"SISTER CARRIE\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE MAGNET ATTRACTING: A WAIF AMID FORCES\n\n\nWhen Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her total\noutfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skin\nsatchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse,\ncontaining her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address in Van\nBuren Street, and four dollars in money. It was in August, 1889. She was\neighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of\nignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regret at parting characterised\nher thoughts, it was certainly not for advantages now being given up. A\ngush of tears at her mother's farewell kiss, a touch in her throat when\nthe cars clacked by the flour mill where her father worked by the day, a\npathetic sigh as the familiar green environs of the village passed in\nreview, and the threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home\nwere irretrievably broken.\n\nTo be sure there was always the next station, where one might descend\nand return. There was the great city, bound more closely by these very\ntrains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so very far away, even\nonce she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours--a few hundred\nmiles? She looked at the little slip bearing her sister's address and\nwondered. She gazed at the green landscape, now passing in swift\nreview, until her swifter thoughts replaced its impression with vague\nconjectures of what Chicago might be.\n\nWhen a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things.\nEither she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly\nassumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. Of an\nintermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility.\nThe city has its cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and\nmore human tempter. There are large forces which allure with all the\nsoulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. The gleam\nof a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in a\nwooing and fascinating eye. Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and\nnatural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of\nsound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the\nastonished senses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to\nwhisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things\nbreathe into the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, their\nbeauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the\nsimpler human perceptions.\n\nCaroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately termed\nby the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power of\nobservation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, but not\nstrong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warm with the\nfancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the formative\nperiod, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness and an eye\nalight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair example of the\nmiddle American class--two generations removed from the emigrant. Books\nwere beyond her interest--knowledge a sealed book. In the intuitive\ngraces she was still crude. She could scarcely toss her head\ngracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet, though small,\nwere set flatly. And yet she was interested in her charms, quick to\nunderstand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to gain in material\nthings. A half-equipped little knight she was, venturing to reconnoitre\nthe mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off\nsupremacy, which should make it prey and subject--the proper penitent,\ngrovelling at a woman's slipper.\n\n\"That,\" said a voice in her ear, \"is one of the prettiest little resorts\nin Wisconsin.\"\n\n\"Is it?\" she answered nervously.\n\nThe train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she had been\nconscious of a man behind. She felt him observing her mass of hair. He\nhad been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt a certain\ninterest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, and a certain\nsense of what was conventional under the circumstances, called her to\nforestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring and magnetism of the\nindividual, born of past experiences and triumphs, prevailed. She\nanswered.\n\nHe leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and\nproceeded to make himself volubly agreeable.\n\n\"Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels are swell.\nYou are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I am,\" answered Carrie. \"That is, I live at Columbia City. I\nhave never been through here, though.\"\n\n\"And so this is your first visit to Chicago,\" he observed.\n\nAll the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side of\nher eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey fedora hat.\nShe now turned and looked upon him in full, the instincts of\nself-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her brain.\n\n\"I didn't say that,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh,\" he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air of\nmistake, \"I thought you did.\"\n\nHere was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing house--a\nclass which at that time was first being dubbed by the slang of the day\n\"drummers.\" He came within the meaning of a still newer term, which had\nsprung into general use among Americans in 1880, and which concisely\nexpressed the thought of one whose dress or manners are calculated to\nelicit the admiration of susceptible young women--a \"masher.\" His suit\nwas of a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time,\nbut since become familiar as a business suit. The low crotch of the vest\nrevealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes. From his coat\nsleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened\nwith large, gold plate buttons, set with the common yellow agates known\nas \"cat's-eyes.\" His fingers bore several rings--one, the ever-enduring\nheavy seal--and from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from\nwhich was suspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole\nsuit was rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan\nshoes, highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for the order\nof intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend\nhim, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her first\nglance.\n\nLest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put down\nsome of the most striking characteristics of his most successful manner\nand method. Good clothes, of course, were the first essential, the\nthings without which he was nothing. A strong physical nature, actuated\nby a keen desire for the feminine, was the next. A mind free of any\nconsideration of the problems or forces of the world and actuated not by\ngreed, but an insatiable love of variable pleasure. His method was\nalways simple. Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, by\nan intense desire and admiration for the sex. Let him meet with a young\nwoman twice and he would straighten her necktie for her and perhaps\naddress her by her first name. In the great department stores he was at\nhis ease. If he caught the attention of some young woman while waiting\nfor the cash boy to come back with his change, he would find out her\nname, her favourite flower, where a note would reach her, and perhaps\npursue the delicate task of friendship until it proved unpromising, when\nit would be relinquished. He would do very well with more pretentious\nwomen, though the burden of expense was a slight deterrent. Upon\nentering a parlour car, for instance, he would select a chair next to\nthe most promising bit of femininity and soon enquire if she cared to\nhave the shade lowered. Before the train cleared the yards he would have\nthe porter bring her a footstool. At the next lull in his conversational\nprogress he would find her something to read, and from then on, by dint\nof compliment gently insinuated, personal narrative, exaggeration and\nservice, he would win her tolerance, and, mayhap, regard.\n\nA woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. No\nmatter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends. There\nis an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparel which\nsomehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and those who\nare not. Once an individual has passed this faint line on the way\ndownward he will get no glance from her. There is another line at which\nthe dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This line the\nindividual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She became conscious of\nan inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape\ntrimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the worn state of her\nshoes.\n\n\"Let's see,\" he went on, \"I know quite a number of people in your town.\nMorgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you?\" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their\nshow windows had cost her.\n\nAt last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. In a few\nminutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales of clothing,\nhis travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city.\n\n\"If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you\nrelatives?\"\n\n\"I am going to visit my sister,\" she explained.\n\n\"You want to see Lincoln Park,\" he said, \"and Michigan Boulevard. They\nare putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York--great. So\nmuch to see--theatres, crowds, fine houses--oh, you'll like that.\"\n\nThere was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Her\ninsignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected\nher. She realised that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet\nthere was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth.\nThere was something satisfactory in the attention of this individual\nwith his good clothes. She could not help smiling as he told her of some\npopular actress of whom she reminded him. She was not silly, and yet\nattention of this sort had its weight.\n\n\"You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?\" he observed at one\nturn of the now easy conversation.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie vaguely--a flash vision of the possibility\nof her not securing employment rising in her mind.\n\n\"Several weeks, anyhow,\" he said, looking steadily into her eyes.\n\nThere was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. He\nrecognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and\nbeauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from the one\nstandpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her manner was\nsimple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the many\nlittle affectations with which women conceal their true feelings. Some\nthings she did appeared bold. A clever companion--had she ever had\none--would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily.\n\n\"Why do you ask?\" she said.\n\n\"Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stock at\nour place and get new samples. I might show you 'round.\"\n\n\"I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whether I can.\nI shall be living with my sister, and----\"\n\n\"Well, if she minds, we'll fix that.\" He took out his pencil and a\nlittle pocket note-book as if it were all settled. \"What is your address\nthere?\"\n\nShe fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.\n\nHe reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It was\nfilled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks. It\nimpressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been carried by any one\nattentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of the\nworld, had never come within such close range before. The purse, the\nshiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did\nthings, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the\ncentre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do.\n\nHe took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett, Caryoe\n& Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H. Drouet.\n\n\"That's me,\" he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his\nname. \"It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on my father's\nside.\"\n\nShe looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letter\nfrom a bunch in his coat pocket. \"This is the house I travel for,\" he\nwent on, pointing to a picture on it, \"corner of State and Lake.\" There\nwas pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to be connected\nwith such a place, and he made her feel that way.\n\n\"What is your address?\" he began again, fixing his pencil to write.\n\nShe looked at his hand.\n\n\"Carrie Meeber,\" she said slowly. \"Three hundred and fifty-four West Van\nBuren Street, care S. C. Hanson.\"\n\nHe wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. \"You'll be at\nhome if I come around Monday night?\" he said.\n\n\"I think so,\" she answered.\n\nHow true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we\nmean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible\nfeelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandying little phrases,\ndrawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of how\ninarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wise enough to be\nsure of the working of the mind of the other. He could not tell how his\nluring succeeded. She could not realise that she was drifting, until he\nsecured her address. Now she felt that she had yielded something--he,\nthat he had gained a victory. Already they felt that they were somehow\nassociated. Already he took control in directing the conversation. His\nwords were easy. Her manner was relaxed.\n\nThey were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trains\nflashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they could\nsee lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward the\ngreat city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, some big\nsmoke-stacks towering high in the air.\n\nFrequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the open\nfields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the approaching army of\nhomes.\n\nTo the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untravelled,\nthe approach to a great city for the first time is a wonderful thing.\nParticularly if it be evening--that mystic period between the glare and\ngloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition to\nanother. Ah, the promise of the night. What does it not hold for the\nweary! What old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! Says the\nsoul of the toiler to itself, \"I shall soon be free. I shall be in the\nways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the lighted\nchamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, the halls, the parties,\nthe ways of rest and the paths of song--these are mine in the night.\"\nThough all humanity be still enclosed in the shops, the thrill runs\nabroad. It is in the air. The dullest feel something which they may not\nalways express or describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil.\n\nSister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by her\nwonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the\ncity and pointed out its marvels.\n\n\"This is Northwest Chicago,\" said Drouet. \"This is the Chicago River,\"\nand he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the huge masted\nwanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. With a\npuff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. \"Chicago is getting\nto be a great town,\" he went on. \"It's a wonder. You'll find lots to see\nhere.\"\n\nShe did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind of\nterror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a\ngreat sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help but\nfeel a little choked for breath--a little sick as her heart beat so\nfast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, that\nColumbia City was only a little way off.\n\n\"Chicago! Chicago!\" called the brakeman, slamming open the door. They\nwere rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clang\nof life. She began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her hand\nfirmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten his\ntrousers, and seized his clean yellow grip.\n\n\"I suppose your people will be here to meet you?\" he said. \"Let me carry\nyour grip.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she said. \"I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather you wouldn't be\nwith me when I meet my sister.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said in all kindness. \"I'll be near, though, in case she\nisn't here, and take you out there safely.\"\n\n\"You're so kind,\" said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such attention in\nher strange situation.\n\n\"Chicago!\" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They were\nunder a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already beginning\nto shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train moving at a\nsnail's pace. The people in the car were all up and crowding about the\ndoor.\n\n\"Well, here we are,\" said Drouet, leading the way to the door.\n\"Good-bye, till I see you Monday.\"\n\n\"Good-bye,\" she answered, taking his proffered hand.\n\n\"Remember, I'll be looking till you find your sister.\"\n\nShe smiled into his eyes.\n\nThey filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. A lean-faced,\nrather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platform and hurried\nforward.\n\n\"Why, Sister Carrie!\" she began, and there was a perfunctory embrace of\nwelcome.\n\nCarrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amid all\nthe maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by the\nhand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement. Her sister\ncarried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil.\n\n\"Why, how are all the folks at home?\" she began; \"how is father, and\nmother?\"\n\nCarrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward the gate\nleading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. He was\nlooking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with her sister\nhe turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. Only Carrie saw it.\nShe felt something lost to her when he moved away. When he disappeared\nshe felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister she was much alone, a\nlone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nWHAT POVERTY THREATENED: OF GRANITE AND BRASS\n\n\nMinnie's flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were then being\ncalled, was in a part of West Van Buren Street inhabited by families of\nlabourers and clerks, men who had come, and were still coming, with the\nrush of population pouring in at the rate of 50,000 a year. It was on\nthe third floor, the front windows looking down into the street, where,\nat night, the lights of grocery stores were shining and children were\nplaying. To Carrie, the sound of the little bells upon the horse-cars,\nas they tinkled in and out of hearing, was as pleasing as it was novel.\nShe gazed into the lighted street when Minnie brought her into the front\nroom, and wondered at the sounds, the movement, the murmur of the vast\ncity which stretched for miles and miles in every direction.\n\nMrs. Hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave Carrie the baby\nand proceeded to get supper. Her husband asked a few questions and sat\ndown to read the evening paper. He was a silent man, American born, of a\nSwede father, and now employed as a cleaner of refrigerator cars at the\nstock-yards. To him the presence or absence of his wife's sister was a\nmatter of indifference. Her personal appearance did not affect him one\nway or the other. His one observation to the point was concerning the\nchances of work in Chicago.\n\n\"It's a big place,\" he said. \"You can get in somewhere in a few days.\nEverybody does.\"\n\nIt had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get work and\npay her board. He was of a clean, saving disposition, and had already\npaid a number of monthly instalments on two lots far out on the West\nSide. His ambition was some day to build a house on them.\n\nIn the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carrie found\ntime to study the flat. She had some slight gift of observation and that\nsense, so rich in every woman--intuition.\n\nShe felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. The walls of the rooms were\ndiscordantly papered. The floors were covered with matting and the hall\nlaid with a thin rag carpet. One could see that the furniture was of\nthat poor, hurriedly patched together quality sold by the instalment\nhouses.\n\nShe sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it began to\ncry. Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in his\nreading, came and took it. A pleasant side to his nature came out here.\nHe was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped up in his\noffspring.\n\n\"Now, now,\" he said, walking. \"There, there,\" and there was a certain\nSwedish accent noticeable in his voice.\n\n\"You'll want to see the city first, won't you?\" said Minnie, when they\nwere eating. \"Well, we'll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park.\"\n\nCarrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to be\nthinking of something else.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"I think I'll look around to-morrow. I've got Friday\nand Saturday, and it won't be any trouble. Which way is the business\npart?\"\n\nMinnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of the\nconversation to himself.\n\n\"It's that way,\" he said, pointing east. \"That's east.\" Then he went off\ninto the longest speech he had yet indulged in, concerning the lay of\nChicago. \"You'd better look in those big manufacturing houses along\nFranklin Street and just the other side of the river,\" he concluded.\n\"Lots of girls work there. You could get home easy, too. It isn't very\nfar.\"\n\nCarrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighbourhood. The latter\ntalked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew about it, while\nHanson concerned himself with the baby. Finally he jumped up and handed\nthe child to his wife.\n\n\"I've got to get up early in the morning, so I'll go to bed,\" and off he\nwent, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall, for the\nnight.\n\n\"He works way down at the stock-yards,\" explained Minnie, \"so he's got\nto get up at half-past five.\"\n\n\"What time do you get up to get breakfast?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"At about twenty minutes of five.\"\n\nTogether they finished the labour of the day, Carrie washing the dishes\nwhile Minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed. Minnie's manner was\none of trained industry, and Carrie could see that it was a steady round\nof toil with her.\n\nShe began to see that her relations with Drouet would have to be\nabandoned. He could not come here. She read from the manner of Hanson,\nin the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the\nflat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round of\ntoil. If Hanson sat every evening in the front room and read his paper,\nif he went to bed at nine, and Minnie a little later, what would they\nexpect of her? She saw that she would first need to get work and\nestablish herself on a paying basis before she could think of having\ncompany of any sort. Her little flirtation with Drouet seemed now an\nextraordinary thing.\n\n\"No,\" she said to herself, \"he can't come here.\"\n\nShe asked Minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel in the\ndining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got out\nDrouet's card and wrote him.\n\n\"I cannot have you call on me here. You will have to wait until you hear\nfrom me again. My sister's place is so small.\"\n\nShe troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. She wanted to\nmake some reference to their relations upon the train, but was too\ntimid. She concluded by thanking him for his kindness in a crude way,\nthen puzzled over the formality of signing her name, and finally decided\nupon the severe, winding up with a \"Very truly,\" which she subsequently\nchanged to \"Sincerely.\" She sealed and addressed the letter, and going\nin the front room, the alcove of which contained her bed, drew the one\nsmall rocking-chair up to the open window, and sat looking out upon the\nnight and streets in silent wonder. Finally, wearied by her own\nreflections, she began to grow dull in her chair, and feeling the need\nof sleep, arranged her clothing for the night and went to bed.\n\nWhen she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone. Her sister\nwas busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room, sewing.