period between the cessation of youthful accretion and
|
|
the setting in, in the case of the middle-aged man, of the tendency
|
|
toward decay when the two processes are almost perfectly balanced
|
|
and there is little doing in either direction. Given time enough,
|
|
however, the balance becomes a sagging to the grave side. Slowly at
|
|
first, then with a modest momentum, and at last the graveward
|
|
process is in the full swing. So it is frequently with man's
|
|
fortune. If its process of accretion is never halted, if the balancing
|
|
stage is never reached, there will be no toppling. Rich men are,
|
|
frequently, in these days, saved from this dissolution of their
|
|
fortune by their ability to hire younger brains. These younger
|
|
brains look upon the interests of the fortune as their own, and so
|
|
steady and direct its progress. If each individual were left
|
|
absolutely to the care of his own interests, and were given time
|
|
enough in which to grow exceedingly old, his fortune would pass as his
|
|
strength and will. He and his would be utterly dissolved and scattered
|
|
unto the four winds of the heavens.
|
|
|
|
But now see wherein the parallel changes. A fortune, like a man,
|
|
is an organism which draws to itself other minds and other strength
|
|
than that inherent in the founder. Beside the young minds drawn to
|
|
it by salaries, it becomes allied with young forces, which make for
|
|
its existence even when the strength and wisdom of the founder are
|
|
fading. It may be conserved by the growth of a community or of a
|
|
state. It may be involved in providing something for which there is
|
|
a growing demand. This removes it at once beyond the special care of
|
|
the founder. It needs not so much foresight now as direction. The
|
|
man wanes, the need continues or grows, and the fortune, fallen into
|
|
whose hands it may, continues. Hence, some men never recognise the
|
|
turning in the tide of their abilities. It is only in chance cases,
|
|
where a fortune or a state of success is wrested from them, that the
|
|
lack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes apparent.
|
|
Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to see
|
|
that he was no longer young. If he did not, it was due wholly to the
|
|
fact that his state was so well balanced that an absolute change for
|
|
the worse did not show.
|
|
|
|
Not trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analyse
|
|
the change that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body,
|
|
but he felt the depression of it. Constant comparison between his
|
|
old state and his new showed a balance for the worse, which produced a
|
|
constant state of gloom or, at least, depression. Now, it has been
|
|
shown experimentally that a constantly subdued frame of mind
|
|
produces certain poisons in the blood, called katastates, just as
|
|
virtuous feelings of pleasure and delight produce helpful chemicals
|
|
called anastates. The poisons generated by remorse inveigh against the
|
|
system, and eventually produce marked physical deterioration. To these
|
|
Hurstwood was subject.
|
|
|
|
In the course of time it told upon his temper. His eye no longer
|
|
possessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterised
|
|
it in Adams Street. His step was not as sharp and firm. He was given
|
|
to thinking, thinking, thinking. The new friends he made were not
|
|
celebrities. They were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual and
|
|
cruder, grade. He could not possibly take the pleasure in this company
|
|
that he had in that of those fine frequenters of the Chicago resort.
|
|
He was left to brood.
|
|
|
|
Slowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, and
|
|
make at home these people who visited the Warren Street place passed
|
|
from him. More and more slowly the significance of the realm he had
|
|
left began to be clear. It did not seem so wonderful to be in it
|
|
when he was in it. It had seemed very easy for any one to get up there
|
|
and have ample raiment and money to spend, but now that he was out
|
|
of it, how far off it became. He began to see as one sees a city
|
|
with a wall about it. Men were posted at the gates. You could not
|
|
get in. Those inside did not care to come out to see who you were.
|
|
They were so merry inside there that all those outside were forgotten,
|
|
and he was on the outside.
|
|
|
|
Each day he could read in the evening papers of the doings within
|
|
this walled city. In the notices of passengers for Europe he read
|
|
the names of eminent frequenters of his old resort. In the
|
|
theatrical column appeared, from time to time, announcements of the
|
|
latest successes of men he had known. He knew that they were at
|
|
their old gayeties. Pullmans were hauling them to and fro about the
|
|
land, papers were greeting them with interesting mentions, the elegant
|
|
lobbies of hotels and the glow of polished dining-rooms were keeping
|
|
them close within the walled city. Men whom he had known, men whom
|
|
he had tipped glasses with- rich men, and he was forgotten! Who was
|
|
Mr. Wheeler? What was the Warren Street resort? Bah!
|
|
|
|
If one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a type
|
|
of mind- that such feelings require a higher mental development- I
|
|
would urge for their consideration the fact that it is the higher
|
|
mental development that does away with such thoughts. It is the higher
|
|
mental development which induces philosophy and that fortitude which
|
|
refuses to dwell upon such things- refuses to be made to suffer by
|
|
their consideration. The common type of mind is exceedingly keen on
|
|
all matters which relate to its physical welfare- exceedingly keen. It
|
|
is the unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of a
|
|
hundred dollars. It is the Epictetus who smiles when the last
|
|
vestige of physical welfare is removed.
|
|
|
|
The time came, in the third year, when this thinking began to
|
|
produce results in the Warren Street place. The tide of patronage
|
|
dropped a little below what it had been at its best since he had
|
|
been there. This irritated and worried him.
|
|
|
|
There came a night when he confessed to Carrie that the business was
|
|
not doing as well this month as it had the month before. This was in
|
|
lieu of certain suggestions she had made concerning little things
|
|
she wanted to buy. She had not failed to notice that he did not seem
|
|
to consult her about buying clothes for himself. For the first time,
|
|
it struck her as a ruse, or that he said it so that she would not
|
|
think of asking for things. Her reply was mild enough, but her
|
|
thoughts were rebellious. He was not looking after her at all. She was
|
|
depending for her enjoyment upon the Vances.
|
|
|
|
And now the latter announced that they were going away. It was
|
|
approaching spring, and they were going North.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Vance to Carrie, "we think we might as well
|
|
give up the flat and store our things. We'll be gone for the summer,
|
|
and it would be a useless expense. I think we'll settle a little
|
|
farther down town when we come back."
|
|
|
|
Carrie heard this with genuine sorrow. She had enjoyed Mrs.
|
|
Vance's companionship so much. There was no one else in the house whom
|
|
she knew. Again she would be all alone.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and the
|
|
departure of the Vances came together. So Carrie had loneliness and
|
|
this mood of her husband to enjoy at the same time. It was a
|
|
grievous thing. She became restless and dissatisfied, not exactly,
|
|
as she thought, with Hurstwood, but with life. What was it? A very
|
|
dull round indeed. What did she have? Nothing but this narrow,
|
|
little flat. The Vances could travel, they could do the things worth
|
|
doing, and here she was. For what was she made, anyhow? More thought
|
|
followed, and then tears- tears seemed justified, and the only
|
|
relief in the world.
|
|
|
|
For another period this state continued, the twain leading a
|
|
rather monotonous life, and then there was a slight change for the
|
|
worse. One evening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modify
|
|
Carrie's desire for clothes and the general strain upon his ability to
|
|
provide, said:
|
|
|
|
"I don't think I'll ever be able to do much with Shaughnessy."
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! He won't agree to anything to
|
|
improve the place, and it won't ever pay without it."
|
|
|
|
"Can't you make him?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"No; I've tried. The only thing I can see, if I want to improve,
|
|
is to get hold of a place of my own."
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, all I have is tied up in there just now. If I had a chance to
|
|
save a while I think I could open a place that would give us plenty of
|
|
money."
|
|
|
|
"Can't we save?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"We might try it," he suggested. "I've been thinking that if we'd
|
|
take a smaller flat down town and live economically for a year, I
|
|
would have enough, with what I have invested, to open a good place.
|
|
Then we could arrange to live as you want to."
|
|
|
|
"It would suit me all right," said Carrie, who, nevertheless, felt
|
|
badly to think it had come to this. Talk of a smaller flat sounded
|
|
like poverty.
|
|
|
|
"There are lots of nice little flats down around Sixth Avenue, below
|
|
Fourteenth Street. We might get one down there."
|
|
|
|
"I'll look at them if you say so," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I think I could break away from this fellow inside of a year," said
|
|
Hurstwood. "Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's going
|
|
on now."
|
|
|
|
"I'll look around," said Carrie, observing that the proposed
|
|
change seemed to be a serious thing with him.
|
|
|
|
The upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected;
|
|
not without great gloom on the part of Carrie. It really affected
|
|
her more seriously than anything that had yet happened. She began to
|
|
look upon Hurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband.
|
|
She felt thoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot was
|
|
cast with his, whatever it might be; but she began to see that he
|
|
was gloomy and taciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man. He
|
|
looked a little bit old to her about the eyes and mouth now, and there
|
|
were other things which placed him in his true rank, so far as her
|
|
estimation was concerned. She began to feel that she had made a
|
|
mistake. Incidentally, she also began to recall the fact that he had
|
|
practically forced her to flee with him.
|
|
|
|
The new flat was located in Thirteenth Street, a half block west
|
|
of Sixth Avenue, and contained only four rooms. The new
|
|
neighbourhood did not appeal to Carrie as much. There were no trees
|
|
here, no west view of the river. The street was solidly built up.
|
|
There were twelve families here, respectable enough, but nothing
|
|
like the Vances. Richer people required more space.
|
|
|
|
Being left alone in this little place, Carrie did without a girl.
|
|
She made it charming enough, but could not make it delight her.
|
|
Hurstwood was not inwardly pleased to think that they should have to
|
|
modify their state, but he argued that he could do nothing. He must
|
|
put the best face on it, and let it go at that.
|
|
|
|
He tried to show Carrie that there was no cause for financial alarm,
|
|
but only congratulation over the chance he would have at the end of
|
|
the year by taking her rather more frequently to the theatre and by
|
|
providing a liberal table. This was for the time only. He was
|
|
getting in the frame of mind where he wanted principally to be alone
|
|
and to be allowed to think. The disease of brooding was beginning to
|
|
claim him as a victim. Only the newspapers and his own thoughts were
|
|
worth while. The delight of love had again slipped away. It was a case
|
|
of live, now, making the best you can out of a very commonplace
|
|
station in life.
|
|
|
|
The road downward has but few landings and level places. The very
|
|
state of his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach to
|
|
widen between him and his partner. At last that individual began to
|
|
wish that Hurstwood was out of it. It so happened, however, that a
|
|
real estate deal on the part of the owner of the land arranged
|
|
things even more effectually than ill-will could have schemed.
|
|
|
|
"Did you see that?" said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood,
|
|
pointing to the real estate column in a copy of the "Herald," which he
|
|
held.
|
|
|
|
"No, what is it?" said Hurstwood, looking down the items of news.
|
|
|
|
"The man who owns this ground has sold it."
|
|
|
|
"You don't say so?" said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
He looked, and there was the notice. Mr. August Viele had
|
|
yesterday registered the transfer of the lot, 25 x 75 feet, at the
|
|
corner of Warren and Hudson streets, to J. F. Slawson for the sum of
|
|
$57,000.
|
|
|
|
"Our lease expires when?" asked Hurstwood, thinking. "Next February,
|
|
isn't it?"
|
|
|
|
"That's right," said Shaughnessy.
|
|
|
|
"It doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it," remarked
|
|
Hurstwood, looking back to the paper.
|
|
|
|
"We'll hear, I guess, soon enough," said Shaughnessy.
|
|
|
|
Sure enough, it did develop. Mr. Slawson owned the property
|
|
adjoining, and was going to put up a modern office building. The
|
|
present one was to be torn down. It would take probably a year and a
|
|
half to complete the other one.
|
|
|
|
All these things developed by degrees, and Hurstwood began to ponder
|
|
over what would become of the saloon. One day he spoke about it to his
|
|
partner.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else in
|
|
the neighbourhood?"
|
|
|
|
"What would be the use?" said Shaughnessy. "We couldn't get
|
|
another corner around here."
|
|
|
|
"It wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?"
|
|
|
|
"I wouldn't try it," said the other.
|
|
|
|
The approaching change now took on a most serious aspect to
|
|
Hurstwood. Dissolution meant the loss of his thousand dollars, and
|
|
he could not save another thousand in the time. He understood that
|
|
Shaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement, and would probably
|
|
lease the new corner, when completed, alone. He began to worry about
|
|
the necessity of a new connection and to see impending serious
|
|
financial straits unless something turned up. This left him in no mood
|
|
to enjoy his flat or Carrie, and consequently the depression invaded
|
|
that quarter.
|
|
|
|
Meanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, but
|
|
opportunities were not numerous. More, he had not the same
|
|
impressive personality which he had when he first came to New York.
|
|
Bad thoughts had put a shade into his eyes which did not impress
|
|
others favourably. Neither had he thirteen hundred dollars in hand
|
|
to talk with. About a month later, finding that he had not made any
|
|
progress, Shaughnessy reported definitely that Slawson would not
|
|
extend the lease.
|
|
|
|
"I guess this thing's got to come to an end," he said, affecting
|
|
an air of concern.
|
|
|
|
"Well, if it has, it has," answered Hurstwood, grimly. He would
|
|
not give the other a key to his opinions, whatever they were. He
|
|
should not have the satisfaction.
|
|
|
|
A day or two later he saw that he must say something to Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"You know," he said, "I think I'm going to get the worst of my
|
|
deal down there."
|
|
|
|
"How is that?" asked Carrie in astonishment.
|
|
|
|
"Well, the man who owns the ground has sold it, and the new owner
|
|
won't re-lease it to us. The business may come to an end."
|
|
|
|
"Can't you start somewhere else?"
|
|
|
|
"There doesn't seem to be any place. Shaughnessy doesn't want to."
|
|
|
|
"Do you lose what you put in?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Hurstwood, whose face was a study.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, isn't that too bad?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"It's a trick," said Hurstwood. "That's all. They'll start another
|
|
place there all right."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour what
|
|
it meant. It was serious, very serious.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think you can get something else?" she ventured, timidly.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood thought a while. It was all up with the bluff about
|
|
money and investment. She could see now that he was "broke."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," he said solemnly; "I can try."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXIV.
|
|
|
|
THE GRIND OF THE MILLSTONES: A SAMPLE OF CHAFF
|
|
|
|
Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood,
|
|
once she got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several days
|
|
for her to fully realise that the approach of the dissolution of her
|
|
husband's business meant commonplace struggle and privation. Her
|
|
mind went back to her early venture in Chicago, the Hansons and
|
|
their flat, and her heart revolted. That was terrible! Everything
|
|
about poverty was terrible. She wished she knew a way out. Her
|
|
recent experiences with the Vances had wholly unfitted her to view her
|
|
own state with complacence. The glamour of the high life of the city
|
|
had, in the few experiences afforded her by the former, seized her
|
|
completely. She had been taught how to dress and where to go without
|
|
having ample means to do either. Now, these things- ever-present
|
|
realities as they were- filled her eyes and mind. The more
|
|
circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed this other.
|
|
And now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to remove this
|
|
other world far upward like a heaven to which any Lazarus might
|
|
extend, appealingly, his hands.
|
|
|
|
So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He had
|
|
gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything; that
|
|
there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage
|
|
was good, and the literature she read poor. He was a strong man and
|
|
clean- how much stronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she only
|
|
half formulated to herself, but the difference was painful. It was
|
|
something to which she voluntarily closed her eyes.
|
|
|
|
During the last three months of the Warren Street connection,
|
|
Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business
|
|
advertisements. It was a more or less depressing business, wholly
|
|
because of the thought that he must soon get something or he would
|
|
begin to live on the few hundred dollars he was saving, and then he
|
|
would have nothing to invest- he would have to hire out as a clerk.
|
|
|
|
Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity,
|
|
was either too expensive or too wretched for him. Besides, winter
|
|
was coming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a
|
|
general feeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so.
|
|
In his worry, other people's worries became apparent. No item about
|
|
a firm failing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets,
|
|
supposedly of starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the
|
|
morning papers. Once the "World" came out with a flaring
|
|
announcement about "80,000 people out of employment in New York this
|
|
winter," which struck as a knife at his heart.
|
|
|
|
"Eighty thousand!" he thought. "What an awful thing that is."
|
|
|
|
This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the world
|
|
had seemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to see
|
|
similar things in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they did not
|
|
hold his attention. Now, these things were like grey clouds hovering
|
|
along the horizon of a clear day. They threatened to cover and obscure
|
|
his life with chilly greyness. He tried to shake them off, to forget
|
|
and brace up. Sometimes he said to himself, mentally:
|
|
|
|
"What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeks
|
|
more. Even if worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on for six
|
|
months."
|
|
|
|
Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionally
|
|
reverted to his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts for
|
|
the first three years as much as possible. He hated her, and he
|
|
could get along without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now,
|
|
however, when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what
|
|
she was doing, how his children were getting along. He could see
|
|
them living as nicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and
|
|
using his property.
|
|
|
|
"By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguely
|
|
thought to himself on several occasions. "I didn't do anything."
|
|
|
|
As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to his
|
|
taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had he
|
|
done- what in the world- that should bar him out this way and heap
|
|
such difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since he
|
|
was comfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him.
|
|
|
|
"She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn't
|
|
do so much, if everybody could just know."
|
|
|
|
There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It was
|
|
only a mental justification he was seeking from himself- something
|
|
that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous man.
|
|
|
|
One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed
|
|
up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised
|
|
in the "Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but
|
|
did not enter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could
|
|
not abide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained
|
|
many showy resorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be
|
|
very handsomely fitted up. He talked around about investments for
|
|
fully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintained
|
|
that his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner.
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest
|
|
here?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit.
|
|
|
|
"Three thousand," said the man.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood's jaw fell.
|
|
|
|
"Cash?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"Cash."
|
|
|
|
He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really
|
|
buy; but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would think
|
|
it over, and came away. The man he had been talking to sensed his
|
|
condition in a vague way.
|
|
|
|
"I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "He doesn't
|
|
talk right."
|
|
|
|
The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a
|
|
disagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east
|
|
side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growing
|
|
dim, when he reached there. A portly German kept this place.
|
|
|
|
"How about this ad. of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who rather
|
|
objected to the looks of the place.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, is that so?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over."
|
|
|
|
"Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around.
|
|
|
|
The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.
|
|
|
|
"The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want to advertise
|
|
for?"
|
|
|
|
Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had
|
|
only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a
|
|
match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without
|
|
even greeting her. She came to the door and looked in.
|
|
|
|
"It's you, is it?" she said, and went back.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he
|
|
had bought.
|
|
|
|
Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome when
|
|
gloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally
|
|
dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite a
|
|
disagreeable figure.
|
|
|
|
Carrie set the table and brought in the meal.
|
|
|
|
"Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something.
|
|
|
|
He did not answer, reading on.
|
|
|
|
She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched.
|
|
|
|
"Won't you eat now?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time,
|
|
except for the "Pass me's."
|
|
|
|
"It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after a time.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he said.
|
|
|
|
He only picked at his food.
|
|
|
|
"Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to take
|
|
up the subject which they had discussed often enough.
|
|
|
|
"Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification of
|
|
sharpness.
|
|
|
|
This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself.
|
|
|
|
"You needn't talk like that," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say
|
|
more, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie
|
|
left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she was
|
|
hurt.
|
|
|
|
"Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen. "Eat
|
|
your dinner."
|
|
|
|
She passed, not answering.
|
|
|
|
He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on
|
|
his coat.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going down town, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out of
|
|
sorts to-night."
|
|
|
|
She did not answer.
|
|
|
|
"Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to-morrow."
|
|
|
|
He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at her
|
|
dishes.
|
|
|
|
"Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out.
|
|
|
|
This was the first strong result of the situation between them,
|
|
but with the nearing of the last day of business the gloom became
|
|
almost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings
|
|
about the matter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was
|
|
drifting. It got so that they talked even less than usual, and yet
|
|
it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie
|
|
who shied away from him. This he noticed. It aroused an objection to
|
|
her becoming indifferent to him. He made the possibility of friendly
|
|
intercourse almost a giant task, and then noticed with discontent that
|
|
Carrie added to it by her manner and made it more impossible.
|
|
|
|
At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who
|
|
had got his mind into such a state where a thunder-clap and raging
|
|
storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to
|
|
find that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature
|
|
was pleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it
|
|
wasn't so terrible, after all.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth."
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled in answer to his humour.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have
|
|
lost a load.
|
|
|
|
"I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and
|
|
then I'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day looking
|
|
about. I think I can get something, now this thing's off my hands."
|
|
|
|
He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there.
|
|
They had made all arrangements to share according to their
|
|
interests. When, however, he had been there several hours, gone out
|
|
three more, and returned, his elation had departed. As much as he
|
|
had objected to the place, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt
|
|
sorry. He wished that things were different.
|
|
|
|
Shaughnessy was coolly business-like.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the
|
|
change and divide."
|
|
|
|
They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided.
|
|
|
|
"Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort
|
|
to be genial.
|
|
|
|
"So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice.
|
|
|
|
Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded.
|
|
|
|
Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride
|
|
up, Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood.
|
|
|
|
"Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively.
|
|
|
|
"I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat.
|
|
|
|
As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now.
|
|
They ate and talked a little.
|
|
|
|
"Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"No," he said. "I'll have to get something else and save up."
|
|
|
|
"It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie,
|
|
prompted by anxiety and hope.
|
|
|
|
"I guess I will," he said reflectively.
|
|
|
|
For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the
|
|
morning and sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himself
|
|
with the thought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could
|
|
still make some advantageous arrangement. He thought about going to
|
|
some brewery, which, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which
|
|
they leased, and get them to help him. Then he remembered that he
|
|
would have to pay out several hundred any way for fixtures and that he
|
|
would have nothing left for his monthly expenses. It was costing him
|
|
nearly eighty dollars a month to live.
|
|
|
|
"No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it. I'll get
|
|
something else and save up."
|
|
|
|
This getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment
|
|
he began to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place?
|
|
Where should he get such a position? The papers contained no
|
|
requests for managers. Such positions, he knew well enough, were
|
|
either secured by long years of service or were bought with a half
|
|
or third interest. Into a place important enough to need such a
|
|
manager he had not money enough to buy.
|
|
|
|
Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and his
|
|
appearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding.
|
|
People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age,
|
|
stout and well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortable
|
|
owner of something, a man from whom the common run of mortals could
|
|
well expect gratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, and
|
|
comfortably built, walking was not easy. He had not been used to
|
|
exercise for many years. His legs tired, his shoulders ached, and
|
|
his feet pained him at the close of the day, even when he took
|
|
street cars in almost every direction. The mere getting up and down,
|
|
if long continued, produced this result.
|
|
|
|
The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he
|
|
well understood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded his
|
|
search. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he
|
|
was ashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So he
|
|
hesitated, wondering what to do.
|
|
|
|
He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had
|
|
had no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no
|
|
acquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go. He did know
|
|
some hotel owners in several cities, including New York, but they knew
|
|
of his dealings with Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them.
|
|
He thought of other lines suggested by large buildings or businesses
|
|
which he knew of- wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns,
|
|
and the like- but he had had no experience.
|
|
|
|
How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he have
|
|
to go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then,
|
|
distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking for
|
|
something to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he could
|
|
not do that.
|
|
|
|
He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being
|
|
cold, stepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know that
|
|
any decent looking individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby.
|
|
This was in the Broadway Central, which was then one of the most
|
|
important hotels in the city. Taking a chair here was a painful
|
|
thing to him. To think he should come to this! He had heard loungers
|
|
about hotels called chair-warmers. He had called them that himself
|
|
in his day. But here he was, despite the possibility of meeting some
|
|
one who knew him, shielding himself from cold and the weariness of the
|
|
streets in a hotel lobby.
|
|
|
|
"I can't do this way," he said to himself. "There's no use of my
|
|
starting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'll
|
|
think of some places and then look them up."
|
|
|
|
It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes
|
|
open, but he put this out of his mind. Bartender- he, the ex-manager!
|
|
|
|
It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he
|
|
went home. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was
|
|
a feeble imitation. The rocking-chair in the dining-room was
|
|
comfortable. He sank into it gladly, with several papers he had
|
|
bought, and began to read.
|
|
|
|
As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner,
|
|
Carrie said:
|
|
|
|
"The man was here for the rent to-day."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this was
|
|
February 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in his
|
|
pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when
|
|
nothing is coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man
|
|
looks at the one possible saving cure. Then he counted off
|
|
twenty-eight dollars.
|
|
|
|
"Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again.
|
|
|
|
He buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it- the
|
|
relief from walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were these
|
|
floods of telegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part.
|
|
Here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper
|
|
drawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn for
|
|
divorce. Here was another item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in
|
|
ice and snow off Prince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, bright
|
|
column told of the doings in the theatrical world- the plays produced,
|
|
the actors appearing, the managers making announcements. Fannie
|
|
Davenport was just opening at the Fifth Avenue. Daly was producing
|
|
"King Lear." He read of the early departure for the season of a
|
|
party composed of the Vanderbilts and their friends for Florida. An
|
|
interesting shooting affray was on in the mountains of Kentucky. So he
|
|
read, read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator and
|
|
waiting for dinner to be served.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXV.
|
|
|
|
THE PASSING OF EFFORT: THE VISAGE OF CARE
|
|
|
|
The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a
|
|
long list of advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to the
|
|
male-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day was
|
|
before him- a long day in which to discover something- and this was
|
|
how he must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, which
|
|
mostly concerned bakers, bushel-men, cooks, compositors, drivers,
|
|
and the like, finding two things only which arrested his eye. One
|
|
was a cashier wanted in a wholesale furniture house, and the other a
|
|
salesman for a whiskey house. He had never thought of the latter. At
|
|
once he decided to look that up.
|
|
|
|
The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers.
|
|
|
|
He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance.
|
|
|
|
"Good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that he
|
|
was encountering one of his out-of-town customers.
|
|
|
|
"Good-morning," said Hurstwood. "You advertised, I believe, for a
|
|
salesman?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come
|
|
to him. "Yes. Yes, I did."
|
|
|
|
"I thought I'd drop in," said Hurstwood, with dignity. "I've had
|
|
some experience in that line myself."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, have you?" said the man. "What experience have you had?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently I
|
|
owned a third-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets."
|
|
|
|
"I see," said the man.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion.
|
|
|
|
"We did want a salesman," said the man. "I don't know as it's
|
|
anything you'd care to take hold of, though."
|
|
|
|
"I see," said Hurstwood. "Well, I'm in no position to choose, at
|
|
present. If it were open, I should be glad to get it."
|
|
|
|
The man did not take kindly at all to his "No position to choose."
|
|
He wanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something
|
|
better. Especially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active,
|
|
and glad to work actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not please
|
|
him at all. He had more of an air than his employers.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider your
|
|
application. We shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you send
|
|
us your references."
|
|
|
|
"I will," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
He nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at the
|
|
furniture company's address, and saw that it was in West
|
|
Twenty-third Street. Accordingly, he went up there. The place was
|
|
not large enough, however. It looked moderate, the men in it idle
|
|
and small salaried. He walked by, glancing in, and then decided not to
|
|
go in there.
|
|
|
|
"They want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said.
|
|
|
|
At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in
|
|
Madison Square. There he pondered over places which he might look
|
|
up. He was tired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way,
|
|
through Madison Square Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon
|
|
a busy scene. He decided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a
|
|
while. It was warm in there and bright. He had seen no one he knew
|
|
at the Broadway Central. In all likelihood he would encounter no one
|
|
here. Finding a seat on one of the red plush divans close to the great
|
|
windows which look out on Broadway's busy rout, he sat musing. His
|
|
state did not seem so bad in here. Sitting still and looking out, he
|
|
could take some slight consolation in the few hundred dollars he had
|
|
in his purse. He could forget, in a measure, the weariness of the
|
|
street and his tiresome searches. Still, it was only escape from a
|
|
severe to a less severe state. He was still gloomy and disheartened.
|
|
There, minutes seemed to go very slowly. An hour was a long, long time
|
|
in passing. It was filled for him with observations and mental
|
|
comments concerning the actual guests of the hotel, who passed in
|
|
and out, and those more prosperous pedestrians whose good fortune
|
|
showed in their clothes and spirits as they passed along Broadway,
|
|
outside. It was nearly the first time since he had arrived in the city
|
|
that his leisure afforded him ample opportunity to contemplate this
|
|
spectacle. Now, being, perforce, idle himself, he wondered at the
|
|
activity of others. How gay were the youths he saw, how pretty the
|
|
women. Such fine clothes they all wore. They were so intent upon
|
|
getting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast by magnificent
|
|
girls. Ah, the money it required to train with such- how well he knew!
|
|
How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to do so!
|
|
|
|
The clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but he
|
|
thought he would go back to the flat.
|
|
|
|
This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carrie
|
|
would think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. He
|
|
hoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Over
|
|
there he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chair
|
|
and read. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. He
|
|
could read his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie was
|
|
reading, quite alone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it
|
|
was.
|
|
|
|
"You'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her.
|
|
|
|
After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make
|
|
some little report of his day.
|
|
|
|
"I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said. "I may
|
|
go out on the road."
|
|
|
|
"Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"It wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered.
|
|
|
|
Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers- the
|
|
"Evening World" and "Evening Sun." So now he merely picked his
|
|
papers up, as he came by, without stopping.
|
|
|
|
He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Then
|
|
it was as the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the items
|
|
he so well loved to read.
|
|
|
|
The next day was even worse than the one before, because now he
|
|
could not think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers he
|
|
studied- till ten o'clock- appealed to him. He felt that he ought to
|
|
go out, and yet he sickened at the thought. Where to, where to?
|
|
|
|
"You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," said
|
|
Carrie, quietly.
|
|
|
|
They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week
|
|
in her hands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a little
|
|
sigh as she said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dread
|
|
of the thing. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming
|
|
in.
|
|
|
|
"Lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on."
|
|
|
|
To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that her
|
|
request disturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressing
|
|
thing.
|
|
|
|
"Yet, what have I got to do with it?" she thought. "Oh, why should I
|
|
be made to worry?"
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up some
|
|
place. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-first
|
|
Street. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twenty
|
|
blocks' walk.
|
|
|
|
"I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought.
|
|
|
|
Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his
|
|
tonsorial treatment.
|
|
|
|
Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and
|
|
this continued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining
|
|
him, and each day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into
|
|
lobby idleness.
|
|
|
|
At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not
|
|
go out at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon. It was a
|
|
regular flurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it was
|
|
still coming down with a high wind, and the papers announced a
|
|
blizzard. From out the front windows one could see a deep, soft
|
|
bedding.
|
|
|
|
"I guess I'll not try to go out to-day," he said to Carrie at
|
|
breakfast. "It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say."
|
|
|
|
"The man hasn't brought my coal, either," said Carrie, who ordered
|
|
by the bushel.
|
|
|
|
"I'll go over and see about it," said Hurstwood. This was the
|
|
first time he had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the
|
|
wish to sit about the house prompted it as a sort of compensation
|
|
for the privilege.
|
|
|
|
All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from a
|
|
general blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to the
|
|
details of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress
|
|
of the poor in large type.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try
|
|
to think about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and
|
|
tying up all things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly
|
|
comfortable and toasted his feet.
|
|
|
|
Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of
|
|
the storm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation too
|
|
philosophically.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention to
|
|
Carrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to
|
|
disturb him.
|
|
|
|
The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold.
|
|
Hurstwood took the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he
|
|
volunteered to do a few other little things. One was to go to the
|
|
butcher, another to the grocery. He really thought nothing of these
|
|
little services in connection with their true significance. He felt as
|
|
if he were not wholly useless- indeed, in such a stress of weather,
|
|
quite worth while about the house.
|
|
|
|
On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm
|
|
was over. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets
|
|
would be.
|
|
|
|
It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under
|
|
way. Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He
|
|
went across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on
|
|
Broadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down
|
|
in Pearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he
|
|
changed his mind.
|
|
|
|
"What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "I
|
|
couldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. I
|
|
guess I'll get off," and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat and
|
|
waited again, wondering what he could do.
|
|
|
|
While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a
|
|
well-dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if
|
|
not sure of his memory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognised
|
|
Cargill, the owner of the large stables in Chicago of the same name,
|
|
whom he had last seen at Avery Hall, the night Carrie appeared
|
|
there. The remembrance of how this individual brought up his wife to
|
|
shake hands on that occasion was also on the instant clear.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty
|
|
he felt.
|
|
|
|
"Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that
|
|
he had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have
|
|
avoided this meeting.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?"
|
|
|
|
"Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about.
|
|
"Stopping here?"
|
|
|
|
"No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment."
|
|
|
|
"I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of
|
|
you."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away.
|
|
|
|
"Doing well, I suppose?"
|
|
|
|
"Excellent."
|
|
|
|
"Glad to hear it."
|
|
|
|
They looked at one another, rather embarrassed.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave
|
|
you. So long."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood nodded his head.
|
|
|
|
"Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I knew that
|
|
would happen."
|
|
|
|
He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered
|
|
1.30. He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The
|
|
day was so bad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began
|
|
to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. This took him to
|
|
Fifty-ninth Street, which was as good as anywhere else. Landed here,
|
|
he turned to walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was too
|
|
much. The misery of lounging about with nowhere to go became
|
|
intolerable. He felt as if he were catching cold.
|
|
|
|
Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no
|
|
day to be out; he would go home.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.
|
|
|
|
"It's a miserable day out," was all he said. Then he took off his
|
|
coat and changed his shoes.
|
|
|
|
That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was
|
|
feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited
|
|
on him. He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a
|
|
dull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard about
|
|
the eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal
|
|
to her. She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something
|
|
about the man held her aloof.
|
|
|
|
Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she
|
|
suggested he go to bed.
|
|
|
|
"You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. I'll open
|
|
your bed for you now."
|
|
|
|
"All right," he said.
|
|
|
|
As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state.
|
|
|
|
"What a life! What a life!" was her one thought.
|
|
|
|
Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and
|
|
reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In
|
|
the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and
|
|
cried. This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in
|
|
a small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, and
|
|
indifferent to her. She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more.
|
|
|
|
This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she
|
|
lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed
|
|
the fact.
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. His
|
|
voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome
|
|
quality.
|
|
|
|
"Nothing," said Carrie, weakly.
|
|
|
|
"You've been crying," he said.
|
|
|
|
"I haven't either," she answered.
|
|
|
|
It was not for love of him, that he knew.
|
|
|
|
"You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "Things will come
|
|
out all right."
|
|
|
|
In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he
|
|
stayed in. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers,
|
|
and these he read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out,
|
|
but meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy
|
|
sitting about hotel corridors.
|
|
|
|
Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of
|
|
going anywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything.
|
|
|
|
Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did
|
|
things. She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and
|
|
her little deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not,
|
|
however, before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous
|
|
thing. Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very
|
|
quickly. Every Tuesday Carrie asked for her money.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one
|
|
Tuesday morning.
|
|
|
|
"I do the best I can," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said:
|
|
|
|
"Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?"
|
|
|
|
"I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"They say you can get things lots cheaper there."
|
|
|
|
Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things
|
|
which she did not like at all.
|
|
|
|
"How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie. "Sirloin steak is
|
|
twenty-two cents."
|
|
|
|
"That's steep, isn't it?" he answered.
|
|
|
|
So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing
|
|
days, it seemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices
|
|
and remembered them.
|
|
|
|
His errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a small
|
|
way, of course. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was
|
|
stopped by him.
|
|
|
|
"Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Over to the baker's," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"I'd just as leave go for you," he said.
|
|
|
|
She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the
|
|
corner for the papers.
|
|
|
|
"Is there anything you want?" he would say.
|
|
|
|
By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost the
|
|
weekly payment of twelve dollars.
|
|
|
|
"You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this time.
|
|
|
|
"How much?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
She understood well enough what it meant.
|
|
|
|
"Well, about five dollars," she answered. "I owe the coal man."
|
|
|
|
The same day he said:
|
|
|
|
"I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at
|
|
twenty-five cents a bushel. I'll trade with him."
|
|
|
|
Carrie heard this with indifference.
|
|
|
|
"All right," she said.
|
|
|
|
Then it came to be:
|
|
|
|
"George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get some
|
|
meat of some kind for dinner."
|
|
|
|
He would find out what she needed and order.
|
|
|
|
Accompanying this plan came skimpiness.
|
|
|
|
"I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoon
|
|
with his papers. "We never seem to eat very much."
|
|
|
|
These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They
|
|
blackened her days and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed!
|
|
All day and all day, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed
|
|
to have no attraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine
|
|
weather, it might be four or five hours, between eleven and four.
|
|
She could do nothing but view him with gnawing contempt.
|
|
|
|
It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see
|
|
his way out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only
|
|
five hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he
|
|
could stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting
|
|
around the house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This
|
|
came first with the bad days. Only once he apologised in the very
|
|
beginning:
|
|
|
|
"It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around."
|
|
|
|
Eventually these became the permanent thing.
|
|
|
|
Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip
|
|
of ten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then
|
|
to nothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding
|
|
that the shave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, he
|
|
put off shaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on,
|
|
until once a week became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see.
|
|
|
|
Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him
|
|
in Carrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He
|
|
had some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking
|
|
when dressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in
|
|
Chicago, but she did not forget either that she had never ceased
|
|
trying. He never tried. He did not even consult the ads. in the papers
|
|
any more.
|
|
|
|
Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her.
|
|
|
|
"What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her one
|
|
evening, standing around in the kitchen.
|
|
|
|
"To make it good, of course," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested.
|
|
|
|
"You wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered.
|
|
|
|
He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort
|
|
rankled in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come
|
|
from her.
|
|
|
|
That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room
|
|
to bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as
|
|
usual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie's
|
|
absence.
|
|
|
|
"That's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up."
|
|
|
|
He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she
|
|
was not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment.
|
|
|
|
Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling
|
|
prevailing, Carrie said:
|
|
|
|
"I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
The third night she went to her front bed without apologies.
|
|
|
|
This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it.
|
|
|
|
"All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "let
|
|
her sleep alone."
|
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Chapter XXXVI.
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A GRIM RETROGRESSION: THE PHANTOM OF CHANCE
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The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas,
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had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never
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called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent
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her address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as
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long as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was
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compelled to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take
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it as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study
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some way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Not
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finding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the
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privilege of writing to her friend entirely. The latter wondered at
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this strange silence, thought Carrie must have left the city, and in
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the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to
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encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping.
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Carrie was there for the same purpose.
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"Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a
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glance, "where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I've
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been wondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I-"
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"I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed.
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Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. "Why, I'm
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living down town here. I've been intending to come and see you.
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Where are you living now?"
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"In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off Seventh Avenue-
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218. Why don't you come and see me?"
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"I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. I know
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I ought to. It's a shame. But you know-"
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"What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance.
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"Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West."
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"Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?"
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"Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time."
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"Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while
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noting that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address,
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too," she added to herself. "They must be hard up."
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Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow.
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"Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into a
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store.
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When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He
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seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard
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was at least four days old.
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"Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?"
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She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation
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was becoming unbearable.
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Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner:
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"Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?"
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"No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man."
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Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more.
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"I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time.
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"Did, eh?" he answered.
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"They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look so
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nice."
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"Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returned
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Hurstwood. "He's got a soft job."
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Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of
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infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him.
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"She said she thought she'd call here some day."
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"She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said Hurstwood,
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with a kind of sarcasm.
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The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side.
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"Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude.
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"Perhaps I didn't want her to come."
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"She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keep
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up with her pace unless they've got a lot of money."
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"Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard."
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"He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding
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the inference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll
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happen. He may get down like anybody else."
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There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eye
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seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their
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defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart- not considered.
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This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and
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independence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of
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other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon
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him. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of
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search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said:
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"I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of things
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coming to me if I want to go after them."
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It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a
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shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not
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with any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt
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just right for being outside and doing something.
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On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker
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rooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and
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about the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few
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friendly commonplaces.
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He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker.
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Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the
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time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game- not the
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all in all. Now, he thought of playing.
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"I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice."
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It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him
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several times before he acted upon it.
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The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West
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Street, near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several
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games were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that the
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pots were quite large for the ante involved.
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"Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He
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pulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet
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study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.
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Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection
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without progression or pairs. The pot was opened.
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"I pass," he said.
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On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The
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deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with
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a few dollars to the good.
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The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and
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profit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There
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was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish
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youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in
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which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of
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this individual, whose bets came with a sang-froid which, if a
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bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or
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thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden
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times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who
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seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences,
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however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this man
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had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last
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dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to
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win much- his hand was excellent. Why not raise it five more?
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"I raise you three," said the youth.
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"Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips.
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"Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds.
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"Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper in
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charge, taking out a bill.
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A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the
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chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise.
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"Five again," said the youth.
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Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now- very deep for him.
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Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward,
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but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way.
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He would not trust to this fine hand any longer.
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"I call," he said.
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"A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards.
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Hurstwood's hand dropped.
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"I thought I had you," he said, weakly.
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The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without
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first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair.
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"Three hundred and forty dollars," he said.
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With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.
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Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more.
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Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mild
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protest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day,
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coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in.
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"What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie.
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"What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked.
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"Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Some
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one might call."
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"Who?" he said.
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"Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie.
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"She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly.
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This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him.
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"Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I should
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think he would be ashamed of himself."
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The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did
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call. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the
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commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent
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and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door,
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half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken
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honestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him.
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"Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?"
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"How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her
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eyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know
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whether to invite her in or not.
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"Is your wife at home?" she inquired.
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"No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll be
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back shortly."
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"No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'm really
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very much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but I
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couldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me."
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"I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense
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relief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands
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weakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought.
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Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vance
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going away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure.
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"Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood.
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"Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance."
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"Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair.
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This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen.
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"If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door."
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"Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer
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nervousness. "What did she have to say?"
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"Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay."
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"And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long
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reserve.
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"What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming,
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did I?"
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"You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she was
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coming. I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I
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think this is just terrible."
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"Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? You
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couldn't associate with her, anyway. They've got too much money."
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"Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely.
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"Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'd
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committed-"
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Carrie interrupted:
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"It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault
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is it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate
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with. Why don't you get out and look for work?"
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This was a thunderbolt in camp.
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"What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay the
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rent, don't I? I furnish the-"
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"Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there was
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nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven't
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done a thing for three months except sit around and interfere here.
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I'd like to know what you married me for?"
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"I didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone.
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"I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?" she answered.
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"Well, I didn't marry you," he answered. "You can get that out of
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your head. You talk as though you didn't know."
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Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed
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it was all legal and binding enough.
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"What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "What did
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you force me to run away with you for?"
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Her voice became almost a sob.
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"Force!" he said, with curled lip. "A lot of forcing I did."
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"Oh!" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "Oh, oh!"
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and she hurried into the front room.
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Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up for
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him, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and
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then went for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie;
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she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first,
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with the faintest alarm, of being left without money- not of losing
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him, though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the
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top of the wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door
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closed, and she knew he had gone.
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After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked
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out the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the
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flat, toward Sixth Avenue.
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The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth
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Street to Union Square.
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"Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tells me to
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get out and look for work."
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He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which
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told him that she was right.
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"What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," he
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thought. "Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was
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thinking."
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He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eighth
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Street. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put on
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the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to think
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she had caught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in his
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distress.
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"The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour.
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It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was in
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tears. There would be no dinner that night.
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"What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame
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from himself. "I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet."
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He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels,
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decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and make
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himself comfortable there.
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He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of
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the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It
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did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not
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allow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming
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addicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to
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satisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the
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morrow- he could not stand to think of it any more than he could of
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any other calamity. Like the certainty of death, he tried to shut
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the certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of his
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mind, and he came very near doing it.
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Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried
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him back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house,
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playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading.
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His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, and
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then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers
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thickening outside, wondered where he should go. Not home. Carrie
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would be up. No, he would not go back there this evening. He would
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stay out and knock around as a man who was independent- not broke-
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well might. He bought a cigar, and went outside on the corner where
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other individuals were lounging- brokers, racing people, thespians-
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his own flesh and blood. As he stood there, he thought of the old
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evenings in Chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. Many's the
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game he had had. This took him to poker.
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"I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought,
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referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't have weakened.
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I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's what
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ailed me."
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Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played,
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and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by
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bluffing a little harder.
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"I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll try
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my hand to-night."
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Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a
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couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made
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their living at this game, and a good living, too.
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"They always had as much as I had," he thought.
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So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as
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he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness,
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aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in
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the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old
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Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood-
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only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.
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This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room
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in a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then,
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seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a
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while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and
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growing more interested and determined on that account. At last the
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fascinating game took a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and
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ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair
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stake. To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it.
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In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with
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him. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and
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again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who
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were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation.
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"I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself.
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"I'll just stay with the fellow to the finish."
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The result was that bidding began.
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"I raise you ten."
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"Good."
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"Ten more."
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"Good."
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"Ten again."
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"Right you are."
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It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other man
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really became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) really
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did have a stiff hand.
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"I call," he said.
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Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he
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had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate.
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"Let's have another pot," he said, grimly.
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"All right," said the man.
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Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their
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places. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held on,
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neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a last
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hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart.
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At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place.
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The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked
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slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the
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stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. It
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was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he
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counted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars
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and some change. He put it up and began to undress.
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"I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said.
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In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go
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out again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make
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up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out
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thus, he lived like a gentleman- or what he conceived to be a
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gentleman- which took money. For his escapades he was soon poorer in
|
|
mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by
|
|
the process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again.
|
|
|
|
"The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus
|
|
indifferently three mornings later.
|
|
|
|
"He does?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse.
|
|
|
|
"It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said.
|
|
|
|
He was nearing his last hundred dollars.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXVII.
|
|
|
|
THE SPIRIT AWAKENS: NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATE
|
|
|
|
It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty
|
|
dollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling,
|
|
had only carried them into June. Before the final hundred mark was
|
|
reached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for
|
|
meat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live."
|
|
|
|
"It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much."
|
|
|
|
"My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it's
|
|
gone to."
|
|
|
|
"All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"All but a hundred."
|
|
|
|
He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see
|
|
that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time.
|
|
|
|
"Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look for
|
|
something? You could find something."
|
|
|
|
"I have looked," he said. "You can't make people give you a place."
|
|
|
|
She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think you
|
|
will do? A hundred dollars won't last long."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," he said. "I can't do any more than look."
|
|
|
|
Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thought
|
|
desperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered the
|
|
stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state
|
|
which she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a last
|
|
resource in distress. Something must be done if he did not get work
|
|
soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone.
|
|
|
|
She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her
|
|
experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way.
|
|
There must be people who would listen to and try you- men who would
|
|
give you an opportunity.
|
|
|
|
They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later,
|
|
when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that
|
|
Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it,
|
|
too.
|
|
|
|
"How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked,
|
|
innocently.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," he said. "There must be dramatic agents."
|
|
|
|
Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up.
|
|
|
|
"Regular people who get you a place?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, I think so," he answered.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention.
|
|
|
|
"You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" he
|
|
asked.
|
|
|
|
"No," she answered, "I was just wondering."
|
|
|
|
Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he
|
|
objected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of
|
|
observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line.
|
|
She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that it
|
|
involved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stage
|
|
she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like
|
|
the rest of them. He had a good idea of what he meant by them.
|
|
Carrie was pretty. She would get along all right, but where would he
|
|
be?
|
|
|
|
"I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot more
|
|
difficult than you think."
|
|
|
|
Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her
|
|
ability.
|
|
|
|
"You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined.
|
|
|
|
"You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, "but
|
|
Chicago isn't New York, by a big jump."