\nShe worked, after dressing, to arrange a little breakfast for herself,\nand then advised with Minnie as to which way to look. The latter had\nchanged considerably since Carrie had seen her. She was now a thin,\nthough rugged, woman of twenty-seven, with ideas of life coloured by her\nhusband's, and fast hardening into narrower conceptions of pleasure and\nduty than had ever been hers in a thoroughly circumscribed youth. She\nhad invited Carrie, not because she longed for her presence, but because\nthe latter was dissatisfied at home, and could probably get work and pay\nher board here. She was pleased to see her in a way, but reflected her\nhusband's point of view in the matter of work. Anything was good enough\nso long as it paid--say, five dollars a week to begin with. A shop girl\nwas the destiny prefigured for the newcomer. She would get in one of the\ngreat shops and do well enough until--well, until something happened.\nNeither of them knew exactly what. They did not figure on promotion.\nThey did not exactly count on marriage. Things would go on, though, in a\ndim kind of way until the better thing would eventuate, and Carrie would\nbe rewarded for coming and toiling in the city. It was under such\nauspicious circumstances that she started out this morning to look for\nwork.\n\nBefore following her in her round of seeking, let us look at the sphere\nin which her future was to lie. In 1889 Chicago had the peculiar\nqualifications of growth which made such adventuresome pilgrimages even\non the part of young girls plausible. Its many and growing commercial\nopportunities gave it widespread fame, which made of it a giant magnet,\ndrawing to itself, from all quarters, the hopeful and the\nhopeless--those who had their fortune yet to make and those whose\nfortunes and affairs had reached a disastrous climax elsewhere. It was a\ncity of over 500,000, with the ambition, the daring, the activity of a\nmetropolis of a million. Its streets and houses were already scattered\nover an area of seventy-five square miles. Its population was not so\nmuch thriving upon established commerce as upon the industries which\nprepared for the arrival of others. The sound of the hammer engaged upon\nthe erection of new structures was everywhere heard. Great industries\nwere moving in. The huge railroad corporations which had long before\nrecognised the prospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of\nland for transfer and shipping purposes. Street-car lines had been\nextended far out into the open country in anticipation of rapid growth.\nThe city had laid miles and miles of streets and sewers through regions\nwhere, perhaps, one solitary house stood out alone--a pioneer of the\npopulous ways to be. There were regions open to the sweeping winds and\nrain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long, blinking\nlines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. Narrow board walks extended\nout, passing here a house, and there a store, at far intervals,\neventually ending on the open prairie.\n\nIn the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping district, to\nwhich the uninformed seeker for work usually drifted. It was a\ncharacteristic of Chicago then, and one not generally shared by other\ncities, that individual firms of any pretension occupied individual\nbuildings. The presence of ample ground made this possible. It gave an\nimposing appearance to most of the wholesale houses, whose offices were\nupon the ground floor and in plain view of the street. The large plates\nof window glass, now so common, were then rapidly coming into use, and\ngave to the ground floor offices a distinguished and prosperous look.\nThe casual wanderer could see as he passed a polished array of office\nfixtures, much frosted glass, clerks hard at work, and genteel business\nmen in \"nobby\" suits and clean linen lounging about or sitting in\ngroups. Polished brass or nickel signs at the square stone entrances\nannounced the firm and the nature of the business in rather neat and\nreserved terms. The entire metropolitan centre possessed a high and\nmighty air calculated to overawe and abash the common applicant, and to\nmake the gulf between poverty and success seem both wide and deep.\n\nInto this important commercial region the timid Carrie went. She walked\neast along Van Buren Street through a region of lessening importance,\nuntil it deteriorated into a mass of shanties and coal-yards, and\nfinally verged upon the river. She walked bravely forward, led by an\nhonest desire to find employment and delayed at every step by the\ninterest of the unfolding scene, and a sense of helplessness amid so\nmuch evidence of power and force which she did not understand. These\nvast buildings, what were they? These strange energies and huge\ninterests, for what purposes were they there? She could have understood\nthe meaning of a little stone-cutter's yard at Columbia City, carving\nlittle pieces of marble for individual use, but when the yards of some\nhuge stone corporation came into view, filled with spur tracks and flat\ncars, transpierced by docks from the river and traversed overhead by\nimmense trundling cranes of wood and steel, it lost all significance in\nher little world.\n\nIt was so with the vast railroad yards, with the crowded array of\nvessels she saw at the river, and the huge factories over the way,\nlining the water's edge. Through the open windows she could see the\nfigures of men and women in working aprons, moving busily about. The\ngreat streets were wall-lined mysteries to her; the vast offices,\nstrange mazes which concerned far-off individuals of importance. She\ncould only think of people connected with them as counting money,\ndressing magnificently, and riding in carriages. What they dealt in, how\nthey laboured, to what end it all came, she had only the vaguest\nconception. It was all wonderful, all vast, all far removed, and she\nsank in spirit inwardly and fluttered feebly at the heart as she thought\nof entering any one of these mighty concerns and asking for something to\ndo--something that she could do--anything.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nWE QUESTION OF FORTUNE: FOUR-FIFTY A WEEK\n\n\nOnce across the river and into the wholesale district, she glanced about\nher for some likely door at which to apply. As she contemplated the wide\nwindows and imposing signs, she became conscious of being gazed upon and\nunderstood for what she was--a wage-seeker. She had never done this\nthing before, and lacked courage. To avoid a certain indefinable shame\nshe felt at being caught spying about for a position, she quickened her\nsteps and assumed an air of indifference supposedly common to one upon\nan errand. In this way she passed many manufacturing and wholesale\nhouses without once glancing in. At last, after several blocks of\nwalking, she felt that this would not do, and began to look about again,\nthough without relaxing her pace. A little way on she saw a great door\nwhich, for some reason, attracted her attention. It was ornamented by a\nsmall brass sign, and seemed to be the entrance to a vast hive of six or\nseven floors. \"Perhaps,\" she thought, \"they may want some one,\" and\ncrossed over to enter. When she came within a score of feet of the\ndesired goal, she saw through the window a young man in a grey checked\nsuit. That he had anything to do with the concern, she could not tell,\nbut because he happened to be looking in her direction her weakening\nheart misgave her and she hurried by, too overcome with shame to enter.\nOver the way stood a great six-story structure, labelled Storm and King,\nwhich she viewed with rising hope. It was a wholesale dry goods concern\nand employed women. She could see them moving about now and then upon\nthe upper floors. This place she decided to enter, no matter what. She\ncrossed over and walked directly toward the entrance. As she did so, two\nmen came out and paused in the door. A telegraph messenger in blue\ndashed past her and up the few steps that led to the entrance and\ndisappeared. Several pedestrians out of the hurrying throng which filled\nthe sidewalks passed about her as she paused, hesitating. She looked\nhelplessly around, and then, seeing herself observed, retreated. It was\ntoo difficult a task. She could not go past them.\n\nSo severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves. Her feet carried her\nmechanically forward, every foot of her progress being a satisfactory\nportion of a flight which she gladly made. Block after block passed by.\nUpon street-lamps at the various corners she read names such as Madison,\nMonroe, La Salle, Clark, Dearborn, State, and still she went, her feet\nbeginning to tire upon the broad stone flagging. She was pleased in part\nthat the streets were bright and clean. The morning sun, shining down\nwith steadily increasing warmth, made the shady side of the streets\npleasantly cool. She looked at the blue sky overhead with more\nrealisation of its charm than had ever come to her before.\n\nHer cowardice began to trouble her in a way. She turned back, resolving\nto hunt up Storm and King and enter. On the way she encountered a great\nwholesale shoe company, through the broad plate windows of which she saw\nan enclosed executive department, hidden by frosted glass. Without this\nenclosure, but just within the street entrance, sat a grey-haired\ngentleman at a small table, with a large open ledger before him. She\nwalked by this institution several times hesitating, but, finding\nherself unobserved, faltered past the screen door and stood humbly\nwaiting.\n\n\"Well, young lady,\" observed the old gentleman, looking at her somewhat\nkindly, \"what is it you wish?\"\n\n\"I am, that is, do you--I mean, do you need any help?\" she stammered.\n\n\"Not just at present,\" he answered smiling. \"Not just at present. Come\nin some time next week. Occasionally we need some one.\"\n\nShe received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out. The\npleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her. She had expected\nthat it would be more difficult, that something cold and harsh would be\nsaid--she knew not what. That she had not been put to shame and made to\nfeel her unfortunate position, seemed remarkable.\n\nSomewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure. It was a\nclothing company, and more people were in evidence--well-dressed men of\nforty and more, surrounded by brass railings.\n\nAn office boy approached her.\n\n\"Who is it you wish to see?\" he asked.\n\n\"I want to see the manager,\" she said.\n\nHe ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who were conferring\ntogether. One of these came towards her.\n\n\"Well?\" he said coldly. The greeting drove all courage from her at once.\n\n\"Do you need any help?\" she stammered.\n\n\"No,\" he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel.\n\nShe went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging the door\nfor her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd. It was a severe\nsetback to her recently pleased mental state.\n\nNow she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there,\nseeing one great company after another, but finding no courage to\nprosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with it hunger. She\nhunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed to\nfind that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. A bowl\nof soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly eaten, she\nwent out again. It restored her strength somewhat and made her\nmoderately bold to pursue the search.\n\nIn walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she again\nencountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time managed to get in.\nSome gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice of her.\nShe was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. When the limit\nof her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned to by a man at\none of the many desks within the near-by railing.\n\n\"Who is it you wish to see?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Why, any one, if you please,\" she answered. \"I am looking for something\nto do.\"\n\n\"Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus,\" he returned. \"Sit down,\" and he\npointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall. He went on leisurely\nwriting, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in from the\nstreet.\n\n\"Mr. McManus,\" called the man at the desk, \"this young woman wants to\nsee you.\"\n\nThe short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose and came\nforward.\n\n\"What can I do for you, miss?\" he inquired, surveying her curiously.\n\n\"I want to know if I can get a position,\" she inquired.\n\n\"As what?\" he asked.\n\n\"Not as anything in particular,\" she faltered.\n\n\"Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods business?\"\nhe questioned.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she replied.\n\n\"Are you a stenographer or typewriter?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, we haven't anything here,\" he said. \"We employ only experienced\nhelp.\"\n\nShe began to step backward toward the door, when something about her\nplaintive face attracted him.\n\n\"Have you ever worked at anything before?\" he inquired.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she said.\n\n\"Well, now, it's hardly possible that you would get anything to do in a\nwholesale house of this kind. Have you tried the department stores?\"\n\nShe acknowledged that she had not.\n\n\"Well, if I were you,\" he said, looking at her rather genially, \"I would\ntry the department stores. They often need young women as clerks.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of\nfriendly interest.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, as she moved toward the door, \"you try the department\nstores,\" and off he went.\n\nAt that time the department store was in its earliest form of successful\noperation, and there were not many. The first three in the United\nStates, established about 1884, were in Chicago. Carrie was familiar\nwith the names of several through the advertisements in the \"Daily\nNews,\" and now proceeded to seek them. The words of Mr. McManus had\nsomehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low, and she\ndared to hope that this new line would offer her something. Some time\nshe spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter the buildings\nby chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting a hard but\nneedful errand, eased by that self-deception which the semblance of\nsearch, without the reality, gives. At last she inquired of a police\nofficer, and was directed to proceed \"two blocks up,\" where she would\nfind \"The Fair.\"\n\nThe nature of these vast retail combinations, should they ever\npermanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in the\ncommercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modest trade\nprinciple the world had never witnessed up to that time. They were along\nthe line of the most effective retail organisation, with hundreds of\nstores coördinated into one and laid out upon the most imposing and\neconomic basis. They were handsome, bustling, successful affairs, with a\nhost of clerks and a swarm of patrons. Carrie passed along the busy\naisles, much affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress\ngoods, stationery, and jewelry. Each separate counter was a show place\nof dazzling interest and attraction. She could not help feeling the\nclaim of each trinket and valuable upon her personally, and yet she did\nnot stop. There was nothing there which she could not have used--nothing\nwhich she did not long to own. The dainty slippers and stockings, the\ndelicately frilled skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons,\nhair-combs, purses, all touched her with individual desire, and she felt\nkeenly the fact that not any of these things were in the range of her\npurchase. She was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom\nthe average employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a\nsituation.\n\nIt must not be thought that any one could have mistaken her for a\nnervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold,\ncalculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not. But women\nare peculiarly sensitive to their adornment.\n\nNot only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new and\npleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touch at the\nheart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushing past in\nutter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlisted in the\nmaterials which the store contained. Carrie was not familiar with the\nappearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neither had she\nbefore known the nature and appearance of the shop girls with whom she\nnow compared poorly. They were pretty in the main, some even handsome,\nwith an air of independence and indifference which added, in the case of\nthe more favoured, a certain piquancy. Their clothes were neat, in many\ninstances fine, and wherever she encountered the eye of one it was only\nto recognise in it a keen analysis of her own position--her individual\nshortcomings of dress and that shadow of _manner_ which she thought must\nhang about her and make clear to all who and what she was. A flame of\nenvy lighted in her heart. She realised in a dim way how much the city\nheld--wealth, fashion, ease--every adornment for women, and she longed\nfor dress and beauty with a whole heart.\n\nOn the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after some\ninquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girls ahead of her,\napplicants like herself, but with more of that self-satisfied and\nindependent air which experience of the city lends; girls who\nscrutinised her in a painful manner. After a wait of perhaps\nthree-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn.\n\n\"Now,\" said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a roll-top\ndesk near the window, \"have you ever worked in any other store?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, you haven't,\" he said, eyeing her keenly.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she replied.\n\n\"Well, we prefer young women just now with some experience. I guess we\ncan't use you.\"\n\nCarrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether the interview had\nterminated.\n\n\"Don't wait!\" he exclaimed. \"Remember we are very busy here.\"\n\nCarrie began to move quickly to the door.\n\n\"Hold on,\" he said, calling her back. \"Give me your name and address. We\nwant girls occasionally.\"\n\nWhen she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcely restrain\nthe tears. It was not so much the particular rebuff which she had just\nexperienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day. She was tired and\nnervous. She abandoned the thought of appealing to the other department\nstores and now wandered on, feeling a certain safety and relief in\nmingling with the crowd.\n\nIn her indifferent wandering she turned into Jackson Street, not far\nfrom the river, and was keeping her way along the south side of that\nimposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper, written on with\nmarking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her attention. It read,\n\"Girls wanted--wrappers & stitchers.\" She hesitated a moment, then\nentered.\n\nThe firm of Speigelheim & Co., makers of boys' caps, occupied one floor\nof the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet in depth. It\nwas a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portions having\nincandescent lights, filled with machines and work benches. At the\nlatter laboured quite a company of girls and some men. The former were\ndrabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil and dust, clad in\nthin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more or less worn shoes.\nMany of them had their sleeves rolled up, revealing bare arms, and in\nsome cases, owing to the heat, their dresses were open at the neck. They\nwere a fair type of nearly the lowest order of shop-girls--careless,\nslouchy, and more or less pale from confinement. They were not timid,\nhowever; were rich in curiosity, and strong in daring and slang.\n\nCarrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that she\ndid not want to work here. Aside from making her uncomfortable by\nsidelong glances, no one paid her the least attention. She waited until\nthe whole department was aware of her presence. Then some word was sent\naround, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt sleeves, the latter rolled\nup to his shoulders, approached.\n\n\"Do you want to see me?\" he asked.\n\n\"Do you need any help?\" said Carrie, already learning directness of\naddress.\n\n\"Do you know how to stitch caps?\" he returned.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she replied.\n\n\"Have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?\" he inquired.\n\nShe answered that she had not.\n\n\"Well,\" said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, \"we do need a\nstitcher. We like experienced help, though. We've hardly got time to\nbreak people in.\" He paused and looked away out of the window. \"We\nmight, though, put you at finishing,\" he concluded reflectively.\n\n\"How much do you pay a week?\" ventured Carrie, emboldened by a certain\nsoftness in the man's manner and his simplicity of address.\n\n\"Three and a half,\" he answered.\n\n\"Oh,\" she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed her\nthoughts to die without expression.\n\n\"We're not exactly in need of anybody,\" he went on vaguely, looking her\nover as one would a package. \"You can come on Monday morning, though,\"\nhe added, \"and I'll put you to work.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Carrie weakly.\n\n\"If you come, bring an apron,\" he added.\n\nHe walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never so much as\ninquiring her name.\n\nWhile the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the price paid\nper week operated very much as a blow to Carrie's fancy, the fact that\nwork of any kind was offered after so rude a round of experience was\ngratifying. She could not begin to believe that she would take the\nplace, modest as her aspirations were. She had been used to better than\nthat. Her mere experience and the free out-of-door life of the country\ncaused her nature to revolt at such confinement. Dirt had never been her\nshare. Her sister's flat was clean. This place was grimy and low, the\ngirls were careless and hardened. They must be bad-minded and hearted,\nshe imagined. Still, a place had been offered her. Surely Chicago was\nnot so bad if she could find one place in one day. She might find\nanother and better later.\n\nHer subsequent experiences were not of a reassuring nature, however.\nFrom all the more pleasing or imposing places she was turned away\nabruptly with the most chilling formality. In others where she applied\nonly the experienced were required. She met with painful rebuffs, the\nmost trying of which had been in a manufacturing cloak house, where she\nhad gone to the fourth floor to inquire.\n\n\"No, no,\" said the foreman, a rough, heavily built individual, who\nlooked after a miserably lighted workshop, \"we don't want any one. Don't\ncome here.\"\n\nWith the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, and her\nstrength. She had been astonishingly persistent. So earnest an effort\nwas well deserving of a better reward. On every hand, to her fatigued\nsenses, the great business portion grew larger, harder, more stolid in\nits indifference. It seemed as if it was all closed to her, that the\nstruggle was too fierce for her to hope to do anything at all. Men and\nwomen hurried by in long, shifting lines. She felt the flow of the tide\nof effort and interest--felt her own helplessness without quite\nrealising the wisp on the tide that she was. She cast about vainly for\nsome possible place to apply, but found no door which she had the\ncourage to enter. It would be the same thing all over. The old\nhumiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial. Sick at heart and in\nbody, she turned to the west, the direction of Minnie's flat, which she\nhad now fixed in mind, and began that wearisome, baffled retreat which\nthe seeker for employment at nightfall too often makes. In passing\nthrough Fifth Avenue, south towards Van Buren Street, where she intended\nto take a car, she passed the door of a large wholesale shoe house,\nthrough the plate-glass window of which she could see a middle-aged\ngentleman sitting at a small desk. One of those forlorn impulses which\noften grow out of a fixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting of a\nbaffled and uprooted growth of ideas, seized upon her. She walked\ndeliberately through the door and up to the gentleman, who looked at her\nweary face with partially awakened interest.\n\n\"What is it?\" he said.\n\n\"Can you give me something to do?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Now, I really don't know,\" he said kindly. \"What kind of work is it you\nwant--you're not a typewriter, are you?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" answered Carrie.\n\n\"Well, we only employ book-keepers and typewriters here. You might go\naround to the side and inquire upstairs. They did want some help\nupstairs a few days ago. Ask for Mr. Brown.