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her.
|
|
|
|
"The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of the
|
|
big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long while
|
|
to get up."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused.
|
|
|
|
In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now,
|
|
when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on
|
|
the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had not
|
|
conceived well of her mental ability. That was because he did not
|
|
understand the nature of emotional greatness. He had never learned
|
|
that a person might be emotionally- instead of intellectually-
|
|
great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to look back and sharply
|
|
remember. He had lived with this woman too long.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think of it.
|
|
It's not much of a profession for a woman."
|
|
|
|
"It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't want
|
|
me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?"
|
|
|
|
There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the
|
|
suggestion.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, let up," he answered.
|
|
|
|
The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It
|
|
didn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged into
|
|
poverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She could
|
|
get something and then work up. What would he say then? She pictured
|
|
herself already appearing in some fine performance on Broadway; of
|
|
going every evening to her dressing-room and making up. Then she would
|
|
come out at eleven o'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting
|
|
for the people. It did not matter whether she was the star or not.
|
|
If she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of
|
|
clothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and there
|
|
as she pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this
|
|
picture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made its beauty
|
|
become more and more vivid.
|
|
|
|
Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sum
|
|
suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assist
|
|
him a little until he could get something?
|
|
|
|
He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind.
|
|
|
|
"I met John B. Drake to-day," he said. "He's going to open a hotel
|
|
here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then."
|
|
|
|
"Who is he?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago."
|
|
|
|
"Oh," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that."
|
|
|
|
"That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically.
|
|
|
|
"If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be all
|
|
right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again."
|
|
|
|
Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She
|
|
sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so
|
|
hopeless.
|
|
|
|
"How much money have you left?"
|
|
|
|
"Only fifty dollars."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty
|
|
days until the rent will be due again."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the
|
|
floor.
|
|
|
|
"Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly
|
|
suggested.
|
|
|
|
"Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the
|
|
idea.
|
|
|
|
"I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he saw
|
|
her brighten up. "I can get something."
|
|
|
|
She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed
|
|
as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She did
|
|
not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderful
|
|
conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres were
|
|
there- these agencies must be somewhere about.
|
|
|
|
She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how
|
|
to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way.
|
|
Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at
|
|
the box office.
|
|
|
|
"Eh?" he said, looking out. "Dramatic agents? I don't know. You'll
|
|
find them in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in that."
|
|
|
|
"Is that a paper?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common
|
|
fact. "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely, seeing
|
|
how pretty the inquirer was.
|
|
|
|
Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find the
|
|
agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This could
|
|
not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off,
|
|
but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting the
|
|
waste of time.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place.
|
|
|
|
"Where were you?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"I've been trying to find some dramatic agents."
|
|
|
|
He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success.
|
|
The paper she began to scan attracted his attention.
|
|
|
|
"What have you got there?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here."
|
|
|
|
"Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I
|
|
could have told you."
|
|
|
|
"Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up.
|
|
|
|
"You never asked me," he returned.
|
|
|
|
She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind was
|
|
distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the situation
|
|
she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiseration
|
|
brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did not
|
|
fall. Hurstwood noticed something.
|
|
|
|
"Let me look."
|
|
|
|
To recover herself she went into the front room while he searched.
|
|
Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon an
|
|
envelope.
|
|
|
|
"Here're three," he said.
|
|
|
|
Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another
|
|
Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and then
|
|
moved toward the door.
|
|
|
|
"I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which
|
|
were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat a
|
|
while, and then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat.
|
|
|
|
"I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling
|
|
nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.
|
|
|
|
Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was
|
|
quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into
|
|
offices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been a
|
|
back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private."
|
|
|
|
As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about- men,
|
|
who said nothing and did nothing.
|
|
|
|
While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom
|
|
opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly
|
|
dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portly
|
|
lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently
|
|
good-natured. At least she was smiling.
|
|
|
|
"Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women.
|
|
|
|
"I won't," said the portly woman. "Let's see," she added, "where are
|
|
you the first week in February?"
|
|
|
|
"Pittsburg," said the woman.
|
|
|
|
"I'll write you there."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said the other, and the two passed out.
|
|
|
|
Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and
|
|
shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye.
|
|
|
|
"Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?"
|
|
|
|
"Are you Mrs. Bermudez?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
|
|
"Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places for
|
|
persons upon the stage?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
|
|
"Could you get me one?"
|
|
|
|
"Have you ever had any experience?"
|
|
|
|
"A very little," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Whom did you play with?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, with no one," said Carrie. "It was just a show gotten-"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her. "No, I don't know
|
|
of anything now."
|
|
|
|
Carrie's countenance fell.
|
|
|
|
"You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable
|
|
Mrs. Bermudez. "We'll take your name, though."
|
|
|
|
Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office.
|
|
|
|
"What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter,
|
|
taking up the curtailed conversation.
|
|
|
|
"Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she was
|
|
writing. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her to
|
|
depart at her leisure.
|
|
|
|
She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr.
|
|
Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could play at
|
|
some local house, or had a programme with your name on it, I might
|
|
do something."
|
|
|
|
In the third place the individual asked:
|
|
|
|
"What sort of work do you want to do?"
|
|
|
|
"What do you mean?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville stage
|
|
or in the chorus?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that."
|
|
|
|
"How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not
|
|
thought of this before.
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue
|
|
the inquiry.
|
|
|
|
"Could you get me a part if I paid?"
|
|
|
|
"If we didn't you'd get your money back."
|
|
|
|
"Oh," she said.
|
|
|
|
The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and
|
|
continued accordingly.
|
|
|
|
"You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would trouble
|
|
about you for less than that."
|
|
|
|
Carrie saw a light.
|
|
|
|
"Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it."
|
|
|
|
She started to go, and then bethought herself.
|
|
|
|
"How soon would I get a place?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's hard to say," said the man. "You might get one in a
|
|
week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that we
|
|
thought you could do."
|
|
|
|
"I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she
|
|
walked out.
|
|
|
|
The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself:
|
|
|
|
"It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage."
|
|
|
|
Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar
|
|
proposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything,"
|
|
she thought. She had some jewelry- a diamond ring and pin and
|
|
several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for those if she
|
|
went to a pawnbroker.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be so
|
|
long seeking.
|
|
|
|
"Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her
|
|
gloves. "They all want money to get you a place."
|
|
|
|
"How much?" asked Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Fifty dollars."
|
|
|
|
"They don't want anything, do they?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd ever
|
|
get you anything after you did pay them."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as if
|
|
he were deciding, money in hand.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of the
|
|
managers."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a little
|
|
to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very natural in
|
|
such extreme states. He would do better later on.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXVIII.
|
|
|
|
IN ELF LAND DISPORTING: THE GRIM WORLD WITHOUT
|
|
|
|
When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to
|
|
the Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields,
|
|
employment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand in a line and
|
|
look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. She
|
|
found there was no discrimination between one and the other of
|
|
applicants, save as regards a conventional standard of prettiness
|
|
and form. Their own opinion or knowledge of their ability went for
|
|
nothing.
|
|
|
|
"Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at the
|
|
stage entrance of the Casino.
|
|
|
|
"You can't see him now; he's busy."
|
|
|
|
"Do you know when I can see him?"
|
|
|
|
"Got an appointment with him?"
|
|
|
|
"No."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you'll have to call at his office."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Carrie. "Where is his office?"
|
|
|
|
He gave her the number.
|
|
|
|
She knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be in.
|
|
Nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search.
|
|
|
|
The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. Mr.
|
|
Daly saw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour in a
|
|
dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of the
|
|
placid, indifferent Mr. Dorney.
|
|
|
|
"You will have to write and ask him to see you."
|
|
|
|
So she went away.
|
|
|
|
At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and
|
|
indifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered, everything
|
|
carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved.
|
|
|
|
At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway
|
|
closets, berugged and bepanneled, which causes one to feel the
|
|
greatness of all positions of authority. Here was reserve itself
|
|
done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying in
|
|
their fine positions.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, be very humble now- very humble indeed. Tell us what it is
|
|
you require. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige of
|
|
self-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we can
|
|
do."
|
|
|
|
This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum- the attitude, for that
|
|
matter, of every managerial office in the city. These little
|
|
proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground.
|
|
|
|
Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search
|
|
that evening.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie. "I just walked, and
|
|
walked, and waited around."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood only looked at her.
|
|
|
|
"I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in," she
|
|
added, disconsolately.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not
|
|
seem so terrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she could
|
|
rest. Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did not
|
|
seem to approach so rapidly. To-morrow was another day.
|
|
|
|
To-morrow came, and the next, and the next.
|
|
|
|
Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once.
|
|
|
|
"Come around," he said, "the first of next week. I may make some
|
|
changes then."
|
|
|
|
He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothes
|
|
and good eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh.
|
|
Carrie was pretty and graceful. She might be put in even if she did
|
|
not have any experience. One of the proprietors had suggested that the
|
|
chorus was a little weak on looks.
|
|
|
|
The first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the month
|
|
was drawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never worried
|
|
before.
|
|
|
|
"Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked
|
|
Hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own.
|
|
|
|
"Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over
|
|
the disgrace of the insinuation.
|
|
|
|
"I'd take anything," she said, "for the present. It will soon be the
|
|
first of the month again."
|
|
|
|
She looked the picture of despair.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes.
|
|
|
|
"He would look for something," he thought. "He would go and see if
|
|
some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would take a
|
|
position as bartender, if he could get it."
|
|
|
|
It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or two
|
|
slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared.
|
|
|
|
"No use," he thought. "I might as well go on back home."
|
|
|
|
Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes and
|
|
feel that even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace.
|
|
This was a bitter thought.
|
|
|
|
Carrie came in after he did.
|
|
|
|
"I went to see some of the variety managers," she said, aimlessly.
|
|
"You have to have an act. They don't want anybody that hasn't."
|
|
|
|
"I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "One
|
|
man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks."
|
|
|
|
In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make
|
|
some showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology to
|
|
energy.
|
|
|
|
Monday Carrie went again to the Casino.
|
|
|
|
"Did I tell you to come around to-day?" said the manager, looking
|
|
her over as she stood before him.
|
|
|
|
"You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed.
|
|
|
|
"Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely.
|
|
|
|
Carrie owned to ignorance.
|
|
|
|
He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He was
|
|
secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman.
|
|
"Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning."
|
|
|
|
Carrie's heart bounded to her throat.
|
|
|
|
"I will," she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her, and
|
|
turned to go.
|
|
|
|
"Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it be?"
|
|
|
|
Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows
|
|
became pleasant.
|
|
|
|
A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all
|
|
immediate fears on that score.
|
|
|
|
"Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "You'll
|
|
be dropped if you're not."
|
|
|
|
Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's
|
|
idleness. She had a place- she had a place! This sang in her ears.
|
|
|
|
In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as she
|
|
walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became
|
|
larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in
|
|
several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If I
|
|
can he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me."
|
|
|
|
She forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she did
|
|
not, in her enthusiasm, perceive.
|
|
|
|
Thus, ever, the voice of success.
|
|
|
|
Still, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm and
|
|
indifferent, but it was a palpable sham.
|
|
|
|
"Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face.
|
|
|
|
"I have a place."
|
|
|
|
"You have?" he said, breathing a better breath.
|
|
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
|
|
"What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as if
|
|
now he might get something good also.
|
|
|
|
"In the chorus," she answered.
|
|
|
|
"Is it the Casino show you told me about?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered. "I begin rehearsing tomorrow."
|
|
|
|
There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was
|
|
happy. At last Hurstwood said:
|
|
|
|
"Do you know how much you'll get?"
|
|
|
|
"No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie. "I guess they pay twelve or
|
|
fourteen dollars a week."
|
|
|
|
"About that, I guess," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the
|
|
mere lifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a shave,
|
|
and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak.
|
|
|
|
"Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and with
|
|
renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground.
|
|
|
|
On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in
|
|
the line. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent
|
|
of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich,
|
|
oriental appearance. The wonder of it awed and delighted her.
|
|
Blessed be its wondrous reality. How hard she would try to be worthy
|
|
of it. It was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, above
|
|
insignificance. People came to it in finery and carriages to see. It
|
|
was ever a center of light and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, if
|
|
she could only remain, how happy would be her days!
|
|
|
|
"What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the drill.
|
|
|
|
"Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had
|
|
selected in Chicago. "Carrie Madenda."
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie thought,
|
|
"you go over there."
|
|
|
|
Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company:
|
|
|
|
"Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda."
|
|
|
|
This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go, and
|
|
the rehearsal began.
|
|
|
|
Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight
|
|
resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the attitude
|
|
of the manager was much more pronounced. She had marvelled at the
|
|
insistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but the individual
|
|
conducting here had the same insistence, coupled with almost brutal
|
|
roughness. As the drilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedingly
|
|
wroth over trifles, and to increase his lung power in proportion. It
|
|
was very evident that he had a great contempt for any assumption of
|
|
dignity or innocence on the part of these young women.
|
|
|
|
"Clark," he would call- meaning, of course, Miss Clark- "why don't
|
|
you catch step there?"
|
|
|
|
"By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on to
|
|
yourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last sounds
|
|
into a vehement roar.
|
|
|
|
"Maitland! Maitland!" he called once.
|
|
|
|
A nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. Carrie trembled
|
|
for her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and fear.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," said Miss Maitland.
|
|
|
|
"Is there anything the matter with your ears?"
|
|
|
|
"No, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Do you know what 'column left' means?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break up
|
|
the line?"
|
|
|
|
"I was just-"
|
|
|
|
"Never mind what you were just. Keep your ears open."
|
|
|
|
Carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn.
|
|
|
|
Yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke.
|
|
|
|
"Hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as
|
|
if in despair. His demeanour was fierce.
|
|
|
|
"Elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?"
|
|
|
|
"Nothing," said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood nervously
|
|
by.
|
|
|
|
"Well, are you talking?"
|
|
|
|
"No, sir."
|
|
|
|
"Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again." At last
|
|
Carrie's turn came. It was because of her extreme anxiety to do all
|
|
that was required that brought on trouble.
|
|
|
|
She heard some one called.
|
|
|
|
"Mason," said the voice. "Miss Mason."
|
|
|
|
She looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved her a
|
|
little, but she did not understand.
|
|
|
|
"You, you!" said the manager. "Can't you hear?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh," said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't your name Mason?" asked the manager.
|
|
|
|
"No, sir," said Carrie, "it's Madenda."
|
|
|
|
"Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you do it then?" Don't go shuffling along as if you
|
|
were dead. I've got to have people with life in them."
|
|
|
|
Carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled a
|
|
little.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," she said.
|
|
|
|
It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy,
|
|
for three long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in body, but too
|
|
excited in mind to notice it. She meant to go home and practise her
|
|
evolutions as prescribed. She would not err in any way, if she could
|
|
help it.
|
|
|
|
When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder he
|
|
was out looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a mouthful to
|
|
eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom from
|
|
financial distress- "The sound of glory ringing in her ears."
|
|
|
|
When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away,
|
|
and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. Here was an
|
|
early irritation. She would have her work and this. Was she going to
|
|
act and keep house?
|
|
|
|
"I'll not do it," she said, "after I get started. He can take his
|
|
meals out."
|
|
|
|
Each day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such a
|
|
wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that her
|
|
salary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she had her
|
|
first sight of those high and mighties- the leading ladies and
|
|
gentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and deferred to. She
|
|
was nothing- absolutely nothing at all.
|
|
|
|
At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He seemed
|
|
to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she was
|
|
getting along. The regularity with which he did this smacked of some
|
|
one who was waiting to live upon her labour. Now that she had a
|
|
visible means of support, this irritated her. He seemed to be
|
|
depending upon her little twelve dollars.
|
|
|
|
"How are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, all right," she would reply.
|
|
|
|
"Find it easy?"
|
|
|
|
"It will be all right when I get used to it."
|
|
|
|
His paper would then engross his thoughts.
|
|
|
|
"I got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought. "I thought
|
|
maybe you might want to make some biscuit."
|
|
|
|
The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especially
|
|
in the light of recent developments. Her dawning independence gave her
|
|
more courage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to say
|
|
things. Still she could not talk to him as she had to Drouet. There
|
|
was something in the man's manner of which she had always stood in
|
|
awe. He seemed to have some invisible strength in reserve.
|
|
|
|
One day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came
|
|
openly to the surface.
|
|
|
|
"We'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meat
|
|
he had purchased. "You won't get any money for a week or so yet.
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove.
|
|
|
|
"I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added.
|
|
|
|
"That's it," she said to herself. "I'm to use my money now."
|
|
|
|
Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things
|
|
for herself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice.
|
|
|
|
"What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" she
|
|
thought. "I can't do it. Why doesn't he get something to do?"
|
|
|
|
The important night of the first real performance came. She did
|
|
not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think of
|
|
going. It would only be money wasted. She had such a small part.
|
|
|
|
The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon
|
|
the bill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited.
|
|
Carrie was nothing.
|
|
|
|
As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first
|
|
entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. The
|
|
apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away from
|
|
her. She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter.
|
|
Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. A group of twelve were
|
|
assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line about
|
|
an inch above the knee. Carrie happened to be one of the twelve.
|
|
|
|
In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up
|
|
her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the
|
|
audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. There was
|
|
plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of
|
|
the women of alleged ability did.
|
|
|
|
"I could do better than that," Carrie ventured to herself, in
|
|
several instances. To do her justice, she was right.
|
|
|
|
After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had
|
|
scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have
|
|
proved satisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she knew
|
|
but few, and the stars were gossiping. Outside were carriages and some
|
|
correct youths in attractive clothing, waiting. Carrie saw that she
|
|
was scanned closely. The flutter of an eyelash would have brought
|
|
her a companion. That she did not give.
|
|
|
|
One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow.
|
|
|
|
"Not going home alone, are you?" he said.
|
|
|
|
Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car.
|
|
Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing
|
|
else.
|
|
|
|
"Did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end of
|
|
the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action.
|
|
|
|
"No," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet. I think something
|
|
will come of that, though."
|
|
|
|
She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money,
|
|
and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood felt
|
|
the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He had long
|
|
since realised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand.
|
|
There was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but
|
|
he justified himself with the thought that he really would get
|
|
something. Rent day gave him his opportunity.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, as he counted it out, "that's about the last of
|
|
my money. I'll have to get something pretty soon."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal.
|
|
|
|
"If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could get
|
|
something. Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September."
|
|
|
|
"Is he?" said Carrie, thinking of the short month that still
|
|
remained until that time.
|
|
|
|
"Would you mind helping me out until then?" he said appealingly.
|
|
"I think I'll be all right after that time."
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate.
|
|
|
|
"We can get along if we economise. I'll pay you back all right."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I'll help you," said Carrie, feeling quite hard-hearted at thus
|
|
forcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit of
|
|
her earnings wrung a faint protest from her.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you take anything, George, temporarily?" she said.
|
|
"What difference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you'll get
|
|
something better."
|
|
|
|
"I will take anything," he said, relieved, and wincing under
|
|
reproof. "I'd just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you needn't do that," said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. "But
|
|
there must be other things."
|
|
|
|
"I'll get something!" he said, assuming determination.
|
|
|
|
Then he went back to his paper.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XXXIX.
|
|
|
|
OF LIGHTS AND OF SHADOWS: THE PARTING OF WORLDS
|
|
|
|
What Hurstwood got as the result of the determination was more
|
|
self-assurance that each particular day was not the day. At the same
|
|
time, Carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress.
|
|
|
|
Her need of clothes- to say nothing of her desire for ornaments-
|
|
grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was not
|
|
to have them. The sympathy she felt for Hurstwood, at the time he
|
|
asked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer urgings of
|
|
decency. He was not always renewing his request, but this love of good
|
|
appearance was. It insisted, and Carrie wished to satisfy it, wished
|
|
more and more that Hurstwood was not in the way.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he had
|
|
better keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent for
|
|
car-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum was still in his hand
|
|
he announced himself as penniless.
|
|
|
|
"I'm clear out," he said to Carrie one afternoon. "I paid for some
|
|
coal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents."
|
|
|
|
"I've got some money there in my purse."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carrie
|
|
scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He took
|
|
out fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it was
|
|
dribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenly
|
|
remembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time.
|
|
|
|
"We're all out of flour," she said; "you'd better get some this
|
|
afternoon. We haven't any meat, either. How would it do if we had
|
|
liver and bacon?"
|
|
|
|
"Suits me," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that."
|
|
|
|
"Half'll be enough," volunteered Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended not
|
|
to notice it.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood bought the flour- which all grocers sold in 3 1/2 pound
|
|
packages- for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-pound
|
|
of liver and bacon. He left the packages, together with the balance of
|
|
thirty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where Carrie found it. It
|
|
did not escape her that the change was accurate. There was something
|
|
sad in realising that, after all, all that he wanted of her was
|
|
something to eat. She felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. Maybe he
|
|
would get something yet. He had no vices.
|
|
|
|
That very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the
|
|
chorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweed
|
|
suit, which took Carrie's eye. The young woman wore a fine bunch of
|
|
violets and seemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carrie
|
|
good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carrie
|
|
smiled back.
|
|
|
|
"She can afford to dress well," thought Carrie, "and so could I,
|
|
if I could only keep my money. I haven't a decent tie of any kind to
|
|
wear."
|
|
|
|
She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively.
|
|
|
|
"I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don't care what
|
|
happens."
|
|
|
|
One of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in
|
|
the company made friends with her because in Carrie she found
|
|
nothing to frighten her away. She was a gay little Manon, unwitting of
|
|
society's fierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good to
|
|
her neighbour and charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus in
|
|
the matter of conversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in.
|
|
|
|
"It's warm to-night, isn't it?" said this girl, arrayed in pink
|
|
fleshings and an imitation golden helmet. She also carried a shining
|
|
shield.
|
|
|
|
"Yes; it is," said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her.
|
|
|
|
"I'm almost roasting," said the girl.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and
|
|
saw little beads of moisture.
|
|
|
|
"There's more marching in this opera than ever I did before,"
|
|
added the girl.
|
|
|
|
"Have you been in others?" asked Carrie, surprised at her
|
|
experience.
|
|
|
|
"Lots of them," said the girl; "haven't you?"
|
|
|
|
"This is my first experience."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran 'The Queen's Mate'
|
|
here."
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie, shaking her head; "not me."
|
|
|
|
This conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestra
|
|
and the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line
|
|
was called to form for a new entrance. No further opportunity for
|
|
conversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were getting
|
|
ready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side.
|
|
|
|
"They say this show is going on the road next month."
|
|
|
|
"Is it?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Yes; do you think you'll go?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know; I guess so, if they'll take me."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, they'll take you. I wouldn't go. They won't give you any
|
|
more, and it will cost you everything you make to live. I never
|
|
leave New York. There are too many shows going on here."
|
|
|
|
"Can you always get in another show?"
|
|
|
|
"I always have. There's one going on up at the Broadway this
|
|
month. I'm going to try and get in that if this one really goes."
|
|
|
|
Carrie heard this with aroused intelligence. Evidently it wasn't
|
|
so very difficult to get on. Maybe she also could get a place if
|
|
this show went away.
|
|
|
|
"Do they all pay about the same?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Yes. Sometimes you get a little more. This show doesn't pay very
|
|
much."
|
|
|
|
"I get twelve," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Do you?" said the girl. "They pay me fifteen, and you do more
|
|
work than I do. I wouldn't stand it if I were you. They're just giving
|
|
you less because they think you don't know. You ought to be making
|
|
fifteen."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'm not," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it," went on
|
|
the girl, who admired Carrie very much. "You do fine, and the
|
|
manager knows it."
|
|
|
|
To say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about with an air
|
|
pleasing and somewhat distinctive. It was due wholly to her natural
|
|
manner and total lack of self-consciousness.
|
|
|
|
"Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course you can," answered the girl. "You come with me when I go.
|
|
I'll do the talking."
|
|
|
|
Carrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness. She liked this little
|
|
gaslight soldier. She seemed so experienced and self-reliant in her
|
|
tinsel helmet and military accoutrements.
|
|
|
|
"My future must be assured if I can always get work this way,"
|
|
thought Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Still, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe upon
|
|
her and Hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fate
|
|
seemed dismal and unrelieved. It did not take so very much to feed
|
|
them under Hurstwood's close-measured buying, and there would possibly
|
|
be enough for rent, but it left nothing else. Carrie bought the
|
|
shoes and some other things, which complicated the rent problem very
|
|
seriously. Suddenly, a week from the fatal day, Carrie realised that
|
|
they were going to run short.
|
|
|
|
"I don't believe," she exclaimed, looking into her purse at
|
|
breakfast, "that I'll have enough to pay the rent."
|
|
|
|
"How much have you?" inquired Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to be
|
|
paid for this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay this,
|
|
there won't be any left for next week. Do you think your hotel man
|
|
will open his hotel this month?"
|
|
|
|
"I think so," returned Hurstwood. "He said he would."
|
|
|
|
After a while, Hurstwood said:
|
|
|
|
"Don't worry about it. Maybe the grocer will wait. He can do that.
|
|
We've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a week or
|
|
two."
|
|
|
|
"Do you think he will?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"I think so."
|
|
|
|
On this account, Hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oeslogge
|
|
clearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said:
|
|
|
|
"Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?"
|
|
|
|
"No, no, Mr. Wheeler," said Mr. Oeslogge. "Dat iss all right."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this. It
|
|
seemed an easy thing. He looked out of the door, and then gathered
|
|
up his coffee when ready and came away. The game of a desperate man
|
|
had begun.
|
|
|
|
Rent was paid, and now came the grocer. Hurstwood managed by
|
|
paving out of his own ten and collecting from Carrie at the end of the
|
|
week. Then he delayed a day next time settling with the grocer, and so
|
|
soon had his ten back, with Oeslogge getting his pay on this
|
|
Thursday or Friday for last Saturday's bill.
|
|
|
|
This entanglement made Carrie anxious for a change of some sort.
|
|
Hurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to anything. He
|
|
schemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed not
|
|
to trouble over adding anything himself.
|
|
|
|
"He talks about worrying," thought Carrie. "If he worried enough
|
|
he couldn't sit there and wait for me. He'd get something to do. No
|
|
man could go seven months without finding something if he tried."
|
|
|
|
The sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy
|
|
appearance drove Carrie to seek relief in other places. Twice a week
|
|
there were matinees, and then Hurstwood ate a cold snack, which he
|
|
prepared himself. Two other days there were rehearsals beginning at
|
|
ten in the morning and lasting usually until one. Now, to this
|
|
Carrie added a few visits to one or two chorus girls, including the
|
|
blue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet. She did it because it was
|
|
pleasant and a relief from dulness of the home over which her
|
|
husband brooded.
|
|
|
|
The blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne- Lola Osborne. Her room was
|
|
in Nineteenth Street near Fourth Avenue, a block now given up wholly
|
|
to office buildings. Here she had a comfortable back room, looking
|
|
over a collection of back yards in which grew a number of shade
|
|
trees pleasant to see.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't your home in New York?" she asked of Lola one day.
|
|
|
|
"Yes; but I can't get along with my people. They always want me to
|
|
do what they want. Do you live here?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"With your family?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie was ashamed to say that she was married. She had talked so
|
|
much about getting more salary and confessed to so much anxiety
|
|
about her future, that now, when the direct question of fact was
|
|
waiting, she could not tell this girl.
|
|
|
|
"With some relatives," she answered.
|
|
|
|
Miss Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Carrie's time
|
|
was her own. She invariably asked her to stay, proposing little
|
|
outings and other things of that sort until Carrie began neglecting
|
|
her dinner hours. Hurstwood noticed it, but felt in no position to
|
|
quarrel with her. Several times she came so late as scarcely to have
|
|
an hour in which to patch up a meal and start for the theatre.
|
|
|
|
"Do you rehearse in the afternoons?" Hurstwood once asked,
|
|
concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret which
|
|
prompted it.
|
|
|
|
"No; I was looking around for another place," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
As a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished the
|
|
least straw of an excuse. Miss Osborne and she had gone to the
|
|
office of the manager who was to produce the new opera at the Broadway
|
|
and returned straight to the former's room, where they had been
|
|
since three o'clock.
|
|
|
|
Carrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty.
|
|
She did not take into account how much liberty she was securing.
|
|
Only the last step, the newest freedom, must not be questioned.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood saw it all clearly enough. He was shrewd after his kind,
|
|
and yet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making an
|
|
effectual protest. In his almost inexplicable apathy he was content to
|
|
droop supinely while Carrie drifted out of his life, just as he was
|
|
willing supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. He
|
|
could not help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, and
|
|
ineffectual way, however- a way that simply widened the breach by slow
|
|
degrees.
|
|
|
|
A further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the
|
|
manager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stage
|
|
where the chorus was going through some of its glittering
|
|
evolutions, said to the master of the ballet:
|
|
|
|
"Who is that fourth girl there on the right- the one coming round at
|
|
the end now?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh," said the ballet-master, "that's Miss Madenda."
|
|
|
|
"She's good looking. Why don't you let her head that line?"
|
|
|
|
"I will," said the man.
|
|
|
|
"Just do that. She'll look better there than the woman you've got."
|
|
|
|
"All right. I will do that," said the master.
|
|
|
|
The next evening Carrie was called out, much as if for an error.
|
|
|
|
"You lead your company to-night," said the master.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Put snap into it," he added. "We must have snap."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, sir," replied Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Astonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leader
|
|
must be ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct
|
|
expression of something unfavourable in her eye, she began to think
|
|
that perhaps it was merit.
|
|
|
|
She had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holding
|
|
her arms as if for action- not listlessly. In front of the line this
|
|
showed up even more effectually.
|
|
|
|
"That girl knows how to carry herself," said the manager, another
|
|
evening. He began to think that he should like to talk with her. If he
|
|
hadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the
|
|
chorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly.
|
|
|
|
"Put that girl at the head of the white column," he suggested to the
|
|
man in charge of the ballet.
|
|
|
|
This white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in
|
|
snow-white flannel trimmed with silver and blue. Its leader was most
|
|
stunningly arrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, with
|
|
epaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one
|
|
side. Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later
|
|
appeared, proud of her new laurels. She was especially gratified to
|
|
find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood heard nothing about this.
|
|
|
|
"I'll not give him the rest of my money," said Carrie. "I do enough.
|
|
I am going to get me something to wear."
|
|
|
|
As a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying
|
|
for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the
|
|
consequences. There were impending more complications rent day and
|
|
more extension of the credit system in the neighbourhood. Now,
|
|
however, she proposed to do better by herself.
|
|
|
|
Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she
|
|
found how little her money would buy- how much, if she could only
|
|
use all. She forgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for a
|
|
room and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could
|
|
be spent for clothes and things that she liked.
|
|
|
|
At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her
|
|
surplus above twelve, but invaded that sum. She knew she was going too
|
|
far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. The next day Hurstwood
|
|
said:
|
|
|
|
"We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week."
|
|
|
|
"Do we?" said Carrie, frowning a little.
|
|
|
|
She looked in her purse to leave it.
|
|
|
|
"I've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether."
|
|
|
|
"We owe the milkman sixty cents," added Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and there's the coal man," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood said nothing. He had seen the new things she was buying;
|
|
the way she was neglecting household duties; the readiness with
|
|
which she was slipping out afternoons and staying. He felt that
|
|
something was going to happen. All at once she spoke:
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she said; "I can't do it all. I don't earn enough."
|
|
|
|
This was a direct challenge. Hurstwood had to take it up. He tried
|
|
to be calm.
|
|
|
|
"I don't want you to do it all," he said. "I only want a little help
|
|
until I can get something to do."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," answered Carrie. "That's always the way. It takes more
|
|
than I can earn to pay for things. I don't see what I'm going to do."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I've tried to get something," he exclaimed. "What do you want
|
|
me to do?"
|
|
|
|
"You couldn't have tried so very hard," said Carrie. "I got
|
|
something."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I did," he said, angered almost to harsh words. "You
|
|
needn't throw up your success to me. All I asked was a little help
|
|
until I could get something. I'm not down yet. I'll come up all
|
|
right."
|
|
|
|
He tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little.
|
|
|
|
Carrie's anger melted on the instant. She felt ashamed.
|
|
|
|
"Well," she said, "here's the money," and emptied it out on the
|
|
table. "I haven't got quite enough to pay it all. If they can wait
|
|
until Saturday, though, I'll have some more."
|
|
|
|
"You keep it," said Hurstwood, sadly. "I only want enough to pay the
|
|
grocer."
|
|
|
|
She put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time.
|
|
Her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends.
|
|
|
|
In a little while their old thoughts returned to both.
|
|
|
|
"She's making more than she says," thought Hurstwood. "She says
|
|
she's making twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things. I don't
|
|
care. Let her keep her money. I'll get something again one of these
|
|
days. Then she can go to the deuce."
|
|
|
|
He only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible
|
|
course of action and attitude well enough.
|
|
|
|
"I don't care," thought Carrie. "He ought to be told to get out
|
|
and do something. It isn't right that I should support him."
|
|
|
|
In these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of
|
|
Miss Osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and
|
|
festive. They called once to get Miss Osborne for an afternoon
|
|
drive. Carrie was with her at the time.
|
|
|
|
"Come and go along," said Lola.
|
|
|
|
"No, I can't," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes, come and go. What have you got to do?"
|
|
|
|
"I have to be home by five," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"What for?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dinner."
|
|
|
|
"They'll take us to dinner," said Lola.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I won't go. I can't."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, do come. They're awful nice boys. We'll get you back in time.
|
|
We're only going for a drive in Central Park."
|
|
|
|
Carrie thought a while, and at last yielded.
|
|
|
|
"Now, I must be back by half-past four," she said.
|
|
|
|
The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other.
|
|
|
|
After Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in
|
|
her attitude toward young men- especially of the gay and frivolous
|
|
sort. She felt a little older than they. Some of their pretty
|
|
compliments seemed silly. Still, she was young in heart and body and
|
|
youth appealed to her.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, we'll be right back, Miss Madenda," said one of the chaps,
|
|
bowing. "You wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would you?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I don't know," said Carrie, smiling.
|
|
|
|
They were off for a drive- she, looking about and noticing fine
|
|
clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak
|
|
quips which pass for humour in coy circles. Carrie saw the great
|
|
park parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance
|
|
and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and
|
|
Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by the
|
|
show of wealth- the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited
|
|
horses, and, above all, the beauty. Once more the plague of poverty
|
|
galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as
|
|
to forget Hurstwood. He waited until four, five, and even six. It
|
|
was getting dark when he got up out of his chair.
|
|
|
|
"I guess she isn't coming home," he said, grimly.
|
|
|
|
"That's the way," he thought. "She's getting a start now. I'm out of
|
|
it."
|
|
|
|
Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter
|
|
after five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue,
|
|
near the Harlem River.
|
|
|
|
"What time is it?" she inquired. "I must be getting back."
|
|
|
|
"A quarter after five," said her companion, consulting an elegant,
|
|
open-faced watch.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with a
|
|
sigh. "There's no use crying over spilt milk," she said. "It's too
|
|
late."
|
|
|
|
"Of course it is," said the youth, who saw visions of a fine
|
|
dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion
|
|
after the show. He was greatly taken with Carrie. "We'll drive down to
|
|
Delmonico's now and have something there, won't we, Orrin?"
|
|
|
|
"To be sure," replied Orrin, gaily.
|
|
|
|
Carrie thought of Hurstwood. Never before had she neglected dinner
|
|
without an excuse.
|
|
|
|
They drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine. It was the Sherry
|
|
incident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to
|
|
Carrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after
|
|
Hurstwood's reception, and Ames.
|
|
|
|
At this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clean vision. He
|
|
liked better books than she read, better people than she associated
|
|
with. His ideals burned in her heart.
|
|
|
|
"It's fine to be a good actress," came distinctly back.
|
|
|
|
What sort of an actress was she?
|
|
|
|
"What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?" inquired her merry
|
|
companion. "Come, now, let's see if I can guess."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Carrie. "Don't try."
|
|
|
|
She shook it off and ate. She forgot, in part, and was merry. When
|
|
it came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head.
|
|
|
|
"No," she said, "I can't. I have a previous engagement."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, now, Miss Madenda," pleaded the youth.
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie, "I can't. You've been so kind, but you'll have to
|
|
excuse me."
|
|
|
|
The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen.
|
|
|
|
"Cheer up, old man," whispered his companion. "We'll go around,
|
|
anyhow. She may change her mind."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XL.
|
|
|
|
A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL
|
|
|
|
There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was
|
|
concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence.
|
|
Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to
|
|
her own bed.
|
|
|
|
"Is that you?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered.
|
|
|
|
The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't get home last evening," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don't
|
|
care. You needn't tell me that, though."
|
|
|
|
"I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he
|
|
looked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. I
|
|
don't care."
|
|
|
|
From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There
|
|
seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She
|
|
let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated
|
|
to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a
|
|
grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of
|
|
staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those
|
|
things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was
|
|
the same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard
|
|
anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could
|
|
expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have
|
|
but one ending.
|
|
|
|
In this fashion, September went by.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked several
|
|
times.
|
|
|
|
"Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now."
|
|
|
|
Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herself
|
|
frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money
|
|
in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last
|
|
the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks.
|
|
"Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success- The-," etc., was
|
|
upon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted.
|
|
|
|
"I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne.
|
|
|
|
Carrie went with her to apply to another manager.
|
|
|
|
"Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions.
|
|
|
|
"I'm with the company at the Casino now."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you are?" he said.
|
|
|
|
The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in
|
|
the world. People recognised ability.
|
|
|
|
So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became
|
|
intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be,
|
|
because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from.
|
|
Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in
|
|
order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked
|
|
and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and
|
|
November. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and
|
|
there he sat.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved
|
|
now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to
|
|
himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no
|
|
appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about
|
|
getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for
|
|
him. So he folded his hands and waited- for what, he could not
|
|
anticipate.
|
|
|
|
At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of
|
|
creditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and
|
|
presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by
|
|
the arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.
|
|
|
|
"I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was only faintly surprised.
|
|
|
|
"How much is it?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Sixteen dollars," he replied.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning to
|
|
Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he said.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I never heard anything about it."
|
|
|
|
She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless
|
|
expense.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to the
|
|
door. "I can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly.
|
|
|
|
"Well, when can you?" said the grocer.
|
|
|
|
"Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. I
|
|
need the money."
|
|
|
|
Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She
|
|
was greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was
|
|
annoyed also.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'll
|
|
come in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it."
|
|
|
|
The grocery man went away.
|
|
|
|
"How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by the
|
|
bill. "I can't do it."
|
|
|
|
"Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get.
|
|
He'll have to wait."
|
|
|
|
"I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"It's funny," she replied, still doubting.
|
|
|
|
"What's the use of your standing there and talking like that,
|
|
now?" he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd
|
|
taken something."
|
|
|
|
"Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be made
|
|
to pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now."
|
|
|
|
"All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick
|
|
of the grind of this thing.
|
|
|
|
Carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something.
|
|
|
|
There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and
|
|
notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn.
|
|
There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required
|
|
and the wages paid. As usual- and for some inexplicable reason- the
|
|
men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers
|
|
and the settlement of their difficulties.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning
|
|
the huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble
|
|
with Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey
|
|
and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had
|
|
been called out on all the lines.
|
|
|
|
Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous
|
|
predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this
|
|
winter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read
|
|
this with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and
|
|
conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars
|
|
a day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had been
|
|
introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and
|
|
increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even
|
|
fourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy and rush
|
|
hours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid for
|
|
such a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hours
|
|
were over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when he
|
|
was going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning and
|
|
wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed.
|
|
Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting- a little over
|
|
three hours' work for fifty cents. The work of waiting was not
|
|
counted.
|
|
|
|
The men complained that this system was extending, and that the time
|
|
was not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have
|
|
regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be
|
|
abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring
|
|
unavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance
|
|
of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men-
|
|
indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise with
|
|
them to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all
|
|
the news, he was attracted first by the scare-heads with which the
|
|
trouble was noted in the "World." He read it fully- the names of the
|
|
seven companies involved, the number of men.
|
|
|
|
"They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to
|
|
himself. "Let 'em win if they can, though."
|
|
|
|
The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "Brooklynites
|
|
Walk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines
|
|
Across the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what
|
|
would be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of
|
|
corporations.
|
|
|
|
"They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't any
|
|
money. The police will protect the companies. They've got to. The
|
|
public has to have its cars."
|
|
|
|
He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with
|
|
them. So was property and public utility.
|
|
|
|
"Those fellows can't win," he thought.
|
|
|
|
Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the
|
|
companies, which read:
|
|
|
|
ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD
|
|
|
|
SPECIAL NOTICE
|
|
|
|
The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company
|
|
having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all
|
|
loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated,
|
|
providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon
|
|
on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with
|
|
guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are
|
|
received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise,
|
|
they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled
|
|
by a new man as soon as his services can be secured.
|
|
|
|
(Signed)
|
|
|
|
Benjamin Norton,
|
|
|
|
PRESIDENT
|
|
|
|
He also noted among the want ads. one which read:
|
|
|
|
WANTED- 50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, to
|
|
run U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection
|
|
guaranteed.
|
|
|
|
He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." It
|
|
signified to him the unassailable power of the companies.
|
|
|
|
"They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn't
|
|
anything those men can do."
|
|
|
|
While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and
|
|
Carrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but
|
|
this seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him of
|
|
stealing- or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a
|
|
bill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had
|
|
been "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He had
|
|
eaten very little- almost nothing.
|
|
|
|
"Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet."
|
|
|
|
He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to
|
|
sit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little,
|
|
he would be standing anything.
|
|
|
|
He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It
|
|
came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.
|
|
|
|
"Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'll
|
|
get two a day."
|
|
|
|
"How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've called
|
|
out the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all
|
|
right."
|
|
|
|
"You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice.
|
|
|
|
"I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares all
|
|
right."
|
|
|
|
"They'll want motormen mostly."
|
|
|
|
"They'll take anybody; that I know."
|
|
|
|
For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,
|
|
feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.
|
|
|
|
In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough,
|
|
and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a
|
|
newspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.
|
|
|
|
"Where are you going?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive,
|
|
he added: "I think I can get on over there."
|
|
|
|
"On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he rejoined.
|
|
|
|
"Aren't you afraid?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them."
|
|
|
|
"The paper said four men were hurt yesterday."
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say.
|
|
They'll run the cars all right."
|
|
|
|
He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and
|
|
Carrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here- the
|
|
least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside,
|
|
it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.
|
|
|
|
"What a day to go over there," thought Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and
|
|
tramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he
|
|
took the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying at
|
|
the office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being
|
|
received. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry- a dark, silent
|
|
man- to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars were
|
|
running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in
|
|
Brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. People
|
|
showed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not a
|
|
car was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groups
|
|
of men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equipped
|
|
with plain wooden chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park.
|
|
Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour was
|
|
having its little war.
|
|
|
|
When he came near the office in question, he saw a few men
|
|
standing about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men-
|
|
whom he took to be strikers- watching. All the houses were small and
|
|
wooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked
|
|
actually poor and hard-up.
|
|
|
|
He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen
|
|
and the men already there. One of the officers addressed him.
|
|
|
|
"What are you looking for?"
|
|
|
|
"I want to see if I can get a place."
|
|
|
|
"The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face was
|
|
a very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he
|
|
sympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart of
|
|
hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which
|
|
commanded order. Of its true social significance, he never once
|
|
dreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended in
|
|
him- neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for this
|
|
man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as
|
|
commanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his
|
|
side.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small,
|
|
dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and
|
|
several clerks.
|
|
|
|
"Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long
|
|
desk.
|
|
|
|
"Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"What are you- a motorman?"
|
|
|
|
"No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people
|
|
needed men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take
|
|
him or leave him, just as he chose.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. He
|
|
paused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, I
|
|
guess you can learn. What is your name?"
|
|
|
|
"Wheeler," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," he
|
|
said, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the
|
|
direction indicated, while the policemen looked after.
|
|
|
|
"There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to Officer
|
|
Macey.
|
|
|
|
"I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly.
|
|
|
|
They had been in strikes before.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XLI.
|
|
|
|
THE STRIKE
|
|
|
|
The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed,
|
|
and was being operated practically by three men as directors. There
|
|
were a lot of green hands around- queer, hungry-looking men, who
|
|
looked as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be
|
|
lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence
|
|
about the place.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed
|
|
lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were
|
|
there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More
|
|
pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn.
|
|
|
|
In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions
|
|
took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more
|
|
than the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One
|
|
or two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several
|
|
others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by
|
|
all sorts of rough weather.
|
|
|
|
"Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?"
|
|
Hurstwood heard one of them remark.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "They always do."
|
|
|
|
"Think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whom
|
|
Hurstwood did not see.
|
|
|
|
"Not very."
|
|
|
|
"That Scotchman that went out on the last car," put in a voice,
|
|
"told me that they hit him in the car with a cinder."
|
|
|
|
A small, nervous laugh accompanied this.
|
|
|
|
"One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a
|
|
hell of a time, according to the papers," drawled another. "They broke
|
|
his car windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police
|
|
could stop 'em."
|
|
|
|
"Yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added by
|
|
another.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers
|
|
seemed scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish- things said to
|
|
quiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited.
|
|
|
|
Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back.
|
|
They were rather social, and he listened to what they said.
|
|
|
|
"Are you a railroad man?" said one.
|
|
|
|
"Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory."
|
|
|
|
"I had a job in Newark until last October," returned the other, with
|
|
reciprocal feeling.
|
|
|
|
There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the
|
|
conversation became strong again.
|
|
|
|
"I don't blame these fellers for striking," said one. "They've got
|
|
the right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do."
|
|
|
|
"Same here," said the other. "If I had any job in Newark I
|
|
wouldn't be over here takin' chances like these."
|
|
|
|
"It's hell these days, ain't it?" said the man. "A poor man ain't
|
|
nowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there
|
|
ain't most no one would help you."
|
|
|
|
"Right you are," said the other. "The job I had I lost 'cause they
|
|
shut down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut
|
|
down."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a
|
|
little superior to these two- a little better off. To him these were
|
|
ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand.
|
|
|
|
"Poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings
|
|
of a bygone period of success.
|
|
|
|
"Next," said one of the instructors.
|
|
|
|
"You're next," said a neighbour, touching him.
|
|
|
|
He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it
|
|
for granted that no preliminaries were needed.
|
|
|
|
"You see this handle," he said, reaching up to an electric
|
|
cut-off, which was fastened to the roof. "This throws the current
|
|
off or on. If you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If
|
|
you want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want to
|
|
cut off the power, you keep it in the middle."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood smiled at the simple information.
|
|
|
|
"Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here," he said,
|
|
pointing with his finger, "gives you about four miles an hour. This is
|
|
eight. When it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He
|
|
knew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well,
|
|
with a very little practice.
|
|
|
|
The instructor explained a few more details, and then said:
|
|
|
|
"Now, we'll back her up."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the
|
|
yard.
|
|
|
|
"One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start
|
|
easy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The one
|
|
fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open.
|
|
That's bad. It's dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't want
|
|
to do that."
|
|
|
|
"I see," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
He waited and waited, while the man talked on.
|
|
|
|
"Now you take it," he said, finally.
|
|
|
|
The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he
|
|
thought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the
|
|
result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back
|
|
against the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the
|
|
instructor stopped the car with the brake.
|
|
|
|
"You want to be careful about that," was all he said.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed
|
|
were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he
|
|
would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for
|
|
the hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with
|
|
him, but he never smiled.
|
|
|
|
"You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said.
|
|
"It takes a little practice."
|
|
|
|
One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he
|
|
began to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew
|
|
weary of running to and fro on the short track.