\"\n\nShe hastened around to the side entrance and was taken up by the\nelevator to the fourth floor.\n\n\"Call Mr. Brown, Willie,\" said the elevator man to a boy near by.\n\nWillie went off and presently returned with the information that Mr.\nBrown said she should sit down and that he would be around in a little\nwhile.\n\nIt was a portion of the stock room which gave no idea of the general\ncharacter of the place, and Carrie could form no opinion of the nature\nof the work.\n\n\"So you want something to do,\" said Mr. Brown, after he inquired\nconcerning the nature of her errand. \"Have you ever been employed in a\nshoe factory before?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"What is your name?\" he inquired, and being informed, \"Well, I don't\nknow as I have anything for you. Would you work for four and a half a\nweek?\"\n\nCarrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it was considerable. She\nhad not expected that he would offer her less than six. She acquiesced,\nhowever, and he took her name and address.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, finally, \"you report here at eight o'clock Monday\nmorning. I think I can find something for you to do.\"\n\nHe left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found\nsomething at last. Instantly the blood crept warmly over her body. Her\nnervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy street and\ndiscovered a new atmosphere. Behold, the throng was moving with a\nlightsome step. She noticed that men and women were smiling. Scraps of\nconversation and notes of laughter floated to her. The air was light.\nPeople were already pouring out of the buildings, their labour ended for\nthe day. She noticed that they were pleased, and thoughts of her\nsister's home and the meal that would be awaiting her quickened her\nsteps. She hurried on, tired perhaps, but no longer weary of foot. What\nwould not Minnie say! Ah, the long winter in Chicago--the lights, the\ncrowd, the amusement! This was a great, pleasing metropolis after all.\nHer new firm was a goodly institution. Its windows were of huge plate\nglass. She could probably do well there. Thoughts of Drouet returned--of\nthe things he had told her. She now felt that life was better, that it\nwas livelier, sprightlier. She boarded a car in the best of spirits,\nfeeling her blood still flowing pleasantly. She would live in Chicago,\nher mind kept saying to itself. She would have a better time than she\nhad ever had before--she would be happy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE SPENDINGS OF FANCY: FACTS ANSWER WITH SNEERS\n\n\nFor the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flown\nspeculations.\n\nHer fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements which would\nhave been much more becoming had she been cradled a child of fortune.\nWith ready will and quick mental selection she scattered her meagre\nfour-fifty per week with a swift and graceful hand. Indeed, as she sat\nin her rocking-chair these several evenings before going to bed and\nlooked out upon the pleasantly lighted street, this money cleared for\nits prospective possessor the way to every joy and every bauble which\nthe heart of woman may desire. \"I will have a fine time,\" she thought.\n\nHer sister Minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations, though\nthey exhausted the markets of delight. She was too busy scrubbing the\nkitchen wood-work and calculating the purchasing power of eighty cents\nfor Sunday's dinner. When Carrie had returned home, flushed with her\nfirst success and ready, for all her weariness, to discuss the now\ninteresting events which led up to her achievement, the former had\nmerely smiled approvingly and inquired whether she would have to spend\nany of it for car fare. This consideration had not entered in before,\nand it did not now for long affect the glow of Carrie's enthusiasm.\nDisposed as she then was to calculate upon that vague basis which allows\nthe subtraction of one sum from another without any perceptible\ndiminution, she was happy.\n\nWhen Hanson came home at seven o'clock, he was inclined to be a little\ncrusty--his usual demeanour before supper. This never showed so much in\nanything he said as in a certain solemnity of countenance and the silent\nmanner in which he slopped about. He had a pair of yellow carpet\nslippers which he enjoyed wearing, and these he would immediately\nsubstitute for his solid pair of shoes. This, and washing his face with\nthe aid of common washing soap until it glowed a shiny red, constituted\nhis only preparation for his evening meal. He would then get his evening\npaper and read in silence.\n\nFor a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, and so\naffected Carrie. Indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of the flat,\nas such things are inclined to do, and gave to his wife's mind its\nsubdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid taciturn replies. Under the\ninfluence of Carrie's announcement he brightened up somewhat.\n\n\"You didn't lose any time, did you?\" he remarked, smiling a little.\n\n\"No,\" returned Carrie with a touch of pride.\n\nHe asked her one or two more questions and then turned to play with the\nbaby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again by Minnie at the\ntable.\n\nCarrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level of\nobservation which prevailed in the flat.\n\n\"It seems to be such a large company,\" she said, at one place. \"Great\nbig plate-glass windows and lots of clerks. The man I saw said they\nhired ever so many people.\"\n\n\"It's not very hard to get work now,\" put in Hanson, \"if you look\nright.\"\n\nMinnie, under the warming influence of Carrie's good spirits and her\nhusband's somewhat conversational mood, began to tell Carrie of some of\nthe well-known things to see--things the enjoyment of which cost\nnothing.\n\n\"You'd like to see Michigan Avenue. There are such fine houses. It is\nsuch a fine street.\"\n\n\"Where is 'H. R. Jacob's'?\" interrupted Carrie, mentioning one of the\ntheatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the time.\n\n\"Oh, it's not very far from here,\" answered Minnie. \"It's in Halstead\nStreet, right up here.\"\n\n\"How I'd like to go there. I crossed Halstead Street to-day, didn't I?\"\n\nAt this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. Thoughts are a\nstrangely permeating factor. At her suggestion of going to the theatre,\nthe unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of those things which\ninvolved the expenditure of money--shades of feeling which arose in the\nmind of Hanson and then in Minnie--slightly affected the atmosphere of\nthe table. Minnie answered \"yes,\" but Carrie could feel that going to\nthe theatre was poorly advocated here. The subject was put off for a\nlittle while until Hanson, through with his meal, took his paper and\nwent into the front room.\n\nWhen they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freer\nconversation, Carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they worked at\nthe dishes.\n\n\"I should like to walk up and see Halstead Street, if it isn't too far,\"\nsaid Carrie, after a time. \"Why don't we go to the theatre to-night?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think Sven would want to go to-night,\" returned Minnie. \"He\nhas to get up so early.\"\n\n\"He wouldn't mind--he'd enjoy it,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"No, he doesn't go very often,\" returned Minnie.\n\n\"Well, I'd like to go,\" rejoined Carrie. \"Let's you and me go.\"\n\nMinnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go--for\nthat point was already negatively settled with her--but upon some means\nof diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other topic.\n\n\"We'll go some other time,\" she said at last, finding no ready means of\nescape.\n\nCarrie sensed the root of the opposition at once.\n\n\"I have some money,\" she said. \"You go with me.\"\n\nMinnie shook her head.\n\n\"He could go along,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"No,\" returned Minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown the\nconversation. \"He wouldn't.\"\n\nIt had been several years since Minnie had seen Carrie, and in that time\nthe latter's character had developed a few shades. Naturally timid in\nall things that related to her own advancement, and especially so when\nwithout power or resource, her craving for pleasure was so strong that\nit was the one stay of her nature. She would speak for that when silent\non all else.\n\n\"Ask him,\" she pleaded softly.\n\nMinnie was thinking of the resource which Carrie's board would add. It\nwould pay the rent and would make the subject of expenditure a little\nless difficult to talk about with her husband. But if Carrie was going\nto think of running around in the beginning there would be a hitch\nsomewhere. Unless Carrie submitted to a solemn round of industry and saw\nthe need of hard work without longing for play, how was her coming to\nthe city to profit them? These thoughts were not those of a cold, hard\nnature at all. They were the serious reflections of a mind which\ninvariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, to such\nsurroundings as its industry could make for it.\n\nAt last she yielded enough to ask Hanson. It was a half-hearted\nprocedure without a shade of desire on her part.\n\n\"Carrie wants us to go to the theatre,\" she said, looking in upon her\nhusband. Hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged a mild\nlook, which said as plainly as anything: \"This isn't what we expected.\"\n\n\"I don't care to go,\" he returned. \"What does she want to see?\"\n\n\"H. R. Jacob's,\" said Minnie.\n\nHe looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively.\n\nWhen Carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained a still\nclearer feeling of their way of life. It weighed on her, but took no\ndefinite form of opposition.\n\n\"I think I'll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs,\" she said,\nafter a time.\n\nMinnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and went\nbelow.\n\n\"Where has Carrie gone?\" asked Hanson, coming back into the dining-room\nwhen he heard the door close.\n\n\"She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs,\" answered\nMinnie. \"I guess she just wants to look out a while.\"\n\n\"She oughtn't to be thinking about spending her money on theatres\nalready, do you think?\" he said.\n\n\"She just feels a little curious, I guess,\" ventured Minnie. \"Everything\nis so new.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his forehead\nslightly wrinkled.\n\nHe was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which a\nyoung girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie could contemplate\nsuch a course when she had so little, as yet, with which to do.\n\nOn Saturday Carrie went out by herself--first toward the river, which\ninterested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which was then lined\nby the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequently caused it to be\nmade into a boulevard. She was struck with the evidences of wealth,\nalthough there was, perhaps, not a person on the street worth more than\na hundred thousand dollars. She was glad to be out of the flat, because\nalready she felt that it was a narrow, humdrum place, and that interest\nand joy lay elsewhere. Her thoughts now were of a more liberal\ncharacter, and she punctuated them with speculations as to the\nwhereabouts of Drouet. She was not sure but that he might call anyhow\nMonday night, and, while she felt a little disturbed at the possibility,\nthere was, nevertheless, just the shade of a wish that he would.\n\nOn Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed\nherself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of\nlight-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she had worn\nall summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and her necktie was in\nthat crumpled, flattened state which time and much wearing impart. She\nmade a very average looking shop-girl with the exception of her\nfeatures. These were slightly more even than common, and gave her a\nsweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance.\n\nIt is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is used to\nsleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at home. She gained\nsome inkling of the character of Hanson's life when, half asleep, she\nlooked out into the dining-room at six o'clock and saw him silently\nfinishing his breakfast. By the time she was dressed he was gone, and\nshe, Minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter being just old enough\nto sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with a spoon. Her spirits\nwere greatly subdued now when the fact of entering upon strange and\nuntried duties confronted her. Only the ashes of all her fine fancies\nwere remaining--ashes still concealing, nevertheless, a few red embers\nof hope. So subdued was she by her weakening nerves, that she ate quite\nin silence, going over imaginary conceptions of the character of the\nshoe company, the nature of the work, her employer's attitude. She was\nvaguely feeling that she would come in contact with the great owners,\nthat her work would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally\nlook on.\n\n\"Well, good luck,\" said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They had\nagreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she could\ndo it every day--sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an item\nunder the circumstances.\n\n\"I'll tell you how it goes to-night,\" said Carrie.\n\nOnce in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in either\ndirection, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the small\nclerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men and women\ngenerally coming out of doors and passing about the neighbourhood,\nCarrie felt slightly reassured. In the sunshine of the morning, beneath\nthe wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind astir, what fears, except the\nmost desperate, can find a harbourage? In the night, or the gloomy\nchambers of the day, fears and misgivings wax strong, but out in the\nsunlight there is, for a time, cessation even of the terror of death.\n\nCarrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and then\nturned into Fifth Avenue. The thoroughfare, in this part, was like a\nwalled cañon of brown stone and dark red brick. The big windows looked\nshiny and clean. Trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men and\nwomen, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. She met\ngirls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for her\ndiffidence. She wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the\nimportance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. Dread\nat her own inefficiency crept upon her. She would not know how, she\nwould not be quick enough. Had not all the other places refused her\nbecause she did not know something or other? She would be scolded,\nabused, ignominiously discharged.\n\nIt was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that she came\nup to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue and entered the\nelevator. When she stepped out on the fourth floor there was no one at\nhand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling. She stood, very\nmuch frightened, awaiting some one.\n\nPresently Mr. Brown came up. He did not seem to recognise her.\n\n\"What is it you want?\" he inquired.\n\nCarrie's heart sank.\n\n\"You said I should come this morning to see about work----\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he interrupted. \"Um--yes. What is your name?\"\n\n\"Carrie Meeber.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said he. \"You come with me.\"\n\nHe led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell of new\nshoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into the factory\nproper. There was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking, rattling\nmachines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue gingham aprons\nwere working. She followed him diffidently through the clattering\nautomatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, and flushing slightly.\nThey crossed to a far corner and took an elevator to the sixth floor.\nOut of the array of machines and benches, Mr. Brown signalled a foreman.\n\n\"This is the girl,\" he said, and turning to Carrie, \"You go with him.\"\nHe then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to a little desk\nin a corner, which he used as a kind of official centre.\n\n\"You've never worked at anything like this before, have you?\" he\nquestioned, rather sternly.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she answered.\n\nHe seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but put\ndown her name and then led her across to where a line of girls occupied\nstools in front of clacking machines. On the shoulder of one of the\ngirls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper, by the aid\nof the machine, he put his hand.\n\n\"You,\" he said, \"show this girl how to do what you're doing. When you\nget through, come to me.\"\n\nThe girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place.\n\n\"It isn't hard to do,\" she said, bending over. \"You just take this so,\nfasten it with this clamp, and start the machine.\"\n\nShe suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which was\neventually to form the right half of the upper of a man's shoe, by\nlittle adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the side of\nthe machine. The latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp,\nsnapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side of the\nupper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. After observing a\nfew times, the girl let her work at it alone. Seeing that it was fairly\nwell done, she went away.\n\nThe pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her right,\nand were passed on to the girl at her left. Carrie saw at once that an\naverage speed was necessary or the work would pile up on her and all\nthose below would be delayed. She had no time to look about, and bent\nanxiously to her task. The girls at her left and right realised her\npredicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aid her, as much as\nthey dared, by working slower.\n\nAt this task she laboured incessantly for some time, finding relief from\nher own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum, mechanical movement\nof the machine. She felt, as the minutes passed, that the room was not\nvery light. It had a thick odour of fresh leather, but that did not\nworry her. She felt the eyes of the other help upon her, and troubled\nlest she was not working fast enough.\n\nOnce, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a slight\nerror in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared before her eyes\nand fastened the clamp for her. It was the foreman. Her heart thumped so\nthat she could scarcely see to go on.\n\n\"Start your machine,\" he said, \"start your machine. Don't keep the line\nwaiting.\"\n\nThis recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly\nbreathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. Then she heaved a\ngreat breath.\n\nAs the morning wore on the room became hotter. She felt the need of a\nbreath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not venture to stir.\nThe stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and she began to\nfeel uncomfortable. She found, after a time, that her back was beginning\nto ache. She twisted and turned from one position to another slightly\ndifferent, but it did not ease her for long. She was beginning to weary.\n\n\"Stand up, why don't you?\" said the girl at her right, without any form\nof introduction. \"They won't care.\"\n\nCarrie looked at her gratefully. \"I guess I will,\" she said.\n\nShe stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, but it was\na more difficult position. Her neck and shoulders ached in bending over.\n\nThe spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way. She did\nnot venture to look around, but above the clack of the machine she could\nhear an occasional remark. She could also note a thing or two out of the\nside of her eye.\n\n\"Did you see Harry last night?\" said the girl at her left, addressing\nher neighbour.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You ought to have seen the tie he had on. Gee, but he was a mark.\"\n\n\"S-s-t,\" said the other girl, bending over her work. The first,\nsilenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. The foreman passed slowly\nalong, eyeing each worker distinctly. The moment he was gone, the\nconversation was resumed again.\n\n\"Say,\" began the girl at her left, \"what jeh think he said?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"He said he saw us with Eddie Harris at Martin's last night.\"\n\n\"No!\" They both giggled.\n\nA youth with tan-coloured hair, that needed clipping very badly, came\nshuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of leather\nfindings under his left arm, and pressed against his stomach. When near\nCarrie, he stretched out his right hand and gripped one girl under the\narm.\n\n\"Aw, let me go,\" she exclaimed angrily. \"Duffer.\"\n\nHe only grinned broadly in return.\n\n\"Rubber!\" he called back as she looked after him. There was nothing of\nthe gallant in him.\n\nCarrie at last could scarcely sit still. Her legs began to tire and she\nwanted to get up and stretch. Would noon never come? It seemed as if she\nhad worked an entire day. She was not hungry at all, but weak, and her\neyes were tired, straining at the one point where the eye-punch came\ndown. The girl at the right noticed her squirmings and felt sorry for\nher. She was concentrating herself too thoroughly--what she did really\nrequired less mental and physical strain. There was nothing to be done,\nhowever. The halves of the uppers came piling steadily down. Her hands\nbegan to ache at the wrists and then in the fingers, and towards the\nlast she seemed one mass of dull, complaining muscles, fixed in an\neternal position and performing a single mechanical movement which\nbecame more and more distasteful, until at last it was absolutely\nnauseating. When she was wondering whether the strain would ever cease,\na dull-sounding bell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the\nend came. In an instant there was a buzz of action and conversation. All\nthe girls instantly left their stools and hurried away in an adjoining\nroom, men passed through, coming from some department which opened on\nthe right. The whirling wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying\nkey, until at last they died away in a low buzz. There was an audible\nstillness, in which the common voice sounded strange.\n\nCarrie got up and sought her lunch box. She was stiff, a little dizzy,\nand very thirsty. On the way to the small space portioned off by wood,\nwhere all the wraps and lunches were kept, she encountered the foreman,\nwho stared at her hard.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"did you get along all right?\"\n\n\"I think so,\" she replied, very respectfully.\n\n\"Um,\" he replied, for want of something better, and walked on.\n\nUnder better material conditions, this kind of work would not have been\nso bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant working conditions\nfor employees had not then taken hold upon manufacturing companies.\n\nThe place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather--a\ncombination which, added to the stale odours of the building, was not\npleasant even in cold weather. The floor, though regularly swept every\nevening, presented a littered surface. Not the slightest provision had\nbeen made for the comfort of the employees, the idea being that\nsomething was gained by giving them as little and making the work as\nhard and unremunerative as possible. What we know of foot-rests,\nswivel-back chairs, dining-rooms for the girls, clean aprons and curling\nirons supplied free, and a decent cloak room, were unthought of. The\nwashrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foul places, and the whole\natmosphere was sordid.\n\nCarrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of water from a\nbucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat. The other girls had\nranged themselves about the windows or the work-benches of those of the\nmen who had gone out. She saw no place which did not hold a couple or a\ngroup of girls, and being too timid to think of intruding herself, she\nsought out her machine and, seated upon her stool, opened her lunch on\nher lap. There she sat listening to the chatter and comment about her.\nIt was, for the most part, silly and graced by the current slang.\nSeveral of the men in the room exchanged compliments with the girls at\nlong range.\n\n\"Say, Kitty,\" called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in a few\nfeet of space near one of the windows, \"are you going to the ball with\nme?\"\n\n\"Look out, Kitty,\" called another, \"you'll jar your back hair.\"\n\n\"Go on, Rubber,\" was her only comment.\n\nAs Carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiar badinage\namong the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew into herself. She\nwas not used to this type, and felt that there was something hard and\nlow about it all. She feared that the young boys about would address\nsuch remarks to her--boys who, beside Drouet, seemed uncouth and\nridiculous. She made the average feminine distinction between clothes,\nputting worth, goodness, and distinction in a dress suit, and leaving\nall the unlovely qualities and those beneath notice in overalls and\njumper.\n\nShe was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheels began to\nwhirr again. Though wearied, she would be inconspicuous. This illusion\nended when another young man passed along the aisle and poked her\nindifferently in the ribs with his thumb. She turned about, indignation\nleaping to her eyes, but he had gone on and only once turned to grin.\nShe found it difficult to conquer an inclination to cry.\n\nThe girl next her noticed her state of mind. \"Don't you mind,\" she said.\n\"He's too fresh.\"\n\nCarrie said nothing, but bent over her work. She felt as though she\ncould hardly endure such a life. Her idea of work had been so entirely\ndifferent. All during the long afternoon she thought of the city outside\nand its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings. Columbia City and the\nbetter side of her home life came back. By three o'clock she was sure it\nmust be six, and by four it seemed as if they had forgotten to note the\nhour and were letting all work overtime. The foreman became a true ogre,\nprowling constantly about, keeping her tied down to her miserable task.\nWhat she heard of the conversation about her only made her feel sure\nthat she did not want to make friends with any of these. When six\no'clock came she hurried eagerly away, her arms aching and her limbs\nstiff from sitting in one position.\n\nAs she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a young machine\nhand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her.\n\n\"Say, Maggie,\" he called, \"if you wait, I'll walk with you.\"\n\nIt was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who was meant,\nbut never turned to look.\n\nIn the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth tried to make\nan impression on her by leering in her face.\n\nOne young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance of\nanother, grinned at her as she passed.\n\n\"Ain't going my way, are you?\" he called jocosely.\n\nCarrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart. As she turned\nthe corner, she saw through the great shiny window the small desk at\nwhich she had applied. There were the crowds, hurrying with the same\nbuzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm. She felt a slight relief, but it\nwas only at her escape. She felt ashamed in the face of better dressed\ngirls who went by. She felt as though she should be better served, and\nher heart revolted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nA GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER: THE USE OF A NAME\n\n\nDrouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he had\nlaid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floating\naround having what he considered a gay time. On this particular evening\nhe dined at \"Rector's,\" a restaurant of some local fame, which occupied\na basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. Thereafter he visited the resort\nof Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the imposing Federal\nBuilding. There he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a glass of\nplain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars, one of which he lighted.\nThis to him represented in part high life--a fair sample of what the\nwhole must be.\n\nDrouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. He only\ncraved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed to him\na part of the best. Rector's, with its polished marble walls and floor,\nits profusion of lights, its show of china and silverware, and, above\nall, its reputation as a resort for actors and professional men, seemed\nto him the proper place for a successful man to go. He loved fine\nclothes, good eating, and particularly the company and acquaintanceship\nof successful men. When dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction to\nhim to know that Joseph Jefferson was wont to come to this same place,\nor that Henry E. Dixie, a well-known performer of the day, was then only\na few tables off. At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction,\nfor there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some rich\nyoung \"rounders\" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz of\npopular commonplace conversation.\n\n\"That's So-and-so over there,\" was a common remark of these gentlemen\namong themselves, particularly among those who had not yet reached, but\nhoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dine here lavishly\nrepresented.\n\n\"You don't say so,\" would be the reply.\n\n\"Why, yes, didn't you know that? Why, he's manager of the Grand Opera\nHouse.\"\n\nWhen these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straighten\nhimself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he had any\nvanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, this stirred it.\nHe would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too some day. As it was,\nhe could eat where _they_ did.\n\nHis preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place was another\nyard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloon from a\nChicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamented with a blaze\nof incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. The floors were of\nbrightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of rich, dark, polished\nwood, which reflected the light, and coloured stucco-work, which gave\nthe place a very sumptuous appearance. The long bar was a blaze of\nlights, polished wood-work, coloured and cut glassware, and many fancy\nbottles. It was a truly swell saloon, with rich screens, fancy wines,\nand a line of bar goods unsurpassed in the country.\n\nAt Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of Fitzgerald\nand Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful and well-known\nman about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightly\nunder forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and a\nsolid, substantial air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes,\nhis clean linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his\nimportance. Drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as being some\none worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him, but to visit the\nAdams Street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a drink or a cigar.\n\nHurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was shrewd and\nclever in many little things, and capable of creating a good impression.\nHis managerial position was fairly important--a kind of stewardship\nwhich was imposing, but lacked financial control. He had risen by\nperseverance and industry, through long years of service, from the\nposition of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his present altitude.\nHe had a little office in the place, set off in polished cherry and\ngrill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the rather simple\naccounts of the place--supplies ordered and needed. The chief executive\nand financial functions devolved upon the owners--Messrs. Fitzgerald and\nMoy--and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken in.\n\nFor the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suits\nof imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, a\nstriking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of solid gold,\nwhich held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the latest make and\nengraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally with a \"Well, old\nfellow,\" hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general run\nof successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to\ndo so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship,\nwhich improved from the \"How do you do?\" addressed to the\nfifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attachés, who, by long\nfrequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the \"Why,\nold man, how are you?\" which he addressed to those noted or rich\nindividuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. There was a\nclass, however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom he\ncould not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was\nprofessionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying\nthem the deference which would win their good feeling without in the\nleast compromising his own bearing and opinions. There were, in the last\nplace, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yet\nremarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of\ngood-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would converse\nlongest and most seriously. He loved to go out and have a good time once\nin a while--to go to the races, the theatres, the sporting\nentertainments at some of the clubs. He kept a horse and neat trap, had\nhis wife and two children, who were well established in a neat house on\nthe North Side near Lincoln Park, and was altogether a very acceptable\nindividual of our great American upper class--the first grade below the\nluxuriously rich.\n\nHurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressy appearance\npleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travelling salesman--and not\none of many years at that--but the firm of Bartlett, Caryoe & Company\nwas a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood well. Hurstwood knew\nCaryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and then with him, in\ncompany with several others, when the conversation was general. Drouet\nhad what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of humour, and\ncould tell a good story when the occasion required. He could talk races\nwith Hurstwood, tell interesting incidents concerning himself and his\nexperiences with women, and report the state of trade in the cities\nwhich he visited, and so managed to make himself almost invariably\nagreeable. To-night he was particularly so, since his report to the\ncompany had been favourably commented upon, his new samples had been\nsatisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six weeks.\n\n\"Why, hello, Charlie, old man,\" said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that\nevening about eight o'clock. \"How goes it?\" The room was crowded.\n\nDrouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the\nbar.\n\n\"Oh, all right.\"\n\n\"I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?\"\n\n\"Friday,\" said Drouet. \"Had a fine trip.\"\n\n\"Glad of it,\" said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which\nhalf displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. \"What\nare you going to take?\" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and\ntie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.\n\n\"Old Pepper,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"A little of the same for me,\" put in Hurstwood.\n\n\"How long are you in town this time?\" inquired Hurstwood.\n\n\"Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul.\"\n\n\"George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee last\nweek.\"\n\n\"Yes, I saw George,\" returned Drouet. \"Great old boy, isn't he? We had\nquite a time there together.\"\n\nThe barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and\nthey now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to\nwithin a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking\nthe barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.\n\n\"What's become of Caryoe?\" remarked Hurstwood. \"I haven't seen him\naround here in two weeks.\"\n\n\"Laid up, they say,\" exclaimed Drouet. \"Say, he's a gouty old boy!\"\n\n\"Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes, wads of it,\" returned Drouet. \"He won't live much longer. Barely\ncomes down to the office now.\"\n\n\"Just one boy, hasn't he?\" asked Hurstwood.\n\n\"Yes, and a swift-pacer,\" laughed Drouet.\n\n\"I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the other\nmembers all there.\"\n\n\"No, he can't injure that any, I guess.\"\n\nHurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the\nlight on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable\ndistinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort.\n\nTo one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of\nmind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem an\nanomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come the moths,\nin endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. Such\nconversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of the\nscene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemers would\nchoose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that\npoliticians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save\nformalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely be\njustified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent\nthese more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless, the\nfact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rub\nelbows, must be explained upon some grounds. It must be that a strange\nbundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a curious social\ninstitution or it would not be.\n\nDrouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by his\ndesire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met here dropped\nin because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analysing it, the\ncompany, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. One might take it,\nafter all, as an augur of the better social order, for the things which\nthey satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. No evil could come\nout of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber. The worst\neffect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the\nmaterial-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarly\nsplendid basis. In the last analysis, that would scarcely be called the\nfault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind.\nThat such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the\nmore expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything\nsave the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Remove the\nelement so thoroughly and solely complained of--liquor--and there would\nnot be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm which would\nremain. The pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion are\nlooked upon is proof of this assertion.\n\nYet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy\ncompany, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless,\nwandering mental action which it represents--the love of light and show\nand finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal\nstars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Under the stars and sweeping\nnight winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glittering\nnight-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of\npleasure.\n\n\"See that fellow coming in there?\" said Hurstwood, glancing at a\ngentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat,\nhis fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.\n\n\"No, where?\" said Drouet.\n\n\"There,\" said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye,\n\"the man with the silk hat.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Drouet, now affecting not to see. \"Who is he?\"\n\n\"That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist.\"\n\nDrouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.\n\n\"Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?\" said Drouet.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" returned Hurstwood. \"He's got the money, all right,\"\nand a little twinkle passed over his eyes.\n\n\"I don't go much on those things, do you?\" asked Drouet.\n\n\"Well, you never can tell,\" said Hurstwood. \"There may be something to\nit. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By the way,\" he added,\n\"are you going anywhere to-night?\"\n\n\"'The Hole in the Ground,'\" said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of\nthe time.\n\n\"Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already,\" and he\ndrew out his watch.\n\nThe crowd was already thinning out considerably--some bound for the\ntheatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all\nthe pleasures--for the type of man there represented, at least--the\nladies.\n\n\"Yes, I will,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,\" said\nHurstwood.\n\n\"Sure,\" said Drouet, elated.\n\n\"You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?\" added Hurstwood.\n\n\"Not a thing.\"\n\n\"Well, come round, then.\"\n\n\"I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday,\" remarked\nDrouet, by way of parting. \"By George, that's so, I must go and call on\nher before I go away.\"\n\n\"Oh, never mind her,\" Hurstwood remarked.\n\n\"Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you,\" went on Drouet\nconfidentially, and trying to impress his friend.\n\n\"Twelve o'clock,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"That's right,\" said Drouet, going out.\n\nThus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of\nplaces, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow\nlot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her\nunfolding fate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nTHE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN: A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY\n\n\nAt the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere. The\nfact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different, increased\nher knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the good spirits Carrie\nmanifested at first, expected a fair report. Hanson supposed that Carrie\nwould be satisfied.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and\nlooked at Carrie through the dining-room door, \"how did you make out?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Carrie, \"it's pretty hard. I don't like it.\"\n\nThere was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she\nwas both weary and disappointed.\n\n\"What sort of work is it?\" he asked, lingering a moment as he turned\nupon his heel to go into the bathroom.\n\n\"Running a machine,\" answered Carrie.\n\nIt was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from the side\nof the flat's success. He was irritated a shade because it could not\nhave come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be pleased.\n\nMinnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie arrived.\nThe sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing now that\nCarrie had reported her discontent. To Carrie, the one relief of the\nwhole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception, a\nbright supper table, and some one to say: \"Oh, well, stand it a little\nwhile. You will get something better,\" but now this was ashes. She\nbegan to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and\nthat she was supposed to work on and say nothing. She knew that she was\nto pay four dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that it\nwould be an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people.\n\nMinnie was no companion for her sister--she was too old. Her thoughts\nwere staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson had any\npleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemed to do\nall his mental operations without the aid of physical expression. He was\nas still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on the other hand, had the blood\nof youth and some imagination. Her day of love and the mysteries of\ncourtship were still ahead. She could think of things she would like to\ndo, of clothes she would like to wear, and of places she would like to\nvisit. These were the things upon which her mind ran, and it was like\nmeeting with opposition at every turn to find no one here to call forth\nor respond to her feelings.\n\nShe had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her day,\nthat Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these two\npeople were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what she\nwould do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After supper\nshe changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was rather a\nsweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face expressed\nthe mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt. She\nwandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little with\nMinnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at the foot of\nthe stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him there. Her face took on\nthe semblance of a look of happiness as she put on her hat to go below.\n\n\"Carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well,\" said Minnie to her\nhusband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the\ndining-room a few minutes.\n\n\"She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow,\" said Hanson. \"Has she gone\ndownstairs?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Minnie.\n\n\"I'd tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weeks without\ngetting another one.\"\n\nMinnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper.\n\n\"If I were you,\" he said a little later, \"I wouldn't let her stand in\nthe door down there. It don't look good.\"\n\n\"I'll tell her,\" said Minnie.\n\nThe life of the streets continued for a long time to interest Carrie.\nShe never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars were going\nor what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a very narrow round,\nalways winding up at points which concerned money, looks, clothes, or\nenjoyment. She would have a far-off thought of Columbia City now and\nthen, or an irritating rush of feeling concerning her experiences of the\npresent day, but, on the whole, the little world about her enlisted her\nwhole attention.\n\nThe first floor of the building, of which Hanson's flat was the third,\nwas occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing there,\nHanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware of his\npresence until he was quite near her.\n\n\"I'm after bread,\" was all he said as he passed.\n\nThe contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson really\ncame for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would see what\nCarrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that in mind than\nshe felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what put it into her\nhead, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade of real\nantipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. He was\nsuspicious.\n\nA thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie's meditations\nhad been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone upstairs before she\nfollowed. She had realised with the lapse of the quarter hours that\nDrouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a little resentful, a little\nas if she had been forsaken--was not good enough. She went upstairs,\nwhere everything was silent. Minnie was sewing by a lamp at the table.\nHanson had already turned in for the night. In her weariness and\ndisappointment Carrie did no more than announce that she was going to\nbed.\n\n\"Yes, you'd better,\" returned Minnie. \"You've got to get up early, you\nknow.\"\n\nThe morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door as Carrie\ncame from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her during breakfast, but\nthere was not much of interest which they could mutually discuss. As on\nthe previous morning, Carrie walked down town, for she began to realise\nnow that her four-fifty would not even allow her car fare after she paid\nher board. This seemed a miserable arrangement. But the morning light\nswept away the first misgivings of the day, as morning light is ever\nwont to do.\n\nAt the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome as the\npreceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, on his round,\nstopped by her machine.\n\n\"Where did you come from?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Mr. Brown hired me,\" she replied.\n\n\"Oh, he did, eh!\" and then, \"See that you keep things going.\"\n\nThe machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed\nsatisfied with their lot, and were in a sense \"common.\" Carrie had more\nimagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct in the\nmatter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen to the\ngirl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience.\n\n\"I'm going to quit this,\" she heard her remark to her neighbour. \"What\nwith the stipend and being up late, it's too much for me health.\"\n\nThey were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and\nexchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. She saw\nthat she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed accordingly.