|
|
|
|
They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into
|
|
the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch
|
|
from his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he
|
|
enjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and
|
|
looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It
|
|
was disagreeable- miserably disagreeable- in all its phases. Not
|
|
because it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to
|
|
any one, he thought.
|
|
|
|
After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.
|
|
|
|
The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the
|
|
greater part of the time was spent in waiting about.
|
|
|
|
At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself
|
|
as to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must
|
|
soon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a
|
|
half of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at
|
|
seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at
|
|
an unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar
|
|
and fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay
|
|
the two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck him.
|
|
|
|
"They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where does
|
|
that fellow from Newark stay?"
|
|
|
|
Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near
|
|
one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy
|
|
in years- twenty-one about- but with a body lank and long, because
|
|
of privation. A little good living would have made this youth plump
|
|
and swaggering.
|
|
|
|
"How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired
|
|
Hurstwood, discreetly.
|
|
|
|
The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.
|
|
|
|
"You mean eat?" he replied.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York tonight."
|
|
|
|
"The foreman'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me."
|
|
|
|
"That so?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go
|
|
home. I live way over in Hoboken."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.
|
|
|
|
"They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't know
|
|
what sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal
|
|
ticket this noon. I know that wasn't much."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.
|
|
|
|
"It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery
|
|
reply.
|
|
|
|
"Not much," answered Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"I'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "He may go 'way."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood did so.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't there some place I can stay around here tonight?" he
|
|
inquired. "If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't-"
|
|
|
|
"There're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one
|
|
of them."
|
|
|
|
"That'll do," he assented.
|
|
|
|
He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment
|
|
never came, and he decided to pay himself that night.
|
|
|
|
"I'll ask him in the morning."
|
|
|
|
He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and
|
|
lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company
|
|
was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by
|
|
the police.
|
|
|
|
The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers.
|
|
There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs,
|
|
a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was
|
|
blazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latter
|
|
was sitting beside the stove warming his hands.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was
|
|
sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his
|
|
venture, but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for
|
|
a while.
|
|
|
|
"Cold, isn't it?" said the early guest.
|
|
|
|
"Rather."
|
|
|
|
A long silence.
|
|
|
|
"Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man.
|
|
|
|
"Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
Another silence.
|
|
|
|
"I believe I'll turn in," said the man.
|
|
|
|
Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing
|
|
only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter
|
|
over him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he
|
|
did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of
|
|
something else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also
|
|
removing his shoes.
|
|
|
|
While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here
|
|
entered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.
|
|
|
|
"Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an
|
|
expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The
|
|
youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly.
|
|
Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and
|
|
pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in
|
|
sheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its
|
|
character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept.
|
|
|
|
In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men
|
|
stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in
|
|
Chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been
|
|
arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about
|
|
it. This was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the
|
|
contrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold, bitter
|
|
reality jarred him into wakefulness.
|
|
|
|
"Guess I'd better get up," he said.
|
|
|
|
There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold
|
|
and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt
|
|
disagreeable, his hair bad.
|
|
|
|
"Hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat.
|
|
|
|
Downstairs things were stirring again.
|
|
|
|
He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for
|
|
horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled
|
|
from yesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the
|
|
ice-cold water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the
|
|
ground.
|
|
|
|
"Had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy.
|
|
|
|
"No," said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood hesitated.
|
|
|
|
"Could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked, with an effort.
|
|
|
|
"Here you are," said the man, handing him one.
|
|
|
|
He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and
|
|
bad coffee. Then he went back.
|
|
|
|
"Here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "You
|
|
take this car out in a few minutes."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited
|
|
for a signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything
|
|
was better than the barn.
|
|
|
|
On this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn
|
|
for the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders
|
|
and the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been
|
|
no great violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men
|
|
argued with. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windows
|
|
broken, some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six
|
|
instances had men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose acts
|
|
the leaders disclaimed.
|
|
|
|
Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the
|
|
police, triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more
|
|
cars were going on, each day more declarations were being made by
|
|
the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers
|
|
was broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men.
|
|
Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run
|
|
all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten.
|
|
There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods.
|
|
|
|
All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and
|
|
stress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with,
|
|
tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob
|
|
movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper.
|
|
|
|
"Run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at
|
|
him. A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a
|
|
signal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out
|
|
through the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny
|
|
policemen got up beside him on the platform- one on either hand.
|
|
|
|
At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by
|
|
the conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever.
|
|
|
|
The two policemen looked about them calmly.
|
|
|
|
"'Tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left,
|
|
who possessed a rich brogue.
|
|
|
|
"I had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "I wouldn't want a
|
|
steady job of this."
|
|
|
|
"Nor I."
|
|
|
|
Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood
|
|
facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and
|
|
thinking of his orders.
|
|
|
|
"Keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "Don't stop for anyone
|
|
who doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop
|
|
for a crowd."
|
|
|
|
The two officers kept silent for a few moments.
|
|
|
|
"The last man must have gone through all right," said the officer on
|
|
the left. "I don't see his car anywhere."
|
|
|
|
"Who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to
|
|
its complement of policemen.
|
|
|
|
"Schaeffer and Ryan."
|
|
|
|
There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along.
|
|
There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood
|
|
did not see many people either. The situation was not wholly
|
|
disagreeable to him. he would do well enough.
|
|
|
|
He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a
|
|
curve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and
|
|
did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an
|
|
unnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like
|
|
making apologetic remarks, but he refrained.
|
|
|
|
"You want to look out for them things," said the officer on the
|
|
left, condescendingly.
|
|
|
|
"That's right," agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly.
|
|
|
|
"There's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right.
|
|
|
|
Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two
|
|
pedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a
|
|
tin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.
|
|
|
|
"Scab!" he yelled. "Scab!"
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself.
|
|
He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.
|
|
|
|
At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the
|
|
car to stop.
|
|
|
|
"Never mind him," said one of the officers. "He's up to some game."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner
|
|
did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his
|
|
fist.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled.
|
|
|
|
Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and
|
|
jeers after the speeding car.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse
|
|
than the thoughts of it had been.
|
|
|
|
Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of
|
|
something on the track.
|
|
|
|
"They've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen.
|
|
|
|
"We'll have an argument, maybe," said the other.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so
|
|
wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of
|
|
ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and
|
|
sympathisers.
|
|
|
|
"Come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant to
|
|
be conciliatory. "You don't want to take the bread out of another
|
|
man's mouth, do you?"
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain
|
|
what to do.
|
|
|
|
"Stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over the
|
|
platform railing. "Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do
|
|
his work."
|
|
|
|
"Listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman and
|
|
addressing Hurstwood. "We're all working men, like yourself. If you
|
|
were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you
|
|
wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? You
|
|
wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights,
|
|
would you?"
|
|
|
|
"Shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen,
|
|
roughly. "Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and
|
|
landed before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer
|
|
was down beside him.
|
|
|
|
"Stand back, now," they yelled. "Get out of this. What the hell do
|
|
you mean? Out, now."
|
|
|
|
It was like a small swarm of bees.
|
|
|
|
"Don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm not
|
|
doing anything."
|
|
|
|
"Get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'll
|
|
give ye a bat on the sconce. Back, now."
|
|
|
|
"What the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other
|
|
way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths.
|
|
|
|
Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes
|
|
blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and
|
|
staggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck.
|
|
|
|
Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying
|
|
about madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of
|
|
the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No
|
|
severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in
|
|
keeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.
|
|
|
|
"Where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his
|
|
eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by
|
|
Hurstwood. The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more
|
|
astonishment than fear.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?"
|
|
inquired the officer. "What you standing there for? Do you want to
|
|
stay here all day? Get down."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the
|
|
nervous conductor as if he had been called.
|
|
|
|
"Hurry up, now," said the other policeman.
|
|
|
|
Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked
|
|
with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by
|
|
the work.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal a man's
|
|
job, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet,
|
|
now. Wait."
|
|
|
|
Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and
|
|
there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.
|
|
|
|
"Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work.
|
|
You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!"
|
|
|
|
"May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw
|
|
open a nearby window and stuck out her head.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen.
|
|
"You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you,
|
|
you hard-hearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye-"
|
|
|
|
But the officer turned a deaf ear.
|
|
|
|
"Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he stared
|
|
round upon the scattered company.
|
|
|
|
Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a
|
|
continued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and
|
|
the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door
|
|
came rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another
|
|
shattered the window behind.
|
|
|
|
"Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the
|
|
handle himself.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of
|
|
stones and a rain of curses.
|
|
|
|
"That- - - - hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "I
|
|
gave him a good crack for it, though."
|
|
|
|
"I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other.
|
|
|
|
"I know that big guy that called us a- - - -," said the first. "I'll
|
|
get him yet for that."
|
|
|
|
"I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an
|
|
astonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the
|
|
reality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit.
|
|
The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to
|
|
arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in
|
|
thought to New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming
|
|
thing.
|
|
|
|
They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted.
|
|
People gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in
|
|
his plain clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other
|
|
epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of the
|
|
line, one of the officers went to call up his station and report the
|
|
trouble.
|
|
|
|
"There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Better send
|
|
some one over there and clean them out."
|
|
|
|
The car ran back more quietly- hooted, watched, flung at, but not
|
|
attacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right."
|
|
|
|
The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but
|
|
later he was again called. This time a new team of officers was
|
|
aboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace
|
|
streets and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he
|
|
suffered intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a
|
|
gusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. His
|
|
clothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered,
|
|
stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do
|
|
in the past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situation
|
|
modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be
|
|
here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. This
|
|
was a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to.
|
|
|
|
The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by
|
|
Carrie. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He
|
|
could do something- this, even- for a while. It would get better. He
|
|
would save a little.
|
|
|
|
A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him
|
|
upon the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been
|
|
any time since morning.
|
|
|
|
"The little cur!" he muttered.
|
|
|
|
"Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen.
|
|
|
|
"No," he answered.
|
|
|
|
At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an
|
|
ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him:
|
|
|
|
"Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're
|
|
fighting for decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to
|
|
support." The man seemed most peaceably inclined.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on
|
|
before and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in
|
|
it.
|
|
|
|
All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made
|
|
three such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and
|
|
the cold was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to
|
|
thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the
|
|
barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin
|
|
gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful.
|
|
|
|
On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half
|
|
way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old
|
|
telegraph pole.
|
|
|
|
"Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen.
|
|
|
|
"Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself."
|
|
|
|
The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow.
|
|
|
|
"You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with your
|
|
car."
|
|
|
|
Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him.
|
|
|
|
"Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave
|
|
that to the corporations."
|
|
|
|
He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now,
|
|
as before, he pretended not to hear him.
|
|
|
|
"Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fight
|
|
poor men. Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic and
|
|
jesuitical motorman.
|
|
|
|
A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one
|
|
ran to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about,
|
|
determined but fearful.
|
|
|
|
A man grabbed him by the coat.
|
|
|
|
"Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to
|
|
pull him over the railing.
|
|
|
|
"Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely.
|
|
|
|
"I'll show you- you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the
|
|
car and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on
|
|
the shoulder instead of the jaw.
|
|
|
|
"Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and
|
|
adding, of course, the usual oaths.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming
|
|
serious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One
|
|
girl was making faces.
|
|
|
|
He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up
|
|
and more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and
|
|
the release effected.
|
|
|
|
"Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off.
|
|
|
|
The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a
|
|
mile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-looking
|
|
neighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track
|
|
was blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a
|
|
half-dozen blocks away.
|
|
|
|
"There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman.
|
|
|
|
"I'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whose
|
|
patience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as
|
|
the car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather
|
|
than come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and
|
|
Hurstwood dodged a stone.
|
|
|
|
Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by
|
|
running toward the car. A woman- a mere girl in appearance- was
|
|
among these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and
|
|
struck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly
|
|
encouraged, jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly
|
|
time to speak or shout before he fell.
|
|
|
|
"Let go of me," he said, falling on his side.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on
|
|
him. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging
|
|
him off and he wrestled for freedom.
|
|
|
|
"Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up."
|
|
|
|
He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised two
|
|
officers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something
|
|
was wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It
|
|
was red.
|
|
|
|
"They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.
|
|
|
|
"Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch."
|
|
|
|
His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was
|
|
standing in a little store, where they left him for the moment.
|
|
Outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the
|
|
excited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another.
|
|
|
|
He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in.
|
|
|
|
He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made.
|
|
|
|
"Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer,
|
|
opening the door and looking in.
|
|
|
|
He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very cold
|
|
and frightened.
|
|
|
|
"Where's the conductor?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so
|
|
there was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder.
|
|
|
|
"Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who did
|
|
that?" Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a
|
|
moment and then got down.
|
|
|
|
"George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me."
|
|
|
|
He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street.
|
|
|
|
"Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath.
|
|
|
|
A half block away, a small girl gazed at him.
|
|
|
|
"You'd better sneak," she called.
|
|
|
|
He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by
|
|
dusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him
|
|
curiously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused.
|
|
All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm
|
|
passed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the
|
|
flat. There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A
|
|
couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left
|
|
them. He lit the gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped to
|
|
examine his shoulder. It was a mere scratch. He washed his hands and
|
|
face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then he
|
|
looked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in
|
|
his comfortable rocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief.
|
|
|
|
He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "That's
|
|
a pretty tough game over there."
|
|
|
|
Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the
|
|
"World."
|
|
|
|
"Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out in
|
|
all Parts of the City."
|
|
|
|
He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one
|
|
thing he read with absorbing interest.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XLII.
|
|
|
|
A TOUCH OF SPRING: THE EMPTY SHELL
|
|
|
|
Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of
|
|
judgment will none the less realise the negative influence on him of
|
|
the fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of
|
|
it. He said so little that she imagined he had encountered nothing
|
|
worse than the ordinary roughness- quitting so soon in the face of
|
|
this seemed trifling. He did not want to work.
|
|
|
|
She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second
|
|
act of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new
|
|
potentate as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to
|
|
any of them, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself
|
|
in the loft of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star,
|
|
feeling exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created
|
|
a ripple of laughter:
|
|
|
|
"Well, who are you?"
|
|
|
|
It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. It
|
|
might as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned.
|
|
He expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But
|
|
Carrie, whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring,
|
|
courtesied sweetly again and answered:
|
|
|
|
"I am yours truly."
|
|
|
|
It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she
|
|
did it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the
|
|
mock-fierce potentate towering before the young woman. The comedian
|
|
also liked it, hearing the laughter.
|
|
|
|
"I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to get
|
|
the last laugh.
|
|
|
|
Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All
|
|
members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or
|
|
"business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think.
|
|
|
|
As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting
|
|
another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in
|
|
recognition.
|
|
|
|
"You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing how
|
|
intelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though."
|
|
|
|
"Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found
|
|
herself trembling violently.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus.
|
|
"There isn't another one of us has got a line."
|
|
|
|
There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the
|
|
company realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself
|
|
when next evening the lines got the same applause. She went home
|
|
rejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. It was
|
|
Hurstwood who, by his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee
|
|
and replaced them with sharp longings for an end of distress.
|
|
|
|
The next day she asked him about his venture.
|
|
|
|
"They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't
|
|
want anybody just now- not before next week."
|
|
|
|
Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more
|
|
apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the
|
|
like with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found
|
|
himself staring at an item, but thinking of something else. The
|
|
first of these lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious
|
|
party he had once attended at a driving club, of which he had been a
|
|
member. He sat, gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the
|
|
old voices and the clink of glasses.
|
|
|
|
"You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was standing
|
|
again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores
|
|
for a good story.
|
|
|
|
All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike.
|
|
He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been
|
|
dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items
|
|
he had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the
|
|
doze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second
|
|
time, however, it did not seem quite so strange.
|
|
|
|
Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man- not the group with whom
|
|
he was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit-
|
|
called. He met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he
|
|
became bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off.
|
|
|
|
"They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "If I had it I'd
|
|
pay them."
|
|
|
|
Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding,
|
|
had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of
|
|
herself amount to anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort of
|
|
pussy-like way and instinctively concluded to cling with her soft
|
|
little claws to Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration.
|
|
"You're so good."
|
|
|
|
Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of
|
|
others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.
|
|
Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. No
|
|
longer the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned
|
|
that men could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had
|
|
lost its force with her. It required superiority- kindly
|
|
superiority- to move her- the superiority of a genius like Ames.
|
|
|
|
"I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day.
|
|
"They're all so stuck on themselves."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, who
|
|
had received a condescending smile or two from that quarter.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere. He
|
|
assumes such an air."
|
|
|
|
Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:
|
|
|
|
"Are you paying room-rent where you are?"
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?"
|
|
|
|
"I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's
|
|
too big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is
|
|
only six dollars a week for both."
|
|
|
|
"Where?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"In Seventeenth Street."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who was
|
|
already turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was
|
|
thinking if she had only herself to support this would leave her
|
|
seventeen for herself.
|
|
|
|
Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of
|
|
Hurstwood's and her success with the speaking part. Then she began
|
|
to feel as if she must be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and
|
|
thus making him act for himself, but he had developed such peculiar
|
|
traits she feared he might resist any effort to throw him off. He
|
|
might hunt her out at the show and hound her in that way. She did
|
|
not wholly believe that he would, but he might. This, she knew,
|
|
would be an embarrassing thing if he made himself conspicuous in any
|
|
way. It troubled her greatly.
|
|
|
|
Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the
|
|
actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of
|
|
leaving and Carrie was selected.
|
|
|
|
"How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing
|
|
the good news.
|
|
|
|
"I didn't ask him," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't
|
|
ask. Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, no," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway."
|
|
|
|
Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the
|
|
manager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the
|
|
part.
|
|
|
|
"How much do I get?" she inquired.
|
|
|
|
"Thirty-five dollars," he replied.
|
|
|
|
Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of
|
|
mentioning forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged
|
|
Lola, who clung to her at the news.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especially
|
|
when you've got to buy clothes."
|
|
|
|
Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had
|
|
none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near.
|
|
|
|
"I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't
|
|
use the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move."
|
|
|
|
Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent
|
|
than ever.
|
|
|
|
"Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the
|
|
loveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way."
|
|
|
|
"I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."
|
|
|
|
Carrie thought a while.
|
|
|
|
"I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see
|
|
first, though."
|
|
|
|
With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes
|
|
calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood's
|
|
lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever.
|
|
|
|
As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by
|
|
the demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many
|
|
more. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on
|
|
her," he thought. "We could get a cheaper place."
|
|
|
|
Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.
|
|
|
|
"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift.
|
|
|
|
"I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We
|
|
don't need four rooms."
|
|
|
|
Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have
|
|
exhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of his
|
|
determination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable in asking
|
|
her to come down lower.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary.
|
|
|
|
"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of
|
|
rooms, which would do just as well."
|
|
|
|
Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the
|
|
money to move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolved
|
|
to spend her money for clothes quickly, before something terrible
|
|
happened. That very day she did it. Having done so, there was but
|
|
one other thing to do.
|
|
|
|
"Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, jolly!" cried the latter.
|
|
|
|
"Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," cried Lola.
|
|
|
|
They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her
|
|
expenditures- enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged
|
|
salary would not begin for ten days yet- would not reach her for
|
|
seventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend.
|
|
|
|
"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she
|
|
confided.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars, if
|
|
you need it."
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."
|
|
|
|
They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the
|
|
thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like
|
|
a criminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she had
|
|
realised that, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude,
|
|
there was something pathetic.
|
|
|
|
She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go,
|
|
and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and
|
|
beaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his
|
|
hands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. All
|
|
unconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper, while she
|
|
glanced at him.
|
|
|
|
Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.
|
|
|
|
"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked Hurstwood,
|
|
laying down a two-dollar bill.
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money.
|
|
|
|
"See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook it
|
|
for dinner."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and
|
|
getting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel
|
|
were old and poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before,
|
|
but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it,
|
|
after all. He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine
|
|
appearance the days he had met her in the park. Then he was so
|
|
sprightly, so clean. Had it been all his fault?
|
|
|
|
He came back and laid the change down with the food.
|
|
|
|
"You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things."
|
|
|
|
"No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll
|
|
be other things."
|
|
|
|
He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become
|
|
in her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a
|
|
quaver in her voice.
|
|
|
|
To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case.
|
|
She had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had
|
|
regretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would
|
|
never meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she
|
|
had any choice in the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek
|
|
him, with sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported him
|
|
ill. There was something cruel somewhere, and not being able to
|
|
track it mentally to its logical lair, she concluded with feeling that
|
|
he would never understand what Hurstwood had done and would see
|
|
hard-hearted decision in her deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared
|
|
for him. She did not want to make any one who had been good to her
|
|
feel badly.
|
|
|
|
She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings to
|
|
possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of
|
|
her. "Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.
|
|
|
|
Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little lady
|
|
packing and singing.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you come over with me to-day?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you mind
|
|
lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?"
|
|
|
|
"Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse.
|
|
|
|
"I want to get some other things," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly,
|
|
glad to be of service.
|
|
|
|
It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to the
|
|
grocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was upon
|
|
him- had been for two days- but chill, grey weather had held him back.
|
|
Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers of
|
|
spring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken of
|
|
warmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured
|
|
down a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice of the
|
|
sparrows, that all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front
|
|
windows, and felt the south wind blowing.
|
|
|
|
"It's lovely out to-day," she remarked.
|
|
|
|
"Is it?" said Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.
|
|
|
|
"Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie, nervously.
|
|
|
|
"No," he said.
|
|
|
|
He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh
|
|
Avenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He
|
|
had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers.
|
|
He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.
|
|
|
|
Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park,
|
|
which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered the
|
|
neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings
|
|
erected. It was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling
|
|
up. Coming back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then
|
|
turned into Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one
|
|
o'clock.
|
|
|
|
There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the
|
|
clear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,
|
|
tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke
|
|
him to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood
|
|
looking at it, folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and
|
|
followed it toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he had
|
|
seen. It was four o'clock before the waning day, with its suggestion
|
|
of a cooler evening, caused him to return. He was hungry and would
|
|
enjoy eating in the warm room.
|
|
|
|
When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He
|
|
knew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light
|
|
showing through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck
|
|
between the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went
|
|
in. Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down,
|
|
preparing to wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now,
|
|
dinner would be late. He read until six, then got up to fix
|
|
something for himself.
|
|
|
|
As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What
|
|
was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an
|
|
envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost
|
|
without further action on his part.
|
|
|
|
Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even
|
|
while he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud.
|
|
Green paper money lay soft within the note.
|
|
|
|
"Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand. "I'm
|
|
going away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to keep
|
|
up the flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could,
|
|
but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I
|
|
make to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all I
|
|
have just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I
|
|
won't want it.- Carrie."
|
|
|
|
He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he
|
|
missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had
|
|
gone from the mantel-piece. He went into the front room, his
|
|
bedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier
|
|
had gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the
|
|
lace coverings. He opened the wardrobe- no clothes of hers. He
|
|
opened the drawers- nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its
|
|
accustomed place. Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as
|
|
he had left them. Nothing else was gone.
|
|
|
|
He stepped onto the parlour and stood for a few moments looking
|
|
vacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat
|
|
seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that
|
|
it was only dinner-time. It seemed later in the night.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were
|
|
twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving
|
|
the lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.
|
|
|
|
"I'll get out of this," he said to himself.
|
|
|
|
Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full.
|
|
|
|
"Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!"
|
|
|
|
The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many
|
|
days of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier
|
|
confronted him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his
|
|
hand- mere sensation, without thought, holding him.
|
|
|
|
Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over
|
|
him.
|
|
|
|
"She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something."
|
|
|
|
He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out
|
|
loud:
|
|
|
|
"I tried, didn't I?"
|
|
|
|
At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XLIII.
|
|
|
|
THE WORLD TURNS FLATTERER: AN EYE IN THE DARK
|
|
|
|
Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood had
|
|
taken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left
|
|
for the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not
|
|
finding him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him.