\n\n\"Hello,\" remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at noon.\n\"You're a daisy.\" He really expected to hear the common \"Aw! go chase\nyourself!\" in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by Carrie's silently\nmoving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning.\n\nThat night at the flat she was even more lonely--the dull situation was\nbecoming harder to endure. She could see that the Hansons seldom or\nnever had any company. Standing at the street door looking out, she\nventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gait and idle manner\nattracted attention of an offensive but common sort. She was slightly\ntaken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man of thirty, who in\npassing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned back, and said:\n\n\"Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?\"\n\nCarrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient thought\nto reply: \"Why, I don't know you,\" backing away as she did so.\n\n\"Oh, that don't matter,\" said the other affably.\n\nShe bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her own\ndoor quite out of breath. There was something in the man's look which\nfrightened her.\n\nDuring the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or two\nnights she found herself too tired to walk home, and expended car fare.\nShe was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her back. She\nwent to bed one night before Hanson.\n\nTransplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or\nmaidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to\ncontinue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her\nacclimatization had been more gradual--less rigid. She would have done\nbetter if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more\nof the city which she constantly troubled to know about.\n\nOn the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella.\nMinnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the\nkind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the\ngreat department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a\nquarter of her small store to pay for it.\n\n\"What did you do that for, Carrie?\" asked Minnie, when she saw it.\n\n\"Oh, I need one,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"You foolish girl.\"\n\nCarrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to be\na common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either.\n\nOn the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars. Minnie\nhad a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how to\nexplain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four\ndollars less toward the household expenses with a smile of satisfaction.\nHe contemplated increasing his Building and Loan payments. As for\nCarrie, she studied over the problem of finding clothes and amusement on\nfifty cents a week. She brooded over this until she was in a state of\nmental rebellion.\n\n\"I'm going up the street for a walk,\" she said after supper.\n\n\"Not alone, are you?\" asked Hanson.\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Carrie.\n\n\"I wouldn't,\" said Minnie.\n\n\"I want to see _something_,\" said Carrie, and by the tone she put into\nthe last word they realised for the first time she was not pleased with\nthem.\n\n\"What's the matter with her?\" asked Hanson, when she went into the front\nroom to get her hat.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Minnie.\n\n\"Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone.\"\n\nCarrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the\ndoor. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did not please\nher. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day she heard the\nhighly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial amusements.\nThey had been happy. On several days it rained and she used up car fare.\nOne night she got thoroughly soaked, going to catch the car at Van Buren\nStreet. All that evening she sat alone in the front room looking out\nupon the street, where the lights were reflected on the wet pavements,\nthinking. She had imagination enough to be moody.\n\nOn Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty cents\nin despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed with some of\nthe girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that they had more of\ntheir earnings to use for themselves than she did. They had young men of\nthe kind whom she, since her experience with Drouet, felt above, who\ntook them about. She came to thoroughly dislike the light-headed young\nfellows of the shop. Not one of them had a show of refinement. She saw\nonly their workday side.\n\nThere came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept over\nthe city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed long,\nthin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about the\nstreets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the\nproblem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter jacket,\nno hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about this, but at\nlast she summoned the courage.\n\n\"I don't know what I'm going to do about clothes,\" she said one evening\nwhen they were together. \"I need a hat.\"\n\nMinnie looked serious.\n\n\"Why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?\" she\nsuggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of Carrie's\nmoney would create.\n\n\"I'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind,\" ventured Carrie.\n\n\"Could you pay two dollars?\" asked Minnie.\n\nCarrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and\nliberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began figuring at\nonce. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson she\nnever knew. He said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air\nwhich left disagreeable impressions.\n\nThe new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. It\nblew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was still without a\njacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind\nstruck her. In the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made it\nworse. That day her bones ached and she felt light-headed. Towards\nevening she felt very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry.\nMinnie noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie. \"I feel real bad.\"\n\nShe hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed\nsick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.\n\nMinnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour.\nHanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. When she\ngot up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was\nlost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was\nout of work.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie; \"I'll go down Monday and see if I can't get\nsomething.\"\n\nIf anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial than\nthe last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her last\nmoney she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about,\nutterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming\nunbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening. Hanson\nwas so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly she would\nhave to give up and go home.\n\nOn the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten cents\nfor lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of places\nwithout success. She even answered for a waitress in a small restaurant\nwhere she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an experienced girl.\nShe moved through the thick throng of strangers, utterly subdued in\nspirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned her about.\n\n\"Well, well!\" said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet. He\nwas not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of sunshine\nand good-humour. \"Why, how are you, Carrie?\" he said. \"You're a daisy.\nWhere have you been?\"\n\nCarrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.\n\n\"I've been out home,\" she said.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I saw you across the street there. I thought it was\nyou. I was just coming out to your place. How are you, anyhow?\"\n\n\"I'm all right,\" said Carrie, smiling.\n\nDrouet looked her over and saw something different.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I want to talk to you. You're not going anywhere in\nparticular, are you?\"\n\n\"Not just now,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Let's go up here and have something to eat. George! but I'm glad to see\nyou again.\"\n\nShe felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after and\ncared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air of\nholding back.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, as he took her arm--and there was an exuberance of\ngood-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her\nheart.\n\nThey went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room, which\nwas then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine and\nsubstantial service. Drouet selected a table close by the window, where\nthe busy rout of the street could be seen. He loved the changing\npanorama of the street--to see and be seen as he dined.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, \"what\nwill you have?\"\n\nCarrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed her\nwithout really considering it. She was very hungry, and the things she\nsaw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her attention.\n\"Half broiled spring chicken--seventy-five. Sirloin steak with\nmushrooms--one twenty-five.\" She had dimly heard of these things, but it\nseemed strange to be called to order from the list.\n\n\"I'll fix this,\" exclaimed Drouet. \"Sst! waiter.\"\n\nThat officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro,\napproached, and inclined his ear.\n\n\"Sirloin with mushrooms,\" said Drouet. \"Stuffed tomatoes.\"\n\n\"Yassah,\" assented the negro, nodding his head.\n\n\"Hashed brown potatoes.\"\n\n\"Yassah.\"\n\n\"Asparagus.\"\n\n\"Yassah.\"\n\n\"And a pot of coffee.\"\n\nDrouet turned to Carrie. \"I haven't had a thing since breakfast. Just\ngot in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you.\"\n\nCarrie smiled and smiled.\n\n\"What have you been doing?\" he went on. \"Tell me all about yourself. How\nis your sister?\"\n\n\"She's well,\" returned Carrie, answering the last query.\n\nHe looked at her hard.\n\n\"Say,\" he said, \"you haven't been sick, have you?\"\n\nCarrie nodded.\n\n\"Well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it? You don't look very well.\nI thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?\"\n\n\"Working,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"You don't say so! At what?\"\n\nShe told him.\n\n\"Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott--why, I know that house. Over here on\nFifth Avenue, isn't it? They're a close-fisted concern. What made you go\nthere?\"\n\n\"I couldn't get anything else,\" said Carrie frankly.\n\n\"Well, that's an outrage,\" said Drouet. \"You oughtn't to be working for\nthose people. Have the factory right back of the store, don't they?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"That isn't a good house,\" said Drouet. \"You don't want to work at\nanything like that, anyhow.\"\n\nHe chattered on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things\nabout himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the\nwaiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes\nwhich had been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter of serving.\nHe appeared to great advantage behind the white napery and silver\nplatters of the table and displaying his arms with a knife and fork. As\nhe cut the meat his rings almost spoke. His new suit creaked as he\nstretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pour the coffee. He\nhelped Carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed the warmth of his\nspirit to her body until she was a new girl. He was a splendid fellow in\nthe true popular understanding of the term, and captivated Carrie\ncompletely.\n\nThat little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way. She\nfelt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the view\nof the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah, what was\nit not to have money! What a thing it was to be able to come in here and\ndine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains, dressed in such nice\nclothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine places. He seemed quite a\nfigure of a man, and she wondered at his friendship and regard for her.\n\n\"So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?\" he said. \"What are\nyou going to do now?\"\n\n\"Look around,\" she said, a thought of the need that hung outside this\nfine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her eyes.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Drouet, \"that won't do. How long have you been looking?\"\n\n\"Four days,\" she answered.\n\n\"Think of that!\" he said, addressing some problematical individual. \"You\noughtn't to be doing anything like that. These girls,\" and he waved an\ninclusion of all shop and factory girls, \"don't get anything. Why, you\ncan't live on it, can you?\"\n\nHe was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had\nscouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carrie was\nreally very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure was\nevidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouet looked at\nher and his thoughts reached home. She felt his admiration. It was\npowerfully backed by his liberality and good-humour. She felt that she\nliked him--that she could continue to like him ever so much. There was\nsomething even richer than that, running as a hidden strain, in her\nmind. Every little while her eyes would meet his, and by that means the\ninterchanging current of feeling would be fully connected.\n\n\"Why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?\" he said,\nhitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide.\n\n\"Oh, I can't,\" she said.\n\n\"What are you going to do to-night?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" she answered, a little drearily.\n\n\"You don't like out there where you are, do you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do if you don't get work?\"\n\n\"Go back home, I guess.\"\n\nThere was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow, the\ninfluence he was exerting was powerful. They came to an understanding of\neach other without words--he of her situation, she of the fact that he\nrealised it.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"you can't make it!\" genuine sympathy filling his mind\nfor the time. \"Let me help you. You take some of my money.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" she said, leaning back.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" he said.\n\nShe sat meditating, merely shaking her head.\n\nHe looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were some loose\nbills in his vest pocket--greenbacks. They were soft and noiseless, and\nhe got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in his hand.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said, \"I'll see you through all right. Get yourself some\nclothes.\"\n\nIt was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now she\nrealised how bad off she was. In his crude way he had struck the\nkey-note. Her lips trembled a little.\n\nShe had her hand out on the table before her. They were quite alone in\ntheir corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it.\n\n\"Aw, come, Carrie,\" he said, \"what can you do alone? Let me help you.\"\n\nHe pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. At this he held\nit fast, and she no longer protested. Then he slipped the greenbacks he\nhad into her palm, and when she began to protest, he whispered:\n\n\"I'll loan it to you--that's all right. I'll loan it to you.\"\n\nHe made her take it. She felt bound to him by a strange tie of affection\nnow. They went out, and he walked with her far out south toward Polk\nStreet, talking.\n\n\"You don't want to live with those people?\" he said in one place,\nabstractedly. Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression.\n\n\"Come down and meet me to-morrow,\" he said, \"and we'll go to the\nmatinée. Will you?\"\n\nCarrie protested a while, but acquiesced.\n\n\"You're not doing anything. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes and a\njacket.\"\n\nShe scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would trouble her\nwhen he was gone. In his presence, she was of his own hopeful,\neasy-way-out mood.\n\n\"Don't you bother about those people out there,\" he said at parting.\n\"I'll help you.\"\n\nCarrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out before\nher to draw off trouble. The money she had accepted was two soft, green,\nhandsome ten-dollar bills.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE LURE OF THE MATERIAL: BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF\n\n\nThe true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained and\ncomprehended. When each individual realises for himself that this thing\nprimarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral due--that it\nshould be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not as a usurped\nprivilege--many of our social, religious, and political troubles will\nhave permanently passed. As for Carrie, her understanding of the moral\nsignificance of money was the popular understanding, nothing more. The\nold definition: \"Money: something everybody else has and I must get,\"\nwould have expressed her understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she\nnow held in her hand--two soft, green ten-dollar bills--and she felt\nthat she was immensely better off for the having of them. It was\nsomething that was power in itself. One of her order of mind would have\nbeen content to be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of\nmoney, and only the long strain of starvation would have taught her that\nin some cases it could have no value. Even then she would have had no\nconception of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would,\nundoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the\ninability to use it.\n\nThe poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt ashamed\nin part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was so\ndire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new jacket! Now she\nwould buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. She would get stockings,\ntoo, and a skirt, and, and--until already, as in the matter of her\nprospective salary, she had got beyond, in her desires, twice the\npurchasing power of her bills.\n\nShe conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to all the\nworld, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil in the\nfellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart--out of a realisation\nof her want. He would not have given the same amount to a poor young\nman, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in the\nnature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl.\nFemininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an inborn\ndesire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, \"My God,\nmister, I'm starving,\" but he would gladly have handed out what was\nconsidered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more about\nit. There would have been no speculation, no philosophising. He had no\nmental process in him worthy the dignity of either of those terms. In\nhis good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the\nlamp. Deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved and\nbaffling forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been as\nhelpless as Carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if\nyou will, as she.\n\nNow, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because\nhe did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as\nbeing harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb\nto his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming\nvillain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief\ndelight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine clothes\nas any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed villain could have\nhornswaggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty\nshop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the\nthoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed about among men, a\nveritable bundle of enthusiasm--no power worthy the name of intellect,\nno thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in\none strain. A Madame Sappho would have called him a pig; a Shakespeare\nwould have said \"my merry child;\" old, drinking Caryoe thought him a\nclever, successful business man. In short, he was as good as his\nintellect conceived.\n\nThe best proof that there was something open and commendable about the\nman was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinister soul with\nulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of\nfriendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has taught\nthe beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens.\nShe has put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored\nfear of poisons. \"He keepeth His creatures whole,\" was not written of\nbeasts alone. Carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the sheep in its\nunwisdom, strong in feeling. The instinct of self-protection, strong in\nall such natures, was roused but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of\nDrouet.\n\nWhen Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good opinion. By\nGeorge, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked around like that.\nCold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. He would go around to\nFitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made him feel light of foot as\nhe thought about her.\n\nCarrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely\nconceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which\nperplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnie knew\nthat she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than this\npoint was settled for her. It could not be done. She could think of no\nway of explaining.\n\n\"How did you come out?\" asked Minnie, referring to the day.\n\nCarrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing and\nsay something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it would be\nin the line of her feelings at least. So instead of complaining when she\nfelt so good, she said:\n\n\"I have the promise of something.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"At the Boston Store.\"\n\n\"Is it sure promised?\" questioned Minnie.\n\n\"Well, I'm to find out to-morrow,\" returned Carrie, disliking to draw\nout a lie any longer than was necessary.\n\nMinnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought with\nher. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state of\nHanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture.\n\n\"If you shouldn't get it--\" she paused, troubled for an easy way.\n\n\"If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home.\"\n\nMinnie saw her chance.\n\n\"Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow.\"\n\nThe situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keep her\nany longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did not blame\nHanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark, she was\nglad she had Drouet's money.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said after a few moments, \"I thought of doing that.\"\n\nShe did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the\nantagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She\nknew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious\ncity which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only suggested\nits possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the little old life\nout there--she almost exclaimed against the thought.\n\nShe had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What\ncould she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She would\nneed to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did not want\nto borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could she explain where she\neven got that money? If she could only get enough to let her out easy.\n\nShe went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning, Drouet\nwould expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't be. The\nHansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away, and yet she\ndid not want to go home. In the light of the way they would look on her\ngetting money without work, the taking of it now seemed dreadful. She\nbegan to be ashamed. The whole situation depressed her. It was all so\nclear when she was with Drouet. Now it was all so tangled, so\nhopeless--much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance\nof aid in her hand which she could not use.