|
|
She quite forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the
|
|
chance of his being there frightened her. As day after day passed
|
|
and she heard nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him
|
|
passed. In a little while she was, except for occasional thoughts,
|
|
wholly free of the gloom with which her life had been weighed in the
|
|
flat.
|
|
|
|
It is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie
|
|
became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. She
|
|
learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items
|
|
about actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices,
|
|
not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others.
|
|
Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be
|
|
renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or
|
|
critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The
|
|
showy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her.
|
|
|
|
It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were
|
|
beginning to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the
|
|
stage which has since become fervid. The newspapers, and
|
|
particularly the Sunday newspapers, indulged in large decorative
|
|
theatrical pages, in which the faces and forms of well-known
|
|
theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed with artistic scrolls. The
|
|
magazines also- or at least one or two of the newer ones- published
|
|
occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and again photos of
|
|
scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with growing interest.
|
|
When would a scene from her opera appear? When would some paper
|
|
think her photo worth while?
|
|
|
|
The Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical
|
|
pages for some little notice. It would have accorded with her
|
|
expectations if nothing had been said, but there in the squibs,
|
|
tailing off several more substantial items, was a wee notice. Carrie
|
|
read it with a tingling body:
|
|
|
|
The part of Katisha, the country maid, in "The Wives of Abdul" at
|
|
the Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafter
|
|
filled by Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus.
|
|
|
|
Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn't it just fine! At
|
|
last! The first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And they
|
|
called her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing
|
|
loudly. Had Lola seen it?
|
|
|
|
"They've got a notice here of the part I'm going to play tomorrow
|
|
night," said Carrie to her friend.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, jolly! Have they?" cried Lola, running to her. "That's all
|
|
right," she said, looking. "You'll get more now, if you do well. I had
|
|
my picture in the 'World' once."
|
|
|
|
"Did you?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Did I? Well, I should say," returned the little girl. "They had a
|
|
frame around it."
|
|
|
|
Carrie laughed.
|
|
|
|
"They've never published my picture."
|
|
|
|
"But they will," said Lola. "You'll see. You do better than most
|
|
that get theirs in now."
|
|
|
|
Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for
|
|
the sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her- so
|
|
almost necessary.
|
|
|
|
Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers
|
|
that she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely.
|
|
She began to think the world was taking note of her.
|
|
|
|
The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an
|
|
enormous sum. Paving only three dollars for room rent seemed
|
|
ridiculous. After giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven
|
|
dollars left. With four left over from previous earnings, she had
|
|
eleven. Five of this went to pay the regular installment on the
|
|
clothes she had to buy. The next week she was even in greater feather.
|
|
Now, only three dollars need be paid for room rent and five on her
|
|
clothes. The rest she had for food and her own whims.
|
|
|
|
"You'd better save a little for summer," cautioned Lola. "We'll
|
|
probably close in May."
|
|
|
|
"I intend to," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has
|
|
endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing.
|
|
Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable
|
|
denominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy
|
|
pretty clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her
|
|
room. Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young
|
|
men who belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company
|
|
made her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of
|
|
these discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled
|
|
home with her.
|
|
|
|
"Let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight.
|
|
|
|
"Very well," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late
|
|
hours, she found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too
|
|
self-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above
|
|
the common run of clothes and material success. When it was all
|
|
over, he smiled most graciously.
|
|
|
|
"Got to go straight home, have you?" he said.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," she answered, with an air of quiet understanding.
|
|
|
|
"She's not so inexperienced as she looks," he thought, and
|
|
thereafter his respect and ardour were increased.
|
|
|
|
She could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. There
|
|
were days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show
|
|
they dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully
|
|
dressed. She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure.
|
|
|
|
At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not
|
|
known of it, and it took her breath. "Miss Carrie Madenda," it was
|
|
labelled. "One of the favourites of 'The Wives of Abdul' company."
|
|
At Lola's advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They had
|
|
got one there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of
|
|
the paper, but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough
|
|
to send them to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world was
|
|
interested.
|
|
|
|
The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found
|
|
that a little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and
|
|
distinction was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there
|
|
was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with
|
|
which many approached her. All seemed to be seeking their own
|
|
amusement, regardless of the possible sad consequence to others. So
|
|
much for the lessons of Hurstwood and Drouet.
|
|
|
|
In April she learned that the opera would probably last until the
|
|
middle or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next
|
|
season it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with
|
|
it. As usual, Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for
|
|
securing a home engagement.
|
|
|
|
"They're putting on a summer play at the Casino," she announced,
|
|
after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "Let's try and get
|
|
in that."
|
|
|
|
"I'm willing," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply
|
|
again. That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th.
|
|
|
|
"Those that want to go with the show next season," said the manager,
|
|
"will have to sign this week."
|
|
|
|
"Don't you sign," advised Lola. "I wouldn't go."
|
|
|
|
"I know," said Carrie, "but maybe I can't get anything else."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in her
|
|
admirers. "I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of the
|
|
season."
|
|
|
|
Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road.
|
|
|
|
"We can get along," added Lola. "I always have."
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not sign.
|
|
|
|
The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had
|
|
never heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her
|
|
published picture, and the programme bearing her name had some
|
|
little weight with him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars
|
|
a week.
|
|
|
|
"Didn't I tell you?" said Lola. "It doesn't do you any good to go
|
|
away from New York. They forget all about you if you do."
|
|
|
|
Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the
|
|
advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers
|
|
selected Carrie's photo along with others to illustrate the
|
|
announcement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent
|
|
space and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the
|
|
management did not seem to have seen anything of it. At least, no more
|
|
attention was paid to her than before. At the same time there seemed
|
|
very little in her part. It consisted of standing around in all
|
|
sorts of scenes, a silent little Quakeress. The author of the skit had
|
|
fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the
|
|
right actress, but now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he
|
|
would as leave have had it cut out.
|
|
|
|
"Don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "If it don't go the
|
|
first week we will cut it out."
|
|
|
|
Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her
|
|
part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the
|
|
dress rehearsal she was disconsolate.
|
|
|
|
"That isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the curious
|
|
effect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. "Tell her to frown a
|
|
little more when Sparks dances."
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles
|
|
between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.
|
|
|
|
"Frown a little more, Miss Madenda," said the stage manager.
|
|
|
|
Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a
|
|
rebuke.
|
|
|
|
"No; frown," he said. "Frown as you did before."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him in astonishment.
|
|
|
|
"I mean it," he said. "Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want
|
|
to see how it looks."
|
|
|
|
It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something
|
|
so quaint and droll it caught even the manager.
|
|
|
|
"That is good," he said. "If she'll do that all through, I think
|
|
it will take."
|
|
|
|
Going over to Carrie, he said:
|
|
|
|
"Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It'll
|
|
make the part really funny."
|
|
|
|
On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to
|
|
her part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to
|
|
see her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect.
|
|
Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars.
|
|
|
|
In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation,
|
|
roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was,
|
|
gray-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general
|
|
idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine
|
|
and not fun at all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one
|
|
principal and now at the other, the audience began to smile. The
|
|
portly gentlemen in the front rows began to feel that she was a
|
|
delicious little morsel. It was the kind of frown they would have
|
|
loved to force away with kisses. All the gentlemen yearned toward her.
|
|
She was capital.
|
|
|
|
At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage,
|
|
noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another and
|
|
another. When the place came for loud applause it was only moderate.
|
|
What could be the trouble? He realised that something was up.
|
|
|
|
All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was
|
|
frowning alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and
|
|
laughing.
|
|
|
|
"By George, I won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "I'm not
|
|
going to have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits that
|
|
when I do my turn or I quit."
|
|
|
|
"Why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came.
|
|
"That's what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention to
|
|
that."
|
|
|
|
"But she ruins my work."
|
|
|
|
"No, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "It's only a
|
|
little fun on the side."
|
|
|
|
"It is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "She killed my hand all
|
|
right. I'm not going to stand that."
|
|
|
|
"Well, wait until after the show. Wait until tomorrow. We'll see
|
|
what we can do."
|
|
|
|
The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the
|
|
chief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her,
|
|
the more it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside
|
|
the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed
|
|
while on the stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit.
|
|
|
|
The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were
|
|
long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with
|
|
recurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing
|
|
was repeatedly emphasised.
|
|
|
|
"Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of
|
|
character work ever seen on the Casino stage," observed the sage
|
|
critic of the "Sun." "It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery
|
|
which warms like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended to
|
|
take precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage, but the
|
|
audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies,
|
|
selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for a favourite
|
|
the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention and
|
|
applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed curious."
|
|
|
|
The critic of the "Evening World," seeking as usual to establish a
|
|
catch phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by advising:
|
|
"If you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown."
|
|
|
|
The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was
|
|
concerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatory
|
|
message from the manager.
|
|
|
|
"You seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "This is
|
|
delightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own."
|
|
|
|
The author also sent word.
|
|
|
|
That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most
|
|
pleasant greeting for her.
|
|
|
|
"Mr. Stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing a
|
|
little song, which he would like you to sing next week."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I can't sing," returned Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is very
|
|
simple,' he says, 'and would suit you exactly.'"
|
|
|
|
"Of course, I wouldn't mind trying," said Carrie, archly.
|
|
|
|
"Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you
|
|
dress?" observed the manager, in addition. "There's a little matter
|
|
I want to speak to you about."
|
|
|
|
"Certainly," replied Carrie.
|
|
|
|
In that latter place the manager produced a paper.
|
|
|
|
"Now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in the
|
|
matter of salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a
|
|
week for the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, one
|
|
hundred and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, very well," said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.
|
|
|
|
"Supposing, then, you just sign this."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one,
|
|
with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a
|
|
hand trembling from excitement she affixed her name.
|
|
|
|
"One hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was again
|
|
alone. She found, after all- as what millionaire has not?- that
|
|
there was no realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums.
|
|
It was only a shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of
|
|
possibilities.
|
|
|
|
Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood
|
|
read the dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at first
|
|
realising who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read
|
|
the whole thing over again.
|
|
|
|
"That's her, all right, I guess," he said.
|
|
|
|
Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.
|
|
|
|
"I guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny,
|
|
plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its
|
|
carriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its
|
|
splendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary
|
|
outside. She seemed a creature afar off- like every other celebrity he
|
|
had known.
|
|
|
|
"Well, let her have it," he said. "I won't bother her."
|
|
|
|
It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken
|
|
pride.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XLIV.
|
|
|
|
AND THIS IS NOT ELF LAND: WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY
|
|
|
|
When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her
|
|
dressing-room had been changed.
|
|
|
|
"You are to use this room, Miss Madenda," said one of the stage
|
|
lackeys.
|
|
|
|
No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small
|
|
coop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and
|
|
commodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry
|
|
overhead. She breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were
|
|
more physical than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at
|
|
all. Heart and body were having their say.
|
|
|
|
Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental
|
|
appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested,
|
|
and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her
|
|
enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she
|
|
wore all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her
|
|
equals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as
|
|
to say: "How friendly we have always been." Only the star comedian
|
|
whose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself.
|
|
Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him.
|
|
|
|
Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of
|
|
the applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly
|
|
guilty of something- perhaps unworthiness. When her associates
|
|
addressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and
|
|
daring of place were not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be
|
|
reserved or haughty- to be other than she had been. After the
|
|
performances she rode to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided.
|
|
|
|
Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered
|
|
to her lips- bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid
|
|
salary had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She
|
|
began to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers- whom she did not know
|
|
from Adam- having learned by some hook or crook where she resided,
|
|
bowed himself politely in.
|
|
|
|
"You will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you been
|
|
thinking of changing your apartments?"
|
|
|
|
"I hadn't thought of it," returned Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, I am connected with the Wellington- the new hotel on
|
|
Broadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers."
|
|
|
|
Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and
|
|
most imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a
|
|
splendid restaurant.
|
|
|
|
"Just so," went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of
|
|
familiarity. "We have some very elegant rooms at present which we
|
|
would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind
|
|
where you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are
|
|
perfect in every detail- hot and cold water, private baths, special
|
|
hall service for every floor, elevators and all that. You know what
|
|
our restaurant is."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took
|
|
her to be a millionaire.
|
|
|
|
"What are your rates?" she inquired.
|
|
|
|
"Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about.
|
|
Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day."
|
|
|
|
"Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that."
|
|
|
|
"I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "But
|
|
just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every
|
|
other hotel we make special ones, however. Possibly you have not
|
|
thought about it, but your name is worth something to us."
|
|
|
|
"Oh!" ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.
|
|
|
|
"Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A
|
|
well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrie
|
|
flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and- although you may not
|
|
believe it- patrons."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious
|
|
proposition in her mind.
|
|
|
|
"Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and
|
|
beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want to
|
|
arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You
|
|
need not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them.
|
|
Anything will do for the summer- a mere figure- anything that you
|
|
think you could afford to pay."
|
|
|
|
Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.
|
|
|
|
"You can come to-day or to-morrow-the earlier the better- and we
|
|
will give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms- the very best
|
|
we have."
|
|
|
|
"You're very kind," said Carrie, touched by the agent's extreme
|
|
affability. "I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what
|
|
is right, however. I shouldn't want to-"
|
|
|
|
"You need not trouble about that at all," interrupted Mr. Withers.
|
|
"We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three
|
|
dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you
|
|
have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of, the week
|
|
or month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what
|
|
the rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates."
|
|
|
|
The speaker paused.
|
|
|
|
"Suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added.
|
|
|
|
"I'd be glad to," said Carrie, "but I have a rehearsal this
|
|
morning."
|
|
|
|
"I did not mean at once," he returned, "Any time will do. Would this
|
|
afternoon be inconvenient?"
|
|
|
|
"Not at all," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.
|
|
|
|
"I have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever I do.
|
|
I forgot about that."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, very well," said Mr. Withers, blandly. "It is for you to say
|
|
whom you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit
|
|
yourself."
|
|
|
|
He bowed and backed toward the door.
|
|
|
|
"At four, then, we may expect you?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I will be there to show you," and so Mr. Withers withdrew.
|
|
|
|
After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola.
|
|
|
|
"Did they really?" exclaimed the latter, thinking of the
|
|
Wellington as a group of managers. "Isn't that fine? Oh, jolly! It's
|
|
so swell. That's where we dined that night we went with those two
|
|
Cushing boys. Don't you know?"
|
|
|
|
"I remember," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, it's as fine as it can be."
|
|
|
|
"We'd better be going up there," observed Carrie, later in the
|
|
afternoon.
|
|
|
|
The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were
|
|
three and bath- a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in
|
|
chocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows
|
|
looked down into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street
|
|
which crossed there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass
|
|
and white enamel beds, white, ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to
|
|
match. In the third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp,
|
|
with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy
|
|
rockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with
|
|
oddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon
|
|
the divan, footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Such
|
|
accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Lola, walking about.
|
|
|
|
"It is comfortable," said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and
|
|
looking down into crowded Broadway.
|
|
|
|
The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a
|
|
large, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and
|
|
commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and
|
|
incandescent lights arranged in three places.
|
|
|
|
"Do you find these satisfactory?" observed Mr. Withers.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, very," answered Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are
|
|
ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door."
|
|
|
|
Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the
|
|
marbelled lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she
|
|
had often dreamed of occupying.
|
|
|
|
"I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" she
|
|
observed to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth
|
|
Street.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, by all means," said the latter.
|
|
|
|
The next day her trunks left for the new abode.
|
|
|
|
Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her
|
|
dressing-room door.
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock
|
|
of surprise.
|
|
|
|
"Tell her I'll be right out," she said softly. Then, looking at
|
|
the card, added: "Mrs. Vance."
|
|
|
|
"Why, you little sinner," the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie
|
|
coming toward her across the now vacant stage. "How in the world did
|
|
this happen?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her
|
|
friend's manner. You would have thought that the long separation had
|
|
come about accidentally.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first
|
|
troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your
|
|
name threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked
|
|
just like you, and I said: 'Well, now, I will go right down there
|
|
and see.' I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, very well," returned Carrie. "How have you been?"
|
|
|
|
"Fine. But aren't you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking
|
|
about you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I
|
|
was almost afraid to come back here this afternoon."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, nonsense," said Carrie, blushing. "You know I'd be glad to
|
|
see you."
|
|
|
|
"Well, anyhow, here you are. Can't you come up and take dinner
|
|
with me now? Where are you stopping?"
|
|
|
|
"At the Wellington," said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of
|
|
pride in the acknowledgment.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, are you?" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not
|
|
without its proper effect.
|
|
|
|
Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom
|
|
she could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much
|
|
she surmised.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I don't think I can," said Carrie, "to-night. I have so
|
|
little time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won't you come and dine with
|
|
me?"
|
|
|
|
"I'd be delighted, but I can't to-night," said Mrs. Vance,
|
|
studying Carrie's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune made
|
|
her seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the other's eyes.
|
|
"I promised faithfully to be home at six." Glancing at the small
|
|
gold watch pinned to her bosom, she added: "I must be going, too. Tell
|
|
me when you're coming up, if at all."
|
|
|
|
"Why, any time you like," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well, to-morrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now."
|
|
|
|
"Moved again?" exclaimed Carrie, laughing.
|
|
|
|
"Yes. You know I can't stay six months in one place. I just have
|
|
to move. Remember now- half-past five."
|
|
|
|
"I won't forget," said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went
|
|
away. Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now-
|
|
perhaps better. Something in the other's solicitude and interest
|
|
made her feel as if she were the one to condescend.
|
|
|
|
Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the
|
|
doorman at the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly
|
|
developed since Monday. What they contained she well knew. Mash
|
|
notes were old affairs in their mildest form. She remembered having
|
|
received her first one far back in Columbia City. Since then, as a
|
|
chorus girl, she had received others- gentlemen who prayed for an
|
|
engagement. They were common sport between her and Lola, who
|
|
received some also. They both frequently made light of them.
|
|
|
|
Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes
|
|
did not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable
|
|
collection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages.
|
|
Thus one:
|
|
|
|
I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury.
|
|
There isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. I say
|
|
this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I love
|
|
you and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that prompts
|
|
me to write. Will you not give me one half-hour in which to plead my
|
|
cause?
|
|
|
|
Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the
|
|
Seventeenth Street place were read with more interest- though never
|
|
delight- than those which arrived after she was installed in her
|
|
luxurious quarters at the Wellington. Even there her vanity- or that
|
|
self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity- was
|
|
not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation,
|
|
being new in any form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wise
|
|
to distinguish between her old condition and her new one. She had
|
|
not had fame or money before. Now they had come. She had not had
|
|
adulation and affectionate propositions before. Now they had come.
|
|
Wherefore? She smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so
|
|
much more attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolness
|
|
and indifference.
|
|
|
|
"Do look here," she remarked to Lola. "See what this man says: 'If
|
|
you will only deign to grant me one half-hour,'" she repeated, with an
|
|
imitation of languor. "The idea. Aren't men silly?"
|
|
|
|
"He must have lots of money, the way he talks," observed Lola.
|
|
|
|
"That's what they all say," said Carrie, innocently.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you see him," suggested Lola, "and hear what he has to
|
|
say?"
|
|
|
|
"Indeed I won't," said Carrie. "I know what he'd say. I don't want
|
|
to meet anybody that way."
|
|
|
|
Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes.
|
|
|
|
"He couldn't hurt you," she returned. "You might have some fun
|
|
with him."
|
|
|
|
Carrie shook her head.
|
|
|
|
"You're awfully queer," returned the little, blue-eyed soldier.
|
|
|
|
Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary
|
|
had not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted
|
|
her. Without money- or the requisite sum, at least- she enjoyed the
|
|
luxuries which money could buy. For her the doors of fine places
|
|
seemed to open quite without the asking. These palatial chambers,
|
|
how marvellously they came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs.
|
|
Vance in the Chelsea- these were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes,
|
|
offers of fortune. And still her dreams ran riot. The one hundred
|
|
and fifty! the one hundred and fifty! What a door to an Aladdin's cave
|
|
it seemed to be. Each day, her head almost turned by developments, her
|
|
fancies of what her fortune must be, with ample money, grew and
|
|
multiplied. She conceived of delights which were not- saw lights of
|
|
joy that never were on land or sea. Then, at last, after a world of
|
|
anticipation, came her first installment of one hundred and fifty
|
|
dollars.
|
|
|
|
It was paid to her in greenbacks- three twenties, six tens, and
|
|
six fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was
|
|
accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it.
|
|
|
|
"Ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "Miss Madenda- one
|
|
hundred and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have
|
|
made."
|
|
|
|
"Yes, indeed," returned Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company,
|
|
and she heard the changed tone of address.
|
|
|
|
"How much?" said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she had
|
|
only recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took her
|
|
back to the few weeks in which she had collected- or rather had
|
|
received- almost with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week
|
|
from a lordly foreman in a shoe factory- a man who, in distributing
|
|
the envelopes, had the manner of a prince doling out favours to a
|
|
servile group of petitioners. She knew that out in Chicago this very
|
|
day the same factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girls
|
|
working in long lines at clattering machines; that at noon they
|
|
would eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour; that Saturday they would
|
|
gather, as they had when she was one of them, and accept the small pay
|
|
for work a hundred times harder than she was now doing. Oh, it was
|
|
so easy now! The world was so rosy and bright. She felt so thrilled
|
|
that she must needs walk back to the hotel to think, wondering what
|
|
she should do.
|
|
|
|
It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing
|
|
the desires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred and
|
|
fifty in hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. In
|
|
itself, as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look
|
|
upon, it was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed.
|
|
Her hotel bill did not require its use. Her clothes had for some
|
|
time been wholly satisfactory. Another day or two and she would
|
|
receive another hundred and fifty. It began to appear as if this
|
|
were not so startlingly necessary to maintain her present state. If
|
|
she wanted to do anything better or move higher she must have more-
|
|
a great deal more.
|
|
|
|
Now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which
|
|
shine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display
|
|
the folly of celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie,
|
|
and said so, publicly- adding, however, that she was merely pretty,
|
|
good-natured, and lucky. This cut like a knife. The "Herald,"
|
|
getting up an entertainment for the benefit of its free ice fund,
|
|
did her the honour to beg her to appear along with celebrities for
|
|
nothing. She was visited by a young author, who had a play which he
|
|
thought she could produce. Alas, she could not judge. It hurt her to
|
|
think it. Then she found she must put her money in the bank for
|
|
safety, and so moving, finally reached the place where it struck her
|
|
that the door to life's perfect enjoyment was not open.
|
|
|
|
Gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothing
|
|
was going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was
|
|
star. Fifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their
|
|
mansions. Madison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full of
|
|
loafing thespians in search of next season engagements. The whole city
|
|
was quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. Hence the
|
|
feeling that there was little to do.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of the
|
|
windows which looked down into Broadway, "I get lonely; don't you?"
|
|
|
|
"No," said Lola, "not very often. You won't go anywhere. That's
|
|
what's the matter with you."
|
|
|
|
"Where can I go?"
|
|
|
|
"Why, there're lots of places," returned Lola, who was thinking of
|
|
her own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. "You won't go with
|
|
anybody."
|
|
|
|
"I don't want to go with these people who write to me. I know what
|
|
kind they are."
|
|
|
|
"You oughtn't to be lonely," said Lola, thinking of Carrie's
|
|
success. "There're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked out again at the passing crowd.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she said.
|
|
|
|
Unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XLV.
|
|
|
|
CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR
|
|
|
|
The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken
|
|
refuge with seventy dollars- the price of his furniture- between him
|
|
and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He
|
|
was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping
|
|
away. As fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's
|
|
lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room- thirty-five
|
|
cents a day- to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw
|
|
notices of Carrie. Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, and
|
|
an old "Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently
|
|
appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. He read
|
|
these things with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther
|
|
and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded
|
|
from him. On the bill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her
|
|
as the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and
|
|
looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way.
|
|
His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all
|
|
that she now seemed to be.