\n\nHer spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have had\nanother hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the money\nback. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the morning and hunt\nfor work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed and tell him. At this\ndecision her heart sank, until she was the old Carrie of distress.\n\nCuriously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling some\nrelief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep away\nall thought about the matter and then the twenty dollars seemed a\nwonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money, money! What a thing\nit was to have. How plenty of it would clear away all these troubles.\n\nIn the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her decision\nto hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket,\nafter all her troubling over it, made the work question the least shade\nless terrible. She walked into the wholesale district, but as the\nthought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank.\nWhat a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she had applied so\noften. It would be the same old story. She walked on and on, and finally\ndid go into one place, with the old result. She came out feeling that\nluck was against her. It was no use.\n\nWithout much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the great\nFair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its long window\ndisplay, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her thoughts, she who\nwas so weary of them. It was here that she had intended to come and get\nher new things. Now for relief from distress; she thought she would go\nin and see. She would look at the jackets.\n\nThere is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle state in\nwhich we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by\ndesire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision. When Carrie\nbegan wandering around the store amid the fine displays she was in this\nmood. Her original experience in this same place had given her a high\nopinion of its merits. Now she paused at each individual bit of finery,\nwhere before she had hurried on. Her woman's heart was warm with desire\nfor them. How would she look in this, how charming that would make her!\nShe came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she noted\nthe dainty concoctions of colour and lace there displayed. If she would\nonly make up her mind, she could have one of those now. She lingered in\nthe jewelry department. She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins,\nthe chains. What would she not have given if she could have had them\nall! She would look fine too, if only she had some of these things.\n\nThe jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the store,\nshe already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket with\nlarge mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall. Still\nshe delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she would like\nbetter. She went about among the glass cases and racks where these\nthings were displayed, and satisfied herself that the one she thought of\nwas the proper one. All the time she wavered in mind, now persuading\nherself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to\nherself the actual condition. At last the noon hour was dangerously\nnear, and she had done nothing. She must go now and return the money.\n\nDrouet was on the corner when she came up.\n\n\"Hello,\" he said, \"where is the jacket and\"--looking down--\"the shoes?\"\n\nCarrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way,\nbut this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board.\n\n\"I came to tell you that--that I can't take the money.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's it, is it?\" he returned. \"Well, you come on with me. Let's\ngo over here to Partridge's.\"\n\nCarrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and\nimpossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the points\nthat were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to him.\n\n\"Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here,\" and\nDrouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants off\nState Street, in Monroe.\n\n\"I mustn't take the money,\" said Carrie, after they were settled in a\ncosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. \"I can't wear those\nthings out there. They--they wouldn't know where I got them.\"\n\n\"What do you want to do,\" he smiled, \"go without them?\"\n\n\"I think I'll go home,\" she said, wearily.\n\n\"Oh, come,\" he said, \"you've been thinking it over too long. I'll tell\nyou what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't you\nrent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?\"\n\nCarrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be\nconvinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if\nhe could.\n\n\"Why are you going home?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, I can't get anything here.\"\n\n\"They won't keep you?\" he remarked, intuitively.\n\n\"They can't,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"I'll tell you what you do,\" he said. \"You come with me. I'll take care\nof you.\"\n\nCarrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made it\nsound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemed of her own\nspirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and\nsympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend.\n\n\"What can you do back at Columbia City?\" he went on, rousing by the\nwords in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. \"There\nisn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get a nice room\nhere and some clothes, and then you can do something.\"\n\nCarrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it was,\nthe admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. An elegant\ncoach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its\nupholstered depths a young lady.\n\n\"What will you have if you go back?\" asked Drouet. There was no subtle\nundercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have nothing at\nall of the things he thought worth while.\n\nCarrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could do. They\nwould be expecting her to go home this week.\n\nDrouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy.\n\n\"Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it. I'll\nloan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can get\nyourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you.\"\n\nCarrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt more\nthan ever the helplessness of her case.\n\n\"If I could only get something to do,\" she said.\n\n\"Maybe you can,\" went on Drouet, \"if you stay here. You can't if you go\naway. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me get you a\nnice room? I won't bother you--you needn't be afraid. Then, when you get\nfixed up, maybe you could get something.\"\n\nHe looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. She\nwas a sweet little mortal to him--there was no doubt of that. She seemed\nto have some power back of her actions. She was not like the common run\nof store-girls. She wasn't silly.\n\nIn reality, Carrie had more imagination than he--more taste. It was a\nfiner mental strain in her that made possible her depression and\nloneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head\nunconsciously in a dainty way.\n\n\"Do you think I could get something?\" she asked.\n\n\"Sure,\" he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. \"I'll help\nyou.\"\n\nShe looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.\n\n\"Now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go over here to Partridge's and\nyou pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room for you.\nYou can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show to-night.\"\n\nCarrie shook her head.\n\n\"Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. You don't need\nto stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things there.\"\n\nShe hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.\n\n\"Let's go over and look at the jackets,\" he said.\n\nTogether they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of new\nthings which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under the\ninfluence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the scheme\nproposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like the\none which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her hand it\nseemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by\naccident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw the\nimprovement. She looked quite smart.\n\n\"That's the thing,\" he said.\n\nCarrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased as\nshe looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks.\n\n\"That's the thing,\" said Drouet. \"Now pay for it.\"\n\n\"It's nine dollars,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"That's all right--take it,\" said Drouet.\n\nShe reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman asked\nif she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she was back\nand the purchase was closed.\n\nFrom Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was fitted for\nshoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked, said,\n\"Wear them.\" Carrie shook her head, however. She was thinking of\nreturning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one thing, and a pair\nof gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" he said, \"you come down here and buy yourself a skirt.\"\n\nIn all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The deeper\nshe sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that the thing\nhung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since she had not\ndone these, there was a way out.\n\nDrouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He showed\nCarrie the outside of these, and said: \"Now, you're my sister.\" He\ncarried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the\nselection, looking around, criticising, opining. \"Her trunk will be here\nin a day or so,\" he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased.\n\nWhen they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. He talked in\nthe same general way as if they were out in the street. Carrie left her\nthings.\n\n\"Now,\" said Drouet, \"why don't you move to-night?\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I don't want to leave them so.\"\n\nHe took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm\nafternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he talked\nwith Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the\nflat.\n\n\"Come out of it,\" he said, \"they won't care. I'll help you get along.\"\n\nShe listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her about a\nlittle and then help her get something. He really imagined that he\nwould. He would be out on the road and she could be working.\n\n\"Now, I'll tell you what you do,\" he said, \"you go out there and get\nwhatever you want and come away.\"\n\nShe thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would come\nout as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him at\nhalf-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six her\ndetermination was hardened.\n\n\"So you didn't get it?\" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story of the\nBoston Store.\n\nCarrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. \"No,\" she answered.\n\n\"I don't think you'd better try any more this fall,\" said Minnie.\n\nCarrie said nothing.\n\nWhen Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. He washed\nin silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie felt a\nlittle nervous. The strain of her own plans was considerable, and the\nfeeling that she was not welcome here was strong.\n\n\"Didn't find anything, eh?\" said Hanson.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have\nher here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, that was all.\nOnce she was away, there would be no more coming back in the spring.\n\nCarrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved to\nknow that this condition was ending. They would not care. Hanson\nparticularly would be glad when she went. He would not care what became\nof her.\n\nAfter dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not disturb\nher, and wrote a little note.\n\n\"Good-bye, Minnie,\" it read. \"I'm not going home. I'm going to stay in\nChicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll be all\nright.\"\n\nIn the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helped\nMinnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said:\n\n\"I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while.\" She could scarcely\nprevent her voice from trembling.\n\nMinnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance.\n\n\"Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there,\" she said.\n\n\"Doesn't he?\" said Carrie. \"I won't do it any more after this.\"\n\nShe put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little bedroom,\nwondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under Minnie's\nhair-brush.\n\nWhen she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and wondered what\nthey would think. Some thought of the queerness of her deed affected\nher. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up the lighted\nstep, and then affected to stroll up the street. When she reached the\ncorner she quickened her pace.\n\nAs she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife.\n\n\"Is Carrie down at the door again?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Minnie; \"she said she wasn't going to do it any more.\"\n\nHe went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began to\npoke his finger at it.\n\nDrouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits.\n\n\"Hello, Carrie,\" he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew near him.\n\"Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nINTIMATIONS BY WINTER: AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED\n\n\nAmong the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe, untutored\nman is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is still in a middle\nstage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by\ninstinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason.\nOn the tiger no responsibility rests. We see him aligned by nature with\nthe forces of life--he is born into their keeping and without thought he\nis protected. We see man far removed from the lairs of the jungles, his\ninnate instincts dulled by too near an approach to free-will, his\nfree-will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and afford\nhim perfect guidance. He is becoming too wise to hearken always to\ninstincts and desires; he is still too weak to always prevail against\nthem. As a beast, the forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he\nhas not yet wholly learned to align himself with the forces. In this\nintermediate stage he wavers--neither drawn in harmony with nature by\nhis instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by his own\nfree-will. He is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath of\npassion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, erring with\none, only to retrieve by the other, falling by one, only to rise by the\nother--a creature of incalculable variability. We have the consolation\nof knowing that evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light\nthat cannot fail. He will not forever balance thus between good and\nevil. When this jangle of free-will and instinct shall have been\nadjusted, when perfect understanding has given the former the power to\nreplace the latter entirely, man will no longer vary. The needle of\nunderstanding will yet point steadfast and unwavering to the distant\npole of truth.\n\nIn Carrie--as in how many of our worldlings do they not?--instinct and\nreason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. She\nfollowed whither her craving led. She was as yet more drawn than she\ndrew.\n\nWhen Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled wonder\nand anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow, or love,\nshe exclaimed: \"Well, what do you think of that?\"\n\n\"What?\" said Hanson.\n\n\"Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else.\"\n\nHanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually displayed\nand looked at the note. The only indication of his thoughts came in the\nform of a little clicking sound made by his tongue; the sound some\npeople make when they wish to urge on a horse.\n\n\"Where do you suppose she's gone to?\" said Minnie, thoroughly aroused.\n\n\"I don't know,\" a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. \"Now she has gone\nand done it.\"\n\nMinnie moved her head in a puzzled way.\n\n\"Oh, oh,\" she said, \"she doesn't know what she has done.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before him,\n\"what can you do?\"\n\nMinnie's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the\npossibilities in such cases.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said at last, \"poor Sister Carrie!\"\n\nAt the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5 A. M.,\nthat little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled sleep in\nher new room, alone.\n\nCarrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in it.\nShe was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of luxury.\nShe turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release, wondering\nwhether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouet would do.\nThat worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a peradventure. He could\nnot help what he was going to do. He could not see clearly enough to\nwish to do differently. He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old\npursuing part. He would need to delight himself with Carrie as surely as\nhe would need to eat his heavy breakfast. He might suffer the least\nrudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far\nhe was evil and sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might\nhave would be rudimentary, you may be sure.\n\nThe next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her chamber. He\nwas the same jolly, enlivening soul.\n\n\"Aw,\" he said, \"what are you looking so blue about? Come on out to\nbreakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large eyes.\n\n\"I wish I could get something to do,\" she said.\n\n\"You'll get that all right,\" said Drouet. \"What's the use worrying right\nnow? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won't hurt you.\"\n\n\"I know you won't,\" she remarked, half truthfully.\n\n\"Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they look\nfine. Put on your jacket.\"\n\nCarrie obeyed.\n\n\"Say, that fits like a T, don't it?\" he remarked, feeling the set of it\nat the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. \"What\nyou need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast.\"\n\nCarrie put on her hat.\n\n\"Where are the gloves?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Here,\" she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.\n\n\"Now, come on,\" he said.\n\nThus the first hour of misgiving was swept away.\n\nIt went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her much alone.\nShe had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her hours\nwith sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie's he bought her a nice skirt and\nshirt waist. With his money she purchased the little necessaries of\ntoilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror\nconvinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was\npretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren't her eyes pretty.\nShe caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill\nof power. Drouet was so good.\n\nThey went to see \"The Mikado\" one evening, an opera which was\nhilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off for the\nWindsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a considerable\ndistance from Carrie's room. It was blowing up cold, and out of her\nwindow Carrie could see the western sky, still pink with the fading\nlight, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness. A long,\nthin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off\nsea. Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way\nbrought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked\nfrom their front window in December days at home.\n\nShe paused and wrung her little hands.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said Drouet.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" she said, her lip trembling.\n\nHe sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her\narm.\n\n\"Come on,\" he said gently, \"you're all right.\"\n\nShe turned to slip on her jacket.\n\n\"Better wear that boa about your throat to-night.\"\n\nThey walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The lights in\nthe stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue. The arc\nlights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows of\nthe tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped in and out in gusty\nbreaths. Homeward bound, the six o'clock throng bumped and jostled.\nLight overcoats were turned up about the ears, hats were pulled down.\nLittle shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering,\nlaughing. It was a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity.\n\nSuddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They were looking\nout from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were faded and\nloose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up shabby.\n\nCarrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of those who\nworked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not quite\nsure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as if some great\ntide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old machine came\nback. She actually started. Drouet didn't notice until Carrie bumped\ninto a pedestrian.\n\n\"You must be thinking,\" he said.\n\nThey dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrie\nimmensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain\nimaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and magnificent\npeople. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine\nladies made her stare.\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer where\nladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling,\nlace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips.\n\"Let's see.\"\n\n\"Sixty-seven,\" the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a sort\nof euphonious cry. \"Sixty-seven.\"\n\n\"Isn't it fine?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Great,\" said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of finery and\ngayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up, her even\nteeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight. As they were\nmoving out he whispered down to her, \"You look lovely!\" They were right\nwhere the coach-caller was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in\ntwo ladies.\n\n\"You stick to me and we'll have a coach,\" laughed Drouet.\n\nCarrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life.\n\nThey stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch. Just a\nshade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but there was no\nhousehold law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to fix upon\nher, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar things. They\nwill drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that\nare only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of habit, when he has\nneglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little\nscratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of\nbeing out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the\nstill, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. If the\ndigression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to\ncause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory\nthing. \"Now, bless me,\" says such a mind, \"I have done my duty,\" when,\nas a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once\nagain.\n\nCarrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she had, she\nwould have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch went off with\nconsiderable warmth. Under the influence of the varied occurrences, the\nfine, invisible passion which was emanating from Drouet, the food, the\nstill unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. She was\nagain the victim of the city's hypnotic influence.\n\n\"Well,\" said Drouet at last, \"we had better be going.\"\n\nThey had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently\nmet. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of force which\nfollowed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way of touching her hand\nin explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He touched it now as\nhe spoke of going.\n\nThey arose and went out into the street. The down-town section was now\nbare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few _owl_ cars, a few open\nresorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue they\nstrolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of small information. He\nhad Carrie's arm in his, and held it closely as he explained. Once in a\nwhile, after some witticism, he would look down, and his eyes would meet\nhers. At last they came to the steps, and Carrie stood up on the first\none, her head now coming even with his own. He took her hand and held it\ngenially. He looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly musing.\n\nAt about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long evening of\ntroubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward position under her\nside. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves, and now a vague scene\nfloated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she and Carrie were somewhere\nbeside an old coal-mine. She could see the tall runway and the heap of\nearth and coal cast out. There was a deep pit, into which they were\nlooking; they could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall\ndisappeared in vague shadows. An old basket, used for descending, was\nhanging there, fastened by a worn rope.\n\n\"Let's get in,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Minnie.\n\n\"Yes, come on,\" said Carrie.\n\nShe began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest, she\nhad swung over and was going down.\n\n\"Carrie,\" she called, \"Carrie, come back;\" but Carrie was far down now\nand the shadow had swallowed her completely.\n\nShe moved her arm.\n\nNow the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters she\nhad never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something that\nreached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They looked about,\nand now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sip of the\nencroaching water.\n\n\"Come on, Carrie,\" she called, but Carrie was reaching farther out. She\nseemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her.\n\n\"Carrie,\" she called, \"Carrie,\" but her own voice sounded far away, and\nthe strange waters were blurring everything. She came away suffering as\nthough she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly sad than she\nhad ever been in life.\n\nIt was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those curious\nphantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes, one with\nthe other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie was slipping away\nsomewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and she had seen\nher falling.\n\n\"Minnie! What's the matter? Here, wake up,\" said Hanson, disturbed, and\nshaking her by the shoulder.\n\n\"Wha--what's the matter?\" said Minnie, drowsily.\n\n\"Wake up,\" he said, \"and turn over. You're talking in your sleep.\"\n\nA week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's, spruce in\ndress and manner.\n\n\"Hello, Charley,\" said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door.\n\nDrouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk.\n\n\"When do you go out on the road again?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Pretty soon,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"Haven't seen much of you this trip,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"Well, I've been busy,\" said Drouet.\n\nThey talked some few minutes on general topics.\n\n\"Say,\" said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, \"I want you to come\nout some evening.\"\n\n\"Out where?\" inquired Hurstwood.\n\n\"Out to my house, of course,\" said Drouet, smiling.\n\nHurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile\nhovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way,\nand then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: \"Certainly; glad to.\"\n\n\"We'll have a nice game of euchre.\"\n\n\"May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?\" asked Hurstwood.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Drouet. \"I'll introduce you.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nCONVENTION'S OWN TINDER-BOX: THE EYE THAT IS GREEN\n\n\nHurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a brick\nbuilding of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the\nfirst floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had a\nlarge bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in\nfront by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet deep.\nThere was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of the\nneighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap.\n\nThe ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia, and\nhis son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besides these\na maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of various\nextraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please.\n\n\"George, I let Mary go yesterday,\" was not an unfrequent salutation at\nthe dinner table.\n\n\"All right,\" was his only reply. He had long since wearied of discussing\nthe rancorous subject.\n\nA lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than which\nthere is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing more\ncalculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and nourished\nwithin it. Those who have never experienced such a beneficent influence\nwill not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelids\nat some strange breath in lovely music. The mystic chords which bind\nand thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know.\n\nHurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this\nhome spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which the home\nis nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as the\nartistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft rugs,\nrich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble carving of\nsome unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes\ngathered from heaven knows where, but generally sold by the large\nfurniture houses along with everything else which goes to make the\n\"perfectly appointed house.\"\n\nIn the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters and\nother utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which could\nnot be questioned. Here was something Hurstwood knew about. He had\nstudied the subject for years in his business. He took no little\nsatisfaction in telling each Mary, shortly after she arrived, something\nof what the art of the thing required. He was not garrulous by any\nmeans. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve in his manner toward\nthe entire domestic economy of his life which was all that is\ncomprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. He would not argue, he\nwould not talk freely. In his manner was something of the dogmatist.\nWhat he could not correct, he would ignore. There was a tendency in him\nto walk away from the impossible thing.\n\nThere was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his Jessica,\nespecially when he was younger and more confined in his success. Now,\nhowever, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had developed a certain amount\nof reserve and independence which was not inviting to the richest form\nof parental devotion. She was in the high school, and had notions of\nlife which were decidedly those of a patrician. She liked nice clothes\nand urged for them constantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individual\nestablishments were running in her head. She met girls at the high\nschool whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had standing\nlocally as partners or owners of solid businesses. These girls gave\nthemselves the airs befitting the thriving domestic establishments from\nwhence they issued. They were the only ones of the school about whom\nJessica concerned herself.\n\nYoung Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already\nconnected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. He\ncontributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was\nthought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had some\nability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not, as\nyet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in and went\nout, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few words to his\nmother occasionally, relating some little incident to his father, but\nfor the most part confining himself to those generalities with which\nmost conversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his desires\nfor any one to see. He did not find any one in the house who\nparticularly cared to see.\n\nMrs. Hurstwood was the type of the woman who has ever endeavoured to\nshine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior\ncapability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended\nto that little conventional round of society of which she was not--but\nlonged to be--a member. She was not without realisation already that\nthis thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her\ndaughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise a\nlittle. Through George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to\nherself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doing well\nenough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures\nshould prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small, but\nhis income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy was\nfixed. Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal terms\nwith him.\n\nThe atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent to\nall. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which were\nof the same calibre.\n\n\"I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow,\" announced George, Jr., at the\ndinner table one Friday evening.\n\n\"What's going on up there?\" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.\n\n\"Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up and\nsee how it works.\"\n\n\"How much did it cost him?\" asked his mother.\n\n\"Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy.\"\n\n\"Old Fahrway must be making money,\" put in Hurstwood.\n\n\"He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vega-cura to Australia\nnow--said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week.\"\n\n\"Just think of that!\" said Mrs. Hurstwood, \"and only four years ago they\nhad that basement in Madison Street.\"\n\n\"Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring\nin Robey Street.\"\n\n\"Just think of that!\" said Jessica.\n\nOn this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.\n\n\"I guess I'll be going down town,\" he remarked, rising.\n\n\"Are we going to McVickar's Monday?\" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood, without\nrising.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said indifferently.\n\nThey went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.\nPresently the door clicked.\n\n\"I guess papa's gone,\" said Jessica.\n\nThe latter's school news was of a particular stripe.\n\n\"They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs,\" she\nreported one day, \"and I'm going to be in it.\"\n\n\"Are you?\" said her mother.\n\n\"Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in the\nschool are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part of\nPortia.\"\n\n\"Is she?\" said Mrs. Hurstwood.\n\n\"They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act.\"\n\n\"Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?\" said Mrs. Hurstwood\nsympathetically. \"They haven't anything, have they?\"\n\n\"No,\" returned Jessica, \"they're poor as church mice.\"\n\nShe distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school,\nmany of whom were attracted by her beauty.\n\n\"What do you think?\" she remarked to her mother one evening; \"that\nHerbert Crane tried to make friends with me.\"\n\n\"Who is he, my dear?\" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.\n\n\"Oh, no one,\" said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. \"He's just a\nstudent there. He hasn't anything.\"\n\nThe other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of Blyford,\nthe soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwood was on the\nthird floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and happened to look\nout at the time.\n\n\"Who was that with you, Jessica?\" she inquired, as Jessica came\nupstairs.\n\n\"It's Mr. Blyford, mamma,\" she replied.\n\n\"Is it?\" said Mrs. Hurstwood.\n\n\"Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,\" explained\nJessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.\n\n\"All right, my dear,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood. \"Don't be gone long.\"\n\nAs the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of the\nwindow. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most satisfactory.\n\nIn this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not\nthinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature to\ntrouble for something better, unless the better was immediately and\nsharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritated sometimes\nby the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at times by some\nshow of finery which supposedly made for dignity and social distinction.\nThe life of the resort which he managed was his life. There he spent\nmost of his time. When he went home evenings the house looked nice. With\nrare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kind that an\nordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was interested in the talk of\nhis son and daughter, who always looked well. The vanity of Mrs.\nHurstwood caused her to keep her person rather showily arrayed, but to\nHurstwood this was much better than plainness. There was no love lost\nbetween them. There was no great feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion\non any subject was not startling. They did not talk enough together to\ncome to the argument of any one point. In the accepted and popular\nphrase, she had her ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet\na woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seem\nrather deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which\nsuch an encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social\nposition and a certain matter of policy. He could not complicate his\nhome life, because it might affect his relations with his employers.\nThey wanted no scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have a\ndignified manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage.\nTherefore he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in\nthe public ways in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife,\nand sometimes his children. He would visit the local resorts, or those\nnear by in Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling\nabout conventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need of\nit.\n\nWhen some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, who had\nmoney, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. It didn't do to\ntalk about those things. If it came up for discussion among such friends\nas with him passed for close, he would deprecate the folly of the thing.\n\"It was all right to do it--all men do those things--but why wasn't he\ncareful? A man can't be too careful.\" He lost sympathy for the man that\nmade a mistake and was found out.\n\nOn this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife\nabout--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not been\nfor the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which did not\ndepend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with considerable\ncuriosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way and men looked\nat her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and this\ncombination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in a woman of\nher home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidence in the sex\nwas not great. His wife never possessed the virtues which would win the\nconfidence and admiration of a man of his nature. As long as she loved\nhim vigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when that was\nno longer the binding chain--well, something might happen.\n\nDuring the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a large\nthing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood, not to be\noutshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel.\nHurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured.\n\n\"Jessica must have a new dress this month,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood one\nmorning.\n\nHurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests before the\nglass at the time.\n\n\"I thought she just bought one,\" he said.\n\n\"That was just something for evening wear,\" returned his wife\ncomplacently.\n\n\"It seems to me,\" returned Hurstwood, \"that she's spending a good deal\nfor dresses of late.\"\n\n\"Well, she's going out more,\" concluded his wife, but the tone of his\nvoice impressed her as containing something she had not heard there\nbefore.\n\nHe was not a man who travelled much, but when he did, he had been\naccustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a local\naldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia--a junket that\nwas to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited.\n\n\"Nobody knows us down there,\" said one, a gentleman whose face was a\nslight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always wore a\nsilk hat of most imposing proportions. \"We can have a good time.\" His\nleft eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. \"You want to come\nalong, George.\"\n\nThe next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.\n\n\"I'm going away, Julia,\" he said, \"for a few days.\"\n\n\"Where?\" she asked, looking up.\n\n\"To Philadelphia, on business.\"\n\nShe looked at him consciously, expecting something else.\n\n\"I'll have to leave you behind this time.\"\n\n\"All right,\" she replied, but he could see that she was thinking that\nit was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few more\nquestions, and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was a\ndisagreeable attachment.\n\nOn this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over he was\nsorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator, and hated\nthoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The whole incident was\nglossed over with general remarks, but Mrs. Hurstwood gave the subject\nconsiderable thought. She drove out more, dressed better, and attended\ntheatres freely to make up for it.\n\nSuch an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home life. It\nran along by force of habit, by force of conventional opinion. With the\nlapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and dryer--must\neventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nTHE COUNSEL OF WINTER: FORTUNE'S AMBASSADOR CALLS\n\n\nIn the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties, the\nnature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration. Actions such as\nhers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses a\nconventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men should be\ngood, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed?\n\nFor all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern naturalistic\nphilosophers, we have but an infantile perception of morals. There is\nmore in the subject than mere conformity to a law of evolution. It is\nyet deeper than conformity to things of earth alone. It is more involved\nthan we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first, why the heart thrills; explain\nwherefore some plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying;\nmake clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light\nand rain. In the essence of these facts lie the first principles of\nmorals.\n\n\"Oh,\" thought Drouet, \"how delicious is my conquest.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, \"what is it I have\nlost?\"\n\nBefore this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,\nconfused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the true\nanswer to what is right.\n\nIn the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was comfortably\nestablished--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by every wind and\ngusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour. Drouet had taken\nthree rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facing Union Park, on the West\nSide. That was a little, green-carpeted breathing spot, than which,\nto-day, there is nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It afforded a vista\npleasant to contemplate. The best room looked out upon the lawn of the\npark, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered. Over the\nbare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry wind, rose the\nsteeple of the Union Park Congregational Church, and far off the towers\nof several others.\n\nThe rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good Brussels\ncarpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and representing\nlarge jardinières filled with gorgeous, impossible flowers. There was a\nlarge pier-glass mirror between the two windows. A large, soft, green,\nplush-covered couch occupied one corner, and several rocking-chairs were\nset about. Some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of\nbric-à-brac, and the tale of contents is told.\n\nIn the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by\nDrouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of\nclothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very becoming\ndesigns. There was a third room for possible use as a kitchen, where\nDrouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove for the\npreparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and the like, of\nwhich he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The whole place was\ncosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers,\npossessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of\ncheerful warming which was then first coming into use. By her industry\nand natural love of order, which now developed, the place maintained an\nair pleasing in the extreme.\n\nHere, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free of\ncertain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with\nmany new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned\nabout in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have been\na new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw a\nprettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her mind, a\nmirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse.\nBetween these two images she wavered, hesitating which to believe.\n\n\"My, but you're a little beauty,\" Drouet was wont to exclaim to her.\n\nShe would look at him with large, pleased eyes.\n\n\"You know it, don't you?\" he would continue.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" she would reply, feeling delight in the fact that\none should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really did, that\nshe was vain enough to think so much of herself.\n\nHer conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise. There\nshe heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded, excused. It\nwas no just and sapient counsellor, in its last analysis. It was only an\naverage little conscience, a thing which represented the world, her past\nenvironment, habit, convention, in a confused way. With it, the voice of\nthe people was truly the voice of God.\n\n\"Oh, thou failure!\" said the voice.\n\n\"Why?\" she questioned.\n\n\"Look at those about,\" came the whispered answer. \"Look at those who are\ngood. How would they scorn to do what you have done. Look at the good\ngirls; how will they draw away from such as you when they know you have\nbeen weak. You had not tried before you failed.\"\n\nIt was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that she\nwould be listening to this. It would come infrequently--when something\nelse did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too apparent,\nwhen Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear in utterance at first,\nbut never wholly convincing. There was always an answer, always the\nDecember days threatened. She was alone; she was desireful; she was\nfearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want made answer for her.