|
|
|
|
Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had
|
|
never any intention of going near her, there was a subconscious
|
|
comfort for him- he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a
|
|
fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted
|
|
that it was still running. In September it went on the road and he did
|
|
not notice it. When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he
|
|
moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a
|
|
bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some
|
|
chairs. Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other
|
|
days, a habit which grew upon him. It was not sleep at first, but a
|
|
mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. As
|
|
the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that
|
|
concerned it stood in relief.
|
|
|
|
He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until
|
|
one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one
|
|
of his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he
|
|
stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed,
|
|
talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estate
|
|
in which the latter was about to invest.
|
|
|
|
"How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrison
|
|
say.
|
|
|
|
"Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my hands
|
|
full now."
|
|
|
|
The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had
|
|
really spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he did
|
|
talk.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!"
|
|
|
|
It was a funny English story he was telling to a company of
|
|
actors, Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old
|
|
codger, sitting near by seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a
|
|
most pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of the
|
|
memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his
|
|
chair and strolled out into the streets.
|
|
|
|
One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he saw
|
|
where a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental
|
|
halt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only
|
|
yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs.
|
|
Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow
|
|
he was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He
|
|
wondered how this important fact had skipped him. Goodness knows
|
|
when she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and
|
|
went into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money,
|
|
unseen. There were but ten dollars in all.
|
|
|
|
He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him
|
|
got along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged-
|
|
unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to such as
|
|
they in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on the
|
|
streets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in this
|
|
thought.
|
|
|
|
Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty
|
|
cents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected. His
|
|
stoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his
|
|
clothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about,
|
|
saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents- not
|
|
enough to eat for the morrow.
|
|
|
|
Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the
|
|
Broadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big,
|
|
heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances,
|
|
looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up,
|
|
he was upon him before he could turn away.
|
|
|
|
"My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's
|
|
inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get to
|
|
do?"
|
|
|
|
The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.
|
|
|
|
"I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something-
|
|
it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but
|
|
if you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to
|
|
you. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've
|
|
got to have something."
|
|
|
|
The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing
|
|
that Hurstwood was about to go on, he said:
|
|
|
|
"I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside."
|
|
|
|
Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.
|
|
|
|
"I thought you might tell me."
|
|
|
|
The fellow shook his head irritably.
|
|
|
|
Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's
|
|
desk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood
|
|
looked him straight in the eye.
|
|
|
|
"Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm in
|
|
a position where I have to get something at once."
|
|
|
|
The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, I
|
|
should judge so."
|
|
|
|
"I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've been
|
|
a manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way, but I'm not
|
|
here to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week."
|
|
|
|
The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.
|
|
|
|
"What hotel did you manage?" he inquired.
|
|
|
|
"It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgerald
|
|
and Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years."
|
|
|
|
"Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out of
|
|
that?"
|
|
|
|
The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the
|
|
fact.
|
|
|
|
"Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about
|
|
now. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if
|
|
you will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day."
|
|
|
|
The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly
|
|
tell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness
|
|
made him wish to do something.
|
|
|
|
"Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk.
|
|
|
|
In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head
|
|
porter, appeared.
|
|
|
|
"Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could
|
|
find for this man to do? I'd like to give him something."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help we
|
|
need. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like."
|
|
|
|
"Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something
|
|
to eat."
|
|
|
|
"All right, sir," said Olsen.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's
|
|
manner changed.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject
|
|
for private contempt.
|
|
|
|
"You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook.
|
|
|
|
The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and
|
|
intellectual in his eyes, said:
|
|
|
|
"Well, sit down over there."
|
|
|
|
Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for
|
|
long. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists
|
|
about the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was
|
|
set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and
|
|
everything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks- all were
|
|
over him. Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals-
|
|
his temper was too lonely- and they made it disagreeable for him.
|
|
|
|
With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he
|
|
endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house,
|
|
eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which
|
|
he tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to endure.
|
|
|
|
One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large
|
|
coal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets
|
|
were sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling
|
|
dull and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat
|
|
about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired
|
|
energy in others.
|
|
|
|
In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new
|
|
culinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a
|
|
big box, he could not lift it.
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handle
|
|
it?"
|
|
|
|
He was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit.
|
|
|
|
"No," he said, weakly.
|
|
|
|
The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.
|
|
|
|
"Not sick, are you?" he asked.
|
|
|
|
"I think I am," returned Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you'd better go sit down, then."
|
|
|
|
This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could
|
|
do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day.
|
|
|
|
"That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the
|
|
night clerk.
|
|
|
|
"What's the matter with him?"
|
|
|
|
"I don't know. He's got a high fever."
|
|
|
|
The hotel physician looked at him.
|
|
|
|
"Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia."
|
|
|
|
Accordingly, he was carted away.
|
|
|
|
In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of
|
|
May before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was
|
|
discharged.
|
|
|
|
No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring
|
|
sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had
|
|
fled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby.
|
|
Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds.
|
|
Some old garments had been given him- a cheap brown coat and misfit
|
|
pair of trousers. Also some change and advice. He was told to apply to
|
|
the charities.
|
|
|
|
Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where
|
|
to look. From this it was but a step to beggary.
|
|
|
|
"What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve."
|
|
|
|
His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man
|
|
came leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park.
|
|
Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near.
|
|
|
|
"Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in a
|
|
position where I must ask someone."
|
|
|
|
The man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket and
|
|
took out a dime.
|
|
|
|
"There you are," he said.
|
|
|
|
"Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more
|
|
attention to him.
|
|
|
|
Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he
|
|
decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since
|
|
that would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it
|
|
was long before just the right face and situation arrived. When he
|
|
asked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to
|
|
recover and then asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the
|
|
most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful.
|
|
|
|
The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a
|
|
variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it
|
|
crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man
|
|
could pick the liberal countenance if he tried.
|
|
|
|
It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by.
|
|
He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be
|
|
arrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that
|
|
indefinite something which is always better.
|
|
|
|
It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one
|
|
morning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss Carrie
|
|
Madenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. How
|
|
successful she was- how much money she must have! Even now, however,
|
|
it took a severe run of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. He
|
|
was truly hungry before he said:
|
|
|
|
"I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars."
|
|
|
|
Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it
|
|
several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat
|
|
in Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help me
|
|
a little," he kept saying to himself.
|
|
|
|
Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the
|
|
Thirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying
|
|
pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was
|
|
slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but
|
|
being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last
|
|
he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous
|
|
tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more.
|
|
|
|
Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to
|
|
see that he was mistaken.
|
|
|
|
"She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to
|
|
encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have
|
|
gone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached.
|
|
|
|
Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed,
|
|
almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing
|
|
with ladies- the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of
|
|
theatres and hotels.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the
|
|
door. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad
|
|
walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie,
|
|
but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly
|
|
tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then
|
|
seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience
|
|
was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away.
|
|
|
|
"Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more
|
|
fortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something."
|
|
|
|
At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting
|
|
aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the
|
|
corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway- a spot which is also
|
|
intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres
|
|
were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing
|
|
the night's amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their
|
|
lamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of
|
|
three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by
|
|
in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were
|
|
loungers- a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with
|
|
his lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking-room to
|
|
another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming
|
|
windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable,
|
|
well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night,
|
|
pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration- the city
|
|
bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways.
|
|
|
|
This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned
|
|
religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our
|
|
peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which
|
|
he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he
|
|
chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted
|
|
of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to
|
|
him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to
|
|
provide a comfortable habitation for himself.
|
|
|
|
Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his
|
|
stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected
|
|
by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways
|
|
learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone,
|
|
gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening
|
|
in question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a
|
|
friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to
|
|
gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the
|
|
matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and
|
|
idling for his own amusement.
|
|
|
|
As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here
|
|
and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a
|
|
loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the
|
|
opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came
|
|
down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general
|
|
survey, and bobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types
|
|
edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not
|
|
venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line
|
|
of ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling.
|
|
|
|
As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour
|
|
passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air,
|
|
too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving- watchers
|
|
and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid
|
|
to enter- a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener
|
|
sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out
|
|
the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous
|
|
way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was something
|
|
shamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention were
|
|
to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then
|
|
suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt.
|
|
|
|
The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial
|
|
greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one
|
|
who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge of
|
|
the walk.
|
|
|
|
"Stand over there," he said.
|
|
|
|
By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his
|
|
short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so
|
|
much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching
|
|
and scraping their feet.
|
|
|
|
"Cold, ain't it?"
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad winter's over."
|
|
|
|
"Looks as though it might rain."
|
|
|
|
The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each
|
|
other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in
|
|
the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty,
|
|
silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet.
|
|
|
|
There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no
|
|
chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.
|
|
|
|
"Beds, eh, all of you?"
|
|
|
|
There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.
|
|
|
|
"Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent
|
|
myself."
|
|
|
|
They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now,
|
|
some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden
|
|
leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become
|
|
a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all
|
|
warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare
|
|
of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others
|
|
were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes;
|
|
one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few
|
|
spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then
|
|
more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one
|
|
in the line began to talk.
|
|
|
|
"Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these men
|
|
are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They
|
|
can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them
|
|
to bed. Who will give it to me?"
|
|
|
|
No reply.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve
|
|
cents isn't so very much for one man."
|
|
|
|
"Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with
|
|
strained eyes. "It's all I can afford."
|
|
|
|
"All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizing
|
|
one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and
|
|
stood him up alone.
|
|
|
|
Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.
|
|
|
|
"I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow.
|
|
There are"- counting- "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
|
|
nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man
|
|
to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right
|
|
along and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?"
|
|
|
|
One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a
|
|
five-cent piece.
|
|
|
|
"Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed.
|
|
Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have
|
|
good beds. How about these?"
|
|
|
|
"Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.
|
|
|
|
"That," said the, captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds
|
|
for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me
|
|
seven cents more?"
|
|
|
|
"I will," said a voice.
|
|
|
|
Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross
|
|
east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly
|
|
disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal
|
|
extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would
|
|
be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she
|
|
would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying
|
|
circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a
|
|
whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again
|
|
to-night. He had no food and no bed.
|
|
|
|
When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of
|
|
wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or
|
|
some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing
|
|
the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men
|
|
whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body
|
|
of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he
|
|
recognised a type of his own kind- the figures whom he saw about the
|
|
streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like
|
|
himself. He wondered what it could be and turned back.
|
|
|
|
There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with
|
|
astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "These
|
|
men must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whose
|
|
beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and
|
|
take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise.
|
|
What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of
|
|
one difficulty, at least. Tomorrow, maybe, he would do better.
|
|
|
|
Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a
|
|
relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed,
|
|
he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward
|
|
sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some
|
|
newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over,
|
|
found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices
|
|
pronounced forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling
|
|
observations were made in reply.
|
|
|
|
There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from
|
|
those who were too dull or too weary to converse.
|
|
|
|
Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he
|
|
should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At
|
|
last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the
|
|
blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was
|
|
talking for him.
|
|
|
|
"Twelve cents, gentlemen- twelve cents puts this man to bed. He
|
|
wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go."
|
|
Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and
|
|
weakness had made a coward of him.
|
|
|
|
"Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain.
|
|
|
|
Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder.
|
|
|
|
"Line up over there," he said.
|
|
|
|
Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world
|
|
were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to
|
|
feel like himself about this.
|
|
|
|
"Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead- a
|
|
little, woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as
|
|
though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune.
|
|
|
|
"Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently.
|
|
|
|
"Hub! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up,
|
|
leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain
|
|
was pleading.
|
|
|
|
"Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another.
|
|
|
|
"Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third.
|
|
|
|
A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a
|
|
bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to
|
|
his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the
|
|
white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped
|
|
in awe.
|
|
|
|
"That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting
|
|
out as many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then,
|
|
there are only seven. I need twelve cents."
|
|
|
|
Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to
|
|
a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot
|
|
passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians.
|
|
Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed
|
|
out a coin, and went away, unheeding.
|
|
|
|
The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very
|
|
slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as
|
|
though he could not fail.
|
|
|
|
"Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting
|
|
tired and cold. Some one give me four cents."
|
|
|
|
There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him,
|
|
and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the
|
|
other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the
|
|
ground.
|
|
|
|
The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven.
|
|
Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.
|
|
|
|
"Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen
|
|
cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six.
|
|
Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn
|
|
yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them
|
|
to bed. Eighteen cents."
|
|
|
|
No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several
|
|
minutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as if
|
|
this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all
|
|
the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of
|
|
which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so
|
|
weak.
|
|
|
|
At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth
|
|
Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded
|
|
by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had
|
|
escorted his own wife in like manner.
|
|
|
|
While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable
|
|
company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers,
|
|
all elegant and graceful.
|
|
|
|
"Here you are," he said.
|
|
|
|
"Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants.
|
|
"Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added.
|
|
|
|
Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head,
|
|
counting as he went.
|
|
|
|
"One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up.
|
|
Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now."
|
|
|
|
He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwood
|
|
moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by
|
|
the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third
|
|
Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and
|
|
loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting
|
|
policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the
|
|
leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a
|
|
seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a
|
|
lodging-house, closed, apparently, for the night. They were
|
|
expected, however.
|
|
|
|
Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within.
|
|
Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now."
|
|
|
|
Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay
|
|
for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and
|
|
saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included
|
|
in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and
|
|
strolled out into the night.
|
|
|
|
"I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him
|
|
painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small,
|
|
lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die."
|
|
|
|
Chapter XLVI.
|
|
|
|
STIRRING TROUBLED WATERS
|
|
|
|
Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was
|
|
putting the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the
|
|
night, when a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. It
|
|
included a familiar voice.
|
|
|
|
"Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda."
|
|
|
|
"You'll have to send in your card."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, come off! Here."
|
|
|
|
A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her
|
|
dressing-room door.
|
|
|
|
Carrie opened it.
|
|
|
|
"Well, well!" said Drouet. "I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew
|
|
that was you the moment I saw you."
|
|
|
|
Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation.
|
|
|
|
"Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy!
|
|
That's all right, shake hands."
|
|
|
|
Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man's
|
|
exuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed.
|
|
The same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy
|
|
countenance.
|
|
|
|
"That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until I
|
|
paid him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a great
|
|
show. You do your part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be
|
|
passing tonight and thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I saw
|
|
your name on the programme, but I didn't remember it until you came on
|
|
the stage. Then it struck me all at once. Say, you could have
|
|
knocked me down with a feather. That's the same name you used out
|
|
there in Chicago, isn't it?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance.
|
|
|
|
"I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been,
|
|
anyhow?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She
|
|
was rather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?"
|
|
|
|
"Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now."
|
|
|
|
"Is that so?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branch
|
|
here."
|
|
|
|
"How nice!"
|
|
|
|
"Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet.
|
|
|
|
"About three years ago," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it.
|
|
I knew you would, though. I always said you could act- didn't I?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled.
|
|
|
|
"Yes, you did," she said.
|
|
|
|
"Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improve so.
|
|
You're taller, aren't you?"
|
|
|
|
"Me? Oh, a little, maybe."
|
|
|
|
He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was
|
|
set jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to
|
|
avert. Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once
|
|
and without modification.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and
|
|
the like, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come out to
|
|
dinner with me; won't you? I've got a friend out here."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an early
|
|
engagement to-morrow."
|
|
|
|
"Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want to
|
|
have a good talk with you."
|
|
|
|
"No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I
|
|
don't care for a late dinner."
|
|
|
|
"Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow."
|
|
|
|
"Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talk
|
|
some other time."
|
|
|
|
As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his
|
|
face, as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed.
|
|
Good-nature dictated something better than this for one who had always
|
|
liked her.
|
|
|
|
"You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of
|
|
penance for error. "You can take dinner with me."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Drouet, brightening. "Where are you stopping?"
|
|
|
|
"At the Waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionable
|
|
hostelry then but newly erected.
|
|
|
|
"What time?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly.
|
|
|
|
The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that
|
|
Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome as
|
|
ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to
|
|
whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked as
|
|
volubly as ever.
|
|
|
|
"They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his first remark.
|
|
|
|
"Yes; they do," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed
|
|
account of his own career.
|
|
|
|
"I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed in
|
|
one place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars."
|
|
|
|
Carrie listened most good-naturedly.
|
|
|
|
"Say," he said, suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?"
|
|
|
|
Carrie flushed a little.
|
|
|
|
"He's here in New York, I guess," she said. "I haven't seen him
|
|
for some time."
|
|
|
|
Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that the
|
|
ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He
|
|
imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that
|
|
Carrie had got rid of him- as well she ought, he thought.
|
|
|
|
"A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that," he
|
|
observed.
|
|
|
|
"Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were,
|
|
with his hand.
|
|
|
|
"No, I don't," she answered. "What do you mean?"
|
|
|
|
"Why that affair in Chicago- the time he left."
|
|
|
|
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Carrie. Could it
|
|
be he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?
|
|
|
|
"Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took ten thousand
|
|
dollars with him when he left, didn't you?"
|
|
|
|
"What!" said Carrie. "You don't mean to say he stole money, do you?"
|
|
|
|
"Why," said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn't
|
|
you?"
|
|
|
|
"Why, no," said Carrie. "Of course I didn't."
|
|
|
|
"Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was in
|
|
all the papers."
|
|
|
|
"How much did you say he took?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards,
|
|
though."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was
|
|
shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered
|
|
now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he
|
|
took it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a
|
|
kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had
|
|
hanging over his head all the time.
|
|
|
|
At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in
|
|
mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured
|
|
regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to
|
|
enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he
|
|
thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and
|
|
Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all-desirable.
|
|
|
|
"Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?" he
|
|
asked.
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled to think of it.
|
|
|
|
"I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he added
|
|
ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and I
|
|
were going to get along fine those days."
|
|
|
|
"You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the least
|
|
touch of coldness.
|
|
|
|
"Won't you let me tell you-"
|
|
|
|
"No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was getting
|
|
ready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty of time."
|
|
|
|
"No," said Carrie, gently.
|
|
|
|
Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw her
|
|
to the elevator and, standing there, said:
|
|
|
|
"When do I see you again?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, some time, possibly," said Carrie. "I'll be here all summer.
|
|
Good-night!"
|
|
|
|
The elevator door was open.
|
|
|
|
"Good-night!" said Drouet, as she rustled in.
|
|
|
|
Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived,
|
|
because she was now so far off. He thought himself hardly dealt
|
|
with. Carrie, however, had other thoughts.
|
|
|
|
That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the
|
|
Casino, without observing him.
|
|
|
|
The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face
|
|
to face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see
|
|
her, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise the
|
|
shabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, a
|
|
seemingly hungry stranger.
|
|
|
|
"Carrie," he half whispered, "can I have a few words with you?"
|
|
|
|
She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had
|
|
lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now.
|
|
Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the
|
|
money.
|
|
|
|
"Why, George," she said; "what's the matter with you?"
|
|
|
|
"I've been sick," he answered. "I've just got out of the hospital.
|
|
For God's sake, let me have a little money, will you?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to
|
|
maintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you, anyhow?"
|
|
|
|
She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it- a
|
|
five and two twos.
|
|
|
|
"I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almost resenting
|
|
her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a
|
|
source.
|
|
|
|
"Here," she said. "It's all I have with me."
|
|
|
|
"All right," he answered, softly. "I'll give it back to you some
|
|
day."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt
|
|
the strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked,
|
|
hardly knowing what to do. "Where are you living?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There's no
|
|
use trying to tell you here. I'm all right now."
|
|
|
|
He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries- so much better
|
|
had fate dealt with her.
|
|
|
|
"Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won't bother
|
|
you any more."
|
|
|
|
She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward
|
|
the east.
|
|
|
|
For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to
|
|
wear partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen
|
|
by her. His attentions seemed out of place.
|
|
|
|
"I'm out," was her reply to the boy.
|
|
|
|
So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that
|
|
she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye- she was so
|
|
quiet and reserved.
|
|
|
|
Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to
|
|
London. A second summer season did not seem to promise well here.
|
|
|
|
"How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager,
|
|
one afternoon.
|
|
|
|
"It might be just the other way," said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I think we'll go in June," he answered.
|
|
|
|
In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and
|
|
Drouet were left to discover that she was gone. The latter called
|
|
once, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing
|
|
the ends of his moustache. At last he reached a conclusion- the old
|
|
days had gone for good.
|
|
|
|
"She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did
|
|
not believe this.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. A
|
|
small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month.
|
|
Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park,
|
|
carried him over more days. Resorting to those peculiar charities,
|
|
several of which, in the press of hungry search, he accidentally
|
|
stumbled upon, did the rest. Toward the dead of winter, Carrie came
|
|
back, appearing on Broadway in a new play; but he was not aware of it.
|
|
For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the fire sign,
|
|
announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of
|
|
amusements. Drouet saw it, but did not venture in.
|
|
|
|
About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little
|
|
success in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of
|
|
course, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was
|
|
nothing responsive between them. He thought she was still united to
|
|
Hurstwood, until otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he
|
|
did not profess to understand, and refrained from comment.
|
|
|
|
With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself
|
|
accordingly.
|
|
|
|
"She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could do
|
|
better than that."
|
|
|
|
One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a very
|
|
friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keen
|
|
interest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because
|
|
at that time he had represented something which she did not have;
|
|
but this she did not understand. Success had given her the momentary
|
|
feeling that she was now blessed with much of which he would
|
|
approve. As a matter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at
|
|
all to him. He thought she could have done better, by far.
|
|
|
|
"You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering
|
|
her interest in that form of art.
|
|
|
|
"No," she answered; "I haven't, so far."
|
|
|
|
He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had
|
|
failed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though."
|
|
|
|
"I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort of
|
|
disposition that would do well in comedy-drama."
|
|
|
|
It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then,
|
|
so clearly in his mind?
|
|
|
|
"Why?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your
|
|
nature."
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with
|
|
her that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal
|
|
was sounding.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all
|
|
concealment.
|
|
|
|
"I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good."
|
|
|
|
"I'm glad you liked it."
|
|
|
|
"Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy."
|
|
|
|
This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but
|
|
later they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring
|
|
at the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard
|
|
work had given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not for
|
|
Carrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her.
|
|
|
|
"All alone?" she said.
|
|
|
|
"I was listening to the music."
|
|
|
|
"I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in
|
|
the inventor.
|
|
|
|
Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while
|
|
he sat.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attention
|
|
was called.
|
|
|
|
"Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him.
|
|
|
|
They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling,
|
|
only hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as in
|
|
the old days.
|
|
|
|
"I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved
|
|
by the inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it always
|
|
makes me feel as if I wanted something- I-"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel."
|
|
|
|
Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her
|
|
disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly.
|
|
|
|
"You ought not to be melancholy," he said.
|
|
|
|
He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien
|
|
observation which, however, accorded with their feelings.
|
|
|
|
"The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we
|
|
can occupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring our
|
|
hands over the far-off things."
|
|
|
|
The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before
|
|
her, as if to rest himself.
|
|
|
|
"Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. He
|
|
was looking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large,
|
|
sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of
|
|
his judgment.
|
|
|
|
"Perhaps I shall," she returned.
|
|
|
|
"That's your field," he added.
|
|
|
|
"Do you think so?"
|
|
|
|
"Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but there
|
|
is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of
|
|
work."
|
|
|
|
Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, loneliness
|
|
deserted her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical.
|
|
|
|
"It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I
|
|
remember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was
|
|
something peculiar about your mouth. I thought you were about to cry."
|
|
|
|
"How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heart
|
|
craved.
|
|
|
|
"Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I
|
|
saw it again. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives
|
|
your face much this same character. It's in the depth of them, I
|
|
think."
|
|
|
|
Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused.
|
|
|
|
"You probably are not aware of it," he added.
|
|
|
|
She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be
|
|
equal to this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked the
|
|
door to a new desire.
|
|
|
|
She had cause to ponder over this until they met again- several
|
|
weeks or more. It showed her she was drifting away from the old
|
|
ideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage
|
|
and thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it?
|
|
|
|
"I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if you
|
|
had a more dramatic part. I've studied it out-"
|
|
|
|
"What is it?" said Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in
|
|
your face is one that comes out in different things. You get the
|
|
same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you
|
|
deeply. It's a thing the world likes to see, because it's a natural
|
|
expression of its longing."
|
|
|
|
Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant.
|
|
|
|
"The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on.
|
|
"Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend
|
|
upon others. That is what genius is for. One man expresses their
|
|
desires for them in music; another one in poetry; another one in a
|
|
play. Sometimes nature does it in a face- it makes the face
|
|
representative of all desire. That's what has happened in your case."
|
|
|
|
He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes
|
|
that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was
|
|
something which represented the world's longing. She took it to
|
|
heart as a creditable thing, until he added:
|
|
|
|
"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have this
|
|
thing. It is no credit to you- that is, I mean, you might not have had
|
|
it. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must
|
|
do something with it."
|
|
|
|
"What?" asked Carrie.
|
|
|
|
"I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy
|
|
and such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make
|
|
your powers endure."
|
|
|
|
Carrie did not understand this last. All her comedy success was
|
|
little or nothing.
|
|
|
|
"What do you mean?" she asked.
|
|
|
|
"Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in
|
|
your nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it and
|
|
live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look
|
|
will leave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act will
|
|
disappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takes
|
|
care of that."
|
|
|
|
He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes
|
|
became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something in
|
|
Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up.
|
|
|
|
"I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect.
|
|
|
|
"If I were you," he said, "I'd change."
|
|
|
|
The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubled
|
|
over it in her rocking-chair for days.
|
|
|
|
"I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she
|
|
eventually remarked to Lola.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, why not?" said the latter.
|
|
|
|
"I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play."
|
|
|
|
"What put that idea in your head?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so."
|
|
|
|
Still, she did nothing- grieving. It was a long way to this better
|
|
thing- or seemed so- and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity
|
|
and longing.
|
|
|
|
Chapter XLVII.
|
|
|
|
THE WAY OF THE BEATEN: A HARP IN THE WIND
|
|
|
|
In the city, at that time, there were a number of charities
|
|
similar in nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood now
|
|
patronised in a like unfortunate way. One was a convent
|
|
mission-house of the Sisters of Mercy in Fifteenth Street- a row of
|
|
red brick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plain
|
|
wooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement that every
|
|
noon a meal was given free to all those who might apply and ask for
|
|
aid. This simple announcement was modest in the extreme, covering,
|
|
as it did, charity so broad. Institutions and charities are so large
|
|
and so numerous in New York that such things as this are not often
|
|
noticed by the more comfortably situated. But to one whose mind is
|
|
upon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection. Unless one
|
|
were looking up this matter in particular, he could have stood at
|
|
Sixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hour and
|
|
never have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that
|
|
busy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some
|
|
weather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in
|
|
countenance and dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none
|
|
the less true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it
|
|
became. Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house,
|
|
compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirty
|
|
eating at one time, so that a line had to be formed outside and an
|
|
orderly entrance effected. This caused a daily spectacle which,
|
|
however, had become so common by repetition during a number of years
|
|
that now nothing was thought of it. The men waited patiently, like
|
|
cattle, in the coldest weather- waited for several hours before they
|
|
could be admitted. No questions were asked and no service rendered.
|
|
They ate and went away again, some of them returning regularly day
|
|
after day the winter through.
|
|
|
|
A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door
|
|
during the entire operation and counted the admissible number. The men
|
|
moved up in solemn order. There was no haste and no eagerness
|
|
displayed. It was almost a dumb procession. In the bitterest weather
|
|
this line was to be found here. Under an icy wind there was a
|
|
prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing of feet. Fingers and the
|
|
features of the face looked as if severely nipped by the cold. A study
|
|
of these men in broad light proved them to be nearly all of a type.
|
|
They belonged to the class that sit on the park benches during the
|
|
endurable days and sleep upon them during the summer nights. They
|
|
frequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heels East Side streets
|
|
where poor clothes and shrunken features are not singled out as
|
|
curious. They are the men who are in the lodging-house sitting-rooms
|
|
during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper
|
|
shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower East Side
|
|
streets. Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played
|
|
havoc with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,
|
|
hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were
|
|
a sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended to, their
|
|
ears anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at
|
|
heel and toe. They were of the class which simply floats and drifts,
|
|
every wave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a
|
|
stormy shore.
|
|
|
|
For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city,
|
|
Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who would
|
|
come for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of
|
|
Broadway and Tenth Street, at midnight. Every night during twenty
|
|
years about three hundred men had formed in line and at the
|
|
appointed time marched past the doorway, picked their loaf from a
|
|
great box placed just outside, and vanished again into the night. From
|
|
the beginning to the present time there had been little change in
|
|
the character or number of these men. There were two or three
|
|
figures that had grown familiar to those who had seen this little
|
|
procession pass year after year. Two of them had missed scarcely a
|
|
night in fifteen years. There were about forty, more or less,
|
|
regular callers. The remainder of the line was formed of strangers. In
|
|
times of panic and unusual hardships there were seldom more than three
|
|
hundred. In times of prosperity, when little is heard of the
|
|
unemployed, there were seldom less. The same number, winter and
|
|
summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this
|
|
melancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.
|
|
|
|
At both of these two charities, during the severe winter which was
|
|
now on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it was
|
|
peculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about the
|
|
streets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offering to the
|
|
poor. Already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, several such as he
|
|
had shambled forward out of Sixth Avenue, their thin clothes
|
|
flapping and fluttering in the wind. They leaned against the iron
|
|
railing which protects the walls of the Ninth Regiment Armory, which
|
|
fronts upon that section of Fifteenth Street, having come early in
|
|
order to be first in. Having an hour to wait, they at first lingered
|
|
at a respectful distance; but others coming up, they moved closer in
|
|
order to protect their right of precedence. To this collection
|
|
Hurstwood came up from the west out of Seventh Avenue and stopped
|
|
close to the door, nearer than all the others. Those who had been
|
|
waiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by a
|
|
certain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated
|
|
that they were first.
|
|
|
|
Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the
|
|
line, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order had
|
|
been restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed.
|
|
|
|
"Must be pretty near noon," ventured one.
|
|
|
|
"It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour."
|
|
|
|
"Gee, but it's cold!"
|
|
|
|
They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery man
|
|
drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started some
|
|
words upon grocery men and the cost of food in general.
|
|
|
|
"I see meat's gone up," said one.
|
|
|
|
"If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot."
|
|
|
|
The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more,
|
|
and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulated
|
|
themselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. There
|
|
was much jerking of heads, and looking down the line.
|
|
|
|
"It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're in
|
|
the first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "You
|
|
all go in together."
|
|
|
|
"Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who bad been so sturdily displaced.
|
|
|
|
"This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain't
|
|
going to be no order till it comes."
|
|
|
|
For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling,
|
|
glancing, and beating their arms.
|
|
|
|
At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared.
|
|
She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one,
|
|
passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stout
|
|
arm, and the line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these the
|
|
ex-manager was one. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated
|
|
concerning the misery of it; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last
|
|
he was admitted, and, having eaten, came away, almost angered
|
|
because of his pains in getting it.
|
|
|
|
At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, he
|
|
was at the midnight offering of a loaf- waiting patiently. It had been
|
|
an unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touch
|
|
of philosophy. If he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in the
|
|
evening, here was a place he could come. A few minutes before
|
|
twelve, a great box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour a
|
|
portly, round-faced German took position by it, calling "Ready." The
|
|
whole line at once moved forward, each taking his loaf in turn and
|
|
going his separate way. On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he
|
|
went, plodding the dark streets in silence to his bed.
|
|
|
|
By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him.
|
|
Life had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want and
|
|
weakened vitality had made the charms of earth rather dull and
|
|
inconspicuous. Several times, when fortune pressed most harshly, he
|
|
thought he would end his troubles; but with a change of weather, or
|
|
the arrival of a quarter or a dime, his mood would change, and he
|
|
would wait. Each day he would find some old paper lying about and look
|
|
into it, to see if there was any trace of Carrie, but all summer and
|
|
fall he had looked in vain. Then he noticed that his eyes were
|
|
beginning to hurt him, and this ailment rapidly increased until, in
|
|
the dark chambers of the lodgings he frequented, he did not attempt to
|
|
read. Bad and irregular eating was weakening every function of his
|
|
body. The one recourse left him was to doze when a place offered and
|
|
he could get the money to occupy it.
|
|
|
|
He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagre
|
|
state of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and
|
|
beggar. Police bustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepers
|
|
turned him out promptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved
|
|
him off. He found it more and more difficult to get anything from
|
|
anybody.
|
|
|
|
At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was after
|
|
a long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been
|
|
refused and refused- every one hastening from contact.
|
|
|
|
"Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to the
|
|
last one. "For God's sake, do; I'm starving."
|
|
|
|
"Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common type
|
|
himself. "You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. Tears
|
|
came into his eyes.
|
|
|
|
"That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. I had
|
|
money. I'm going to quit this," and, with death in his heart, he
|
|
started down toward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas before
|
|
and died; why shouldn't he? He remembered a lodging-house where
|
|
there were little, close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost
|
|
pre-arranged, he thought, for what he wanted to do, which rented for
|
|
fifteen cents. Then he remembered that he had no fifteen cents.
|
|
|
|
On the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming,
|
|
clean-shaven, out of a fine barber shop.
|
|
|
|
"Would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this man
|
|
boldly.
|
|
|
|
The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing but
|
|
quarters were in his pocket.
|
|
|
|
"Here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "Be off, now."
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, bright coin
|
|
pleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that he
|
|
could get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed,
|
|
for the time being, out of his mind. It was only when he could get
|
|
nothing but insults that death seemed worth while.
|
|
|
|
One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the
|
|
season set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the
|
|
second snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents by
|
|
nightfall, and this he bad spent for food. At evening he found himself
|
|
at the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned his
|
|
face Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wandering
|
|
propensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged
|
|
his wet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat
|
|
was turned up about his red ears-his cracked derby hat was pulled down
|
|
until it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets.
|
|
|
|
"I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself.
|
|
|
|
When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were already
|
|
blazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright
|
|
windows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant
|
|
restaurants. There were coaches and crowded cable cars.
|
|
|
|
In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. The
|
|
contrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things.
|
|
|
|
"What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quit this."
|
|
|
|
People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling
|
|
figure. Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that
|
|
he did not beg of anybody.
|
|
|
|
Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked
|
|
through the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a
|
|
fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen
|
|
the red and gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining
|
|
glassware, and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had
|
|
become, his hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He
|
|
stopped stock still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and
|
|
peered foolishly in.
|
|
|
|
"Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any."
|
|
|
|
Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the
|
|
fancy it had.
|
|
|
|
"It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold."
|
|
|
|
At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent
|
|
fire, Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the Casino
|
|
Company." All the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated
|
|
fire. It was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He looked
|
|
up, and then at a large, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a fine
|
|
lithograph of Carrie, life-size.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder,
|
|
as if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that
|
|
his mind was not exactly clear.
|
|
|
|
"That's you," he said at last, addressing her. "Wasn't good enough
|
|
for you, was I? Huh!"
|
|
|
|
He lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longer
|
|
possible with him.
|
|
|
|
"She's got it," he said, incoherently, thinking of money. "Let her
|
|
give me some."
|
|
|
|
He started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was going
|
|
for and paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists.
|
|
Suddenly it returned. The stage door! That was it.
|
|
|
|
He approached that entrance and went in.
|
|
|
|
"Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he
|
|
went over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said.
|
|
|
|
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he said.
|
|
|
|
"You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle.
|
|
"Get out of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no
|
|
strength to resist.
|
|
|
|
"I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he was
|
|
being hustled away. "I'm all right. I-"
|
|
|
|
The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so,
|
|
Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vague
|
|
sense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly.
|
|
|
|
"God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slush from
|
|
his worthless coat. "I- I hired such people as you once."
|
|
|
|
Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up- just one fierce,
|
|
angry thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind.
|
|
|
|
"She owes me something to eat," he said. "She owes it to me."
|
|
|
|
Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward and
|
|
away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after
|
|
another, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.
|
|
|
|
It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one
|
|
distinct mental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock, the
|
|
sombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow was
|
|
falling- a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swift
|
|
wind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it- six
|
|
inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by the crush
|
|
of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men picked their way in
|
|
ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men slouched through it
|
|
with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In the former
|
|
thoroughfare business men and travellers were making for comfortable
|
|
hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past dingy
|
|
stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already gleaming.
|
|
There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter was
|
|
reduced by the mantle about the wheels. The whole city was muffled
|
|
by this fast-thickening mantle.
|
|
|
|
In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading at
|
|
this time "Pere Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. It was
|
|
so strong, and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest,
|
|
that she caught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. For
|
|
the first time, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthless
|
|
had been her earlier reading, as a whole. Becoming wearied, however,
|
|
she yawned and came to the window, looking out upon the old winding
|
|
procession of carriages rolling up Fifth Avenue.
|
|
|
|
"Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola.
|
|
|
|
"Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snows
|
|
enough to go sleigh riding."
|
|
|
|
"Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of Father Goriot
|
|
were still keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't you sorry for the
|
|
people who haven't anything to-night?"
|
|
|
|
"Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven't
|
|
anything."
|
|
|
|
Carrie smiled.
|
|
|
|
"You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned.
|
|
|
|
"I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anything when I
|
|
was hard up."
|
|
|
|
"Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm.
|
|
|
|
"Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sight of
|
|
some one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall, don't
|
|
they?"
|
|
|
|
"We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie, absently.
|
|
|
|
In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was just
|
|
arriving, shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Bad weather
|
|
had driven him home early and stirred his desire for those pleasures
|
|
which shut out the snow and gloom of life. A good dinner, the
|
|
company of a young woman, and an evening at the theatre were the chief
|
|
things for him.
|
|
|
|
"Why, hello, Harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of the
|
|
comfortable lobby chairs. "How are you?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, about six and six," said the other.
|
|
|
|
"Rotten weather, isn't it?"
|
|
|
|
"Well, I should say," said the other. "I've been just sitting here
|
|
thinking where I'd go to-night."
|
|
|
|
"Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you to something
|
|
dead swell."
|
|
|
|
"Who is it?" said the other.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have a
|
|
dandy time. I was just looking for you."
|
|
|
|
"Supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?"
|
|
|
|
"Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes."
|
|
|
|
"Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want to get a
|
|
shave."
|
|
|
|
"All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward
|
|
the elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever.
|
|
|
|
On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour
|
|
through the snow of the evening, were three others, all related.
|
|
|
|
"First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor was
|
|
announcing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and
|
|
jacket.
|
|
|
|
"I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, a
|
|
black-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a
|
|
euchre hand away from her.
|
|
|
|
"Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that
|
|
fine raiment can make.
|
|
|
|
"Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more,
|
|
though."
|
|
|
|
"Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good
|
|
clothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie- it's
|
|
coming up."
|
|
|
|
Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking
|
|
at a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty,
|
|
even cold, is fascinating from one point of view.
|
|
|
|
"Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "It only
|
|
takes two weeks to get to Rome."
|
|
|
|
Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. It
|
|
was so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man- one whose
|
|
financial state had borne her personal inspection.
|
|
|
|
"Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "if
|
|
it keeps up like this?"
|
|
|
|
"Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make any difference."
|
|
|
|
Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of
|
|
Chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he did
|
|
not hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With a
|
|
specially conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face
|
|
wholly away. It was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was her
|
|
pride satisfied.
|
|
|
|
At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four-story building in
|
|
a side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had
|
|
been changed by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men- a crowd
|
|
which had been, and was still, gathering by degrees.
|
|
|
|
It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the
|
|
closed wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had on
|
|
faded derby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavy
|
|
with melted snow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers were
|
|
mere bags, frayed at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes,
|
|
torn at the sides and worn almost to shreds. They made no effort to go
|
|
in, but shifted ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their
|
|
pockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps. With the
|
|
minutes, increased the number. Three were old men with grizzled beards
|
|
and sunken eyes, men who were comparatively young but shrunken by
|
|
diseases, men who were middle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in
|
|
the thick of the collection which was as white as drained veal.
|
|
There was another red as brick. Some came with thin, rounded
|
|
shoulders, others with wooden legs, still others with frames so lean
|
|
that clothes only flapped about them. There were great ears, swollen
|
|
noses, thick lips, and, above all, red, blood-shot eyes. Not a normal,
|
|
healthy face in the whole mass; not a straight figure; not a
|
|
straightforward, steady glance.
|
|
|
|
In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another.
|
|
There were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red
|
|
with cold. There were ears, half covered by every conceivable
|
|
semblance of a hat, which still looked stiff and bitten. In the snow
|
|
they shifted, now one foot, now another, almost rocking in unison.
|
|
|
|
With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. It was
|
|
not conversation, but a running comment directed at any one in
|
|
general. It contained oaths and slang phrases.
|
|
|
|
"By damn, I wish they'd hurry up."
|
|
|
|
"Look at the copper watchin'."
|
|
|
|
"Maybe it ain't winter, nuther!"
|
|
|
|
"I wisht I was in Sing Sing."
|
|
|
|
Now a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. It
|
|
was an edging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, no
|
|
pleading, no threatening words. It was all sullen endurance,
|
|
unlightened by either wit or good fellowship.
|
|
|
|
A carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One of
|
|
the men nearest the door saw it.
|
|
|
|
"Look at the bloke ridin'."
|
|
|
|
"He ain't so cold."
|
|
|
|
"Eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long since
|
|
passed out of hearing.
|
|
|
|
Little by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowd turned
|
|
out on its way home. Men and shop-girls went by with quick steps.
|
|
The cross-town cars began to be crowded. The gas lamps were blazing,
|
|
and every window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. Still the crowd
|
|
hung about the door, unwavering.
|
|
|
|
"Ain't they ever goin' to open up?" queried a hoarse voice,
|
|
suggestively.
|
|
|
|
This seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, and
|
|
many gazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb brutes look,
|
|
as dogs paw and whine and study the knob. They shifted and blinked and
|
|
muttered, now a curse, now a comment. Still they waited and still
|
|
the snow whirled and cut them with biting flakes. On the old hats
|
|
and peaked shoulders it was piling. It gathered in little heaps and
|
|
curves and no one brushed it off. In the centre of the crowd the
|
|
warmth and steam melted it, and water trickled off hat rims and down
|
|
noses, which the owners could not reach to scratch. On the outer rim
|
|
the piles remained unmelted. Hurstwood, who could not get in the
|
|
centre, stood with head lowered to the weather and bent his form.
|
|
|
|
A light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrill of
|
|
possibility through the watchers. There was a murmur of recognition.
|
|
At last the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears.
|
|
Footsteps shuffled within and it murmured again. Some one called:
|
|
"Slow up there, now," and then the door opened. It was push and jam
|
|
for a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove its quality, and
|
|
then it melted inward, like logs floating, and disappeared. There were
|
|
wet hats and wet shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass,
|
|
pouring in between bleak walls. It was just six o'clock and there
|
|
was supper in every hurrying pedestrian's face. And yet no supper
|
|
was provided here- nothing but beds.
|
|
|
|
Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps
|
|
to his allotted room. It was a dingy affair- wooden, dusty, hard. A
|
|
small gas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner.
|
|
|
|
"Hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door.
|
|
|
|
Now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped first
|
|
with his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. His
|
|
vest he arranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laid
|
|
softly upon the table. Then he pulled off his shoes and lay down.
|
|
|
|
It seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turned
|
|
the gas out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. After
|
|
a few moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated,
|
|
he turned the gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stood
|
|
there, hidden wholly in that kindness which is night, while the
|
|
uprising fumes filled the room. When the odour reached his nostrils,
|
|
he quit his attitude and fumbled for the bed.
|
|
|
|
"What's the use?" he said weakly, as he stretched himself to rest.
|
|
|
|
And now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemed
|
|
life's object, or at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever
|
|
attain of their original desires. She could look about on her gowns
|
|
and carriage, her furniture and bank account. Friends there were, as
|
|
the world takes it- those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of
|
|
her success. For these she had once craved. Applause there was, and
|
|
publicity- once far off, essential things, but now grown trivial and
|
|
indifferent. Beauty also- her type of loveliness- and yet she was
|
|
lonely. In her rocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged-
|
|
singing and dreaming.
|
|
|
|
Thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotional
|
|
nature- the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one come
|
|
the men of action- generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets and
|
|
dreamers- artists all.
|
|
|
|
As harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy,
|
|
voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal.
|
|
|
|
Man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has the
|
|
ideal. For him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe.
|
|
Ever hearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of its
|
|
distant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet in
|
|
travelling. So watched Carrie, so followed, rocking and singing.
|
|
|
|
And it must be remembered that reason had little part in this.
|
|
Chicago dawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than she
|
|
had ever known, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone,
|
|
clung to it. In fine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed to
|
|
be contented. Hence, she drew near these things. Chicago, New York;
|
|
Drouet, Hurstwood; the world of fashion and the world of stage-
|
|
these were but incidents. Not them, but that which they represented,
|
|
she longed for. Time proved the representation false.
|
|
|
|
Oh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here was
|
|
Carrie, in the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional;
|
|
responding with desire to everything most lovely in life, yet
|
|
finding herself turned as by a wall. Laws to say: "Be allured, if
|
|
you will, by everything lovely, but draw not nigh unless by
|
|
righteousness." Convention to say: "You shall not better your
|
|
situation save by honest labour." If honest labour be unremunerative
|
|
and difficult to endure; if it be the long, long road which never
|
|
reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if the drag to
|
|
follow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, taking rather
|
|
the despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall cast the
|
|
first stone? Not evil, but longing for that which is better, more
|
|
often directs the steps of the erring. Not evil, but goodness more
|
|
often allures the feeling mind unused to reason.
|
|
|
|
Amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy. As
|
|
when Drouet took her, she had thought: "Now am I lifted into that
|
|
which is best"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her the better
|
|
way: "Now am I happy." But since the world goes its way past all who
|
|
will not partake of its folly, she now found herself alone. Her
|
|
purse was open to him whose need was greatest. In her walks on
|
|
Broadway, she no longer thought of the elegance of the creatures who
|
|
passed her. Had they more of that peace and beauty which glimmered
|
|
afar off, then were they to be envied.
|
|
|
|
Drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood's
|
|
death she was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting out from
|
|
the pier at Twenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errand bore, with
|
|
many others, his nameless body to the Potter's Field.
|
|
|
|
Thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in their
|
|
relation to her. Their influence upon her life is explicable alone
|
|
by the nature of her longings. Time was when both represented for
|
|
her all that was most potent in earthly success. They were the
|
|
personal representatives of a state most blessed to attain- the titled
|
|
ambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. It
|
|
is but natural that when the world which they represented no longer
|
|
allured her, its ambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwood
|
|
returned in his original beauty and glory, he could not now have
|
|
allured her. She had learned that in his world, as in her own
|
|
present state, was not happiness.
|
|
|
|
Sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways by
|
|
which one who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit of
|
|
beauty. Though often disillusioned, she was still waiting for that
|
|
halcyon day when she should be led forth among dreams become real.
|
|
Ames had pointed out a farther step, but on and on beyond that, if
|
|
accomplished, would lie others for her. It was forever to be the
|
|
pursuit of that radiance of delight which tints the distant hilltops
|
|
of the world.
|
|
|
|
Oh, Carrie, Carrie! Oh, blind strivings of the human heart!
|
|
Onward, onward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows.
|
|
Whether it be the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quiet
|
|
landscape, or the glimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show of
|
|
soul in some passing eye, the heart knows and makes answer, following.
|
|
It is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches
|
|
and the longings arise. Know, then, that for you is neither surfeit
|
|
nor content. In your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you
|
|
long, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream
|
|
such happiness as you may never feel.
|
|
|
|
THE END
|
|
.
|