\n\nOnce the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre garb\nof grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long\nwinter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume\na sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and\npaper but add to the general solemnity of colour. There seems to be\nsomething in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow\nthoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor\nartists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all\nrefinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much as the\npoet, though they have not the same power of expression. The sparrow\nupon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary\nload, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of\nall life, animate and inanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires\nof merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling\namusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary\ndisplay within and without their establishments; if our streets were not\nstrung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying\npurchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of\nwinter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which\nthe sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are\nmore dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are insects\nproduced by heat, and pass without it.\n\nIn the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert itself,\nfeebly and more feebly.\n\nSuch mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by any\nmeans a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm hold upon a\ndefinite truth. When she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of\nill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she would turn away\nentirely.\n\nDrouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for one of\nhis sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her, and when\nhe travelled took her with him. There were times when she would be alone\nfor two or three days, while he made the shorter circuits of his\nbusiness, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him.\n\n\"Say, Carrie,\" he said one morning, shortly after they had so\nestablished themselves, \"I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come out\nsome day and spend the evening with us.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\" asked Carrie, doubtfully.\n\n\"Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place.\"\n\nCarrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told him,\nwhat her attitude would be.\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Drouet, feeling her thought. \"He doesn't know\nanything. You're Mrs. Drouet now.\"\n\nThere was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly\ninconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the keenest\nsensibilities.\n\n\"Why don't we get married?\" she inquired, thinking of the voluble\npromises he had made.\n\n\"Well, we will,\" he said, \"just as soon as I get this little deal of\nmine closed up.\"\n\nHe was referring to some property which he said he had, and which\nrequired so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow or\nother it interfered with his free moral, personal actions.\n\n\"Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll do it.\"\n\nCarrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to her\nconscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances, things would be\nrighted. Her actions would be justified.\n\nShe really was not enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than he. In\na dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. If it had not been\nfor this, if she had not been able to measure and judge him in a way,\nshe would have been worse off than she was. She would have adored him.\nShe would have been utterly wretched in her fear of not gaining his\naffection, of losing his interest, of being swept away and left without\nan anchorage. As it was, she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at\nfirst, to gain him completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting. She\nwas not exactly sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do.\n\nWhen Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouet in\na hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to women which every\nmember of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed, he was not\nover-bold. His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning those\nbirds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and professionals\nwho visited his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring\nto prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a pretty woman of any\nrefinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest incentive. He was\nmild, placid, assured, giving the impression that he wished to be of\nservice only--to do something which would make the lady more pleased.\n\nDrouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth the\ncandle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish which\nHurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life, too\nassured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the art\nof love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightly experienced and\npossessed innate refinement. In the case of Carrie he found a woman who\nwas all of the latter, but none of the former. He was lucky in the fact\nthat opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it were. A few years later,\nwith a little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had\nnot been able to approach Carrie at all.\n\n\"You ought to have a piano here, Drouet,\" said Hurstwood, smiling at\nCarrie, on the evening in question, \"so that your wife could play.\"\n\nDrouet had not thought of that.\n\n\"So we ought,\" he observed readily.\n\n\"Oh, I don't play,\" ventured Carrie.\n\n\"It isn't very difficult,\" returned Hurstwood. \"You could do very well\nin a few weeks.\"\n\nHe was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes were\nparticularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stood out with\nthat medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The vest was of a\nrich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of round mother-of-pearl\nbuttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of silken threads, not loud,\nnot inconspicuous. What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly as\nthat which Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance of the\nmaterial. Hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a\ndull shine. Drouet wore patent leather, but Carrie could not help\nfeeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft leather,\nwhere all else was so rich. She noticed these things almost\nunconsciously. They were things which would naturally flow from the\nsituation. She was used to Drouet's appearance.\n\n\"Suppose we have a little game of euchre?\" suggested Hurstwood, after a\nlight round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in avoiding\neverything that would suggest that he knew anything of Carrie's past. He\nkept away from personalities altogether, and confined himself to those\nthings which did not concern individuals at all. By his manner, he put\nCarrie at her ease, and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her.\nHe pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.\n\n\"I don't know how to play,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty,\" he observed to Drouet\nmost affably. \"Between us, though,\" he went on, \"we can show you.\"\n\nBy his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. There was\nsomething in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be there.\nDrouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave him more\nrespect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light, under\nHurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably.\n\n\"Now, let me see,\" said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder very\ndeferentially. \"What have you?\" He studied for a moment. \"That's rather\ngood,\" he said.\n\n\"You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband. You take\nmy advice.\"\n\n\"Here,\" said Drouet, \"if you two are going to scheme together, I won't\nstand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp.\"\n\n\"No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she win?\"\n\nCarrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The former\ntook the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy himself.\nAnything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more.\n\n\"There,\" he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving\nCarrie a chance to take a trick. \"I count that clever playing for a\nbeginner.\"\n\nThe latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. It was\nas if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.\n\nHe did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild light in\nhis eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality and kindness.\nHe took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it with one of\ninnocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure with him in\nthe immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was doing a great\ndeal.\n\n\"It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something,\" he said\nafter a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket of his\ncoat. \"Let's play for dimes.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Drouet, fishing for bills.\n\nHurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces.\n\"Here we are,\" he said, supplying each one with a little stack.\n\n\"Oh, this is gambling,\" smiled Carrie. \"It's bad.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Drouet, \"only fun. If you never play for more than that, you\nwill go to Heaven.\"\n\n\"Don't you moralise,\" said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, \"until you see\nwhat becomes of the money.\"\n\nDrouet smiled.\n\n\"If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is.\"\n\nDrouet laughed loud.\n\nThere was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the\ninsinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it.\n\n\"When do you leave?\" said Hurstwood to Drouet.\n\n\"On Wednesday,\" he replied.\n\n\"It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that, isn't\nit?\" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.\n\n\"She's going along with me this time,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"You must both go with me to the theatre before you go.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Drouet. \"Eh, Carrie?\"\n\n\"I'd like it ever so much,\" she replied.\n\nHurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoiced in\nher success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and put\nthem in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he\nserved the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his eyes,\n\"you must be ready at 7.30. I'll come and get you.\"\n\nThey went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its red\nlamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.\n\n\"Now,\" he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship, \"when you\nleave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little. It will\nbreak up her loneliness.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.\n\n\"You're so kind,\" observed Carrie.\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Hurstwood, \"I would want your husband to do as much\nfor me.\"\n\nHe smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed. She\nhad never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he was equally\npleased.\n\n\"There's a nice man,\" he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to their\ncosey chamber. \"A good friend of mine, too.\"\n\n\"He seems to be,\" said Carrie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE PERSUASION OF FASHION: FEELING GUARDS O'ER ITS OWN\n\n\nCarrie was an apt student of fortune's ways--of fortune's\nsuperficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to inquiring\nhow she would look, properly related to it. Be it known that this is not\nfine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not so afflicted;\nand, on the contrary, the lowest order of mind is not so disturbed. Fine\nclothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and\nJesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshot of their\npleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice of the so-called\ninanimate! Who shall translate for us the language of the stones?\n\n\"My dear,\" said the lace collar she secured from Partridge's, \"I fit you\nbeautifully; don't give me up.\"\n\n\"Ah, such little feet,\" said the leather of the soft new shoes; \"how\neffectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid.\"\n\nOnce these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream of\ngiving them up; the method by which they came might intrude itself so\nforcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it, but she\nwould not give them up. \"Put on the old clothes--that torn pair of\nshoes,\" was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could possibly\nhave conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the thought of hard\nwork and a narrow round of suffering would, under the last pressure of\nconscience, have yielded, but spoil her appearance?--be old-clothed and\npoor-appearing?--never!\n\nDrouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such a\nmanner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so\neasy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we desire.\nIn his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. He looked at her\nadmiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under the circumstances,\nshe did not need to carry herself as pretty women do. She picked that\nknowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had a habit, characteristic\nof his kind, of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the\nstreet and remarking upon them. He had just enough of the feminine love\nof dress to be a good judge--not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw\nhow they set their little feet, how they carried their chins, with what\ngrace and sinuosity they swung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious\nswaying of the hips by a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of\nrare wine to a toper. He would turn and follow the disappearing vision\nwith his eyes. He would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion\nthat was in him. He loved the thing that women love in themselves,\ngrace. At this, their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee.\n\n\"Did you see that woman who went by just now?\" he said to Carrie on the\nfirst day they took a walk together. \"Fine stepper, wasn't she?\"\n\nCarrie looked, and observed the grace commended.\n\n\"Yes, she is,\" she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion of possible\ndefect in herself awakening in her mind. If that was so fine, she must\nlook at it more closely. Instinctively, she felt a desire to imitate it.\nSurely she could do that too.\n\nWhen one of her mind sees many things emphasized and reemphasized and\nadmired, she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly. Drouet\nwas not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. He could not see\nthat it would be better to make her feel that she was competing with\nherself, not others better than herself. He would not have done it with\nan older, wiser woman, but in Carrie he saw only the novice. Less clever\nthan she, he was naturally unable to comprehend her sensibility. He went\non educating and wounding her, a thing rather foolish in one whose\nadmiration for his pupil and victim was apt to grow.\n\nCarrie took the instructions affably. She saw what Drouet liked; in a\nvague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's opinion of a\nman when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly and generously\ndistributed. She sees but one object of supreme compliment in this\nworld, and that is herself. If a man is to succeed with many women, he\nmust be all in all to each.\n\nIn her own apartments Carrie saw things which were lessons in the same\nschool.\n\nIn the same house with her lived an official of one of the theatres, Mr.\nFrank A. Hale, manager of the Standard, and his wife, a pleasing-looking\nbrunette of thirty-five. They were people of a sort very common in\nAmerica to-day, who live respectably from hand to mouth. Hale received a\nsalary of forty-five dollars a week. His wife, quite attractive,\naffected the feeling of youth, and objected to that sort of home life\nwhich means the care of a house and the raising of a family. Like Drouet\nand Carrie, they also occupied three rooms on the floor above.\n\nNot long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relations with\nher, and together they went about. For a long time this was her only\ncompanionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife formed the medium\nthrough which she saw the world. Such trivialities, such praises of\nwealth, such conventional expression of morals as sifted through this\npassive creature's mind, fell upon Carrie and for the while confused\nher.\n\nOn the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence. The\nconstant drag to something better was not to be denied. By those things\nwhich address the heart was she steadily recalled. In the apartments\nacross the hall were a young girl and her mother. They were from\nEvansville, Indiana, the wife and daughter of a railroad treasurer. The\ndaughter was here to study music, the mother to keep her company.\n\nCarrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughter coming\nin and going out. A few times she had seen her at the piano in the\nparlour, and not infrequently had heard her play. This young woman was\nparticularly dressy for her station, and wore a jewelled ring or two\nwhich flashed upon her white fingers as she played.\n\nNow Carrie was affected by music. Her nervous composition responded to\ncertain strains, much as certain strings of a harp vibrate when a\ncorresponding key of a piano is struck. She was delicately moulded in\nsentiment, and answered with vague ruminations to certain wistful\nchords. They awoke longings for those things which she did not have.\nThey caused her to cling closer to things she possessed. One short song\nthe young lady played in a most soulful and tender mood. Carrie heard it\nthrough the open door from the parlour below. It was at that hour\nbetween afternoon and night when, for the idle, the wanderer, things are\napt to take on a wistful aspect. The mind wanders forth on far journeys\nand returns with sheaves of withered and departed joys. Carrie sat at\nher window looking out. Drouet had been away since ten in the morning.\nShe had amused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M. Clay which\nDrouet had left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and\nby changing her dress for the evening. Now she sat looking out across\nthe park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety and\nlife can be under such circumstances. As she contemplated her new state,\nthe strain from the parlour below stole upward. With it her thoughts\nbecame coloured and enmeshed. She reverted to the things which were best\nand saddest within the small limit of her experience. She became for the\nmoment a repentant.\n\nWhile she was in this mood Drouet came in, bringing with him an entirely\ndifferent atmosphere. It was dusk and Carrie had neglected to light the\nlamp. The fire in the grate, too, had burned low.\n\n\"Where are you, Cad?\" he said, using a pet name he had given her.\n\n\"Here,\" she answered.\n\nThere was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he could not\nhear it. He had not the poetry in him that would seek a woman out under\nsuch circumstances and console her for the tragedy of life. Instead, he\nstruck a match and lighted the gas.\n\n\"Hello,\" he exclaimed, \"you've been crying.\"\n\nHer eyes were still wet with a few vague tears.\n\n\"Pshaw,\" he said, \"you don't want to do that.\"\n\nHe took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was\nprobably lack of his presence which had made her lonely.\n\n\"Come on, now,\" he went on; \"it's all right. Let's waltz a little to\nthat music.\"\n\nHe could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. It made\nclear to Carrie that he could not sympathise with her. She could not\nhave framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made clear\nthe difference between them, but she felt it. It was his first great\nmistake.\n\nWhat Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out evenings\naccompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive the nature and\nvalue of those little modish ways which women adopt when they would\npresume to be something. She looked in the mirror and pursed up her\nlips, accompanying it with a little toss of the head, as she had seen\nthe railroad treasurer's daughter do. She caught up her skirts with an\neasy swing, for had not Drouet remarked that in her and several others,\nand Carrie was naturally imitative. She began to get the hang of those\nlittle things which the pretty woman who has vanity invariably adopts.\nIn short, her knowledge of grace doubled, and with it her appearance\nchanged. She became a girl of considerable taste.\n\nDrouet noticed this. He saw the new bow in her hair and the new way of\narranging her locks which she affected one morning.\n\n\"You look fine that way, Cad,\" he said.\n\n\"Do I?\" she replied, sweetly. It made her try for other effects that\nselfsame day.\n\nShe used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by her\nattempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful carriage. How\nmuch influence the presence of that young woman in the same house had\nupon her it would be difficult to say. But, because of all these things,\nwhen Hurstwood called he had found a young woman who was much more than\nthe Carrie to whom Drouet had first spoken. The primary defects of dress\nand manner had passed. She was pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity\nborn of uncertainty, and with a something childlike in her large eyes\nwhich captured the fancy of this starched and conventional poser among\nmen. It was the ancient attraction of the fresh for the stale. If there\nwas a touch of appreciation left in him for the bloom and\nunsophistication which is the charm of youth, it rekindled now. He\nlooked into her pretty face and felt the subtle waves of young life\nradiating therefrom. In that large clear eye he could see nothing that\nhis _blasé_ nature could understand as guile. The little vanity, if he\ncould have perceived it there, would have touched him as a pleasant\nthing.\n\n\"I wonder,\" he said, as he rode away in his cab, \"how Drouet came to win\nher.\"\n\nHe gave her credit for feelings superior to Drouet at the first glance.\n\nThe cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps on\neither hand. He folded his gloved hands and saw only the lighted chamber\nand Carrie's face. He was pondering over the delight of youthful beauty.\n\n\"I'll have a bouquet for her,\" he thought. \"Drouet won't mind.\"\n\nHe never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for himself.\nHe troubled himself not at all about Drouet's priority. He was merely\nfloating those gossamer threads of thought which, like the spider's, he\nhoped would lay hold somewhere. He did not know, he could not guess,\nwhat the result would be.\n\nA few weeks later Drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered one of his\nwell-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return from a short\ntrip to Omaha. He had intended to hurry out to Ogden Place and surprise\nCarrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversation and soon\nmodified his original intention.\n\n\"Let's go to dinner,\" he said, little recking any chance meeting which\nmight trouble his way.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said his companion.\n\nThey visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. It was\nfive in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty before the last\nbone was picked.\n\nDrouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his\nface was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught his own.\nThe latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing Drouet and some\nwoman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion.\n\n\"Ah, the rascal,\" he thought, and then, with a touch of righteous\nsympathy, \"that's pretty hard on the little girl.\"\n\nDrouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught Hurstwood's\neye. He felt but very little misgiving, until he saw that Hurstwood was\ncautiously pretending not to see. Then some of the latter's impression\nforced itself upon him. He thought of Carrie and their last meeting. By\nGeorge, he would have to explain this to Hurstwood. Such a chance\nhalf-hour with an old friend must not have anything more attached to it\nthan it really warranted.\n\nFor the first time he was troubled. Here was a moral complication of\nwhich he could not possibly get the ends. Hurstwood would laugh at him\nfor being a fickle boy. He would laugh with Hurstwood. Carrie would\nnever hear, his present companion at table would never know, and yet he\ncould not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it--there was\nsome faint stigma attached, and he was not guilty. He broke up the\ndinner by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car. Then he went\nhome.\n\n\"He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames,\" thought\nHurstwood to himself. \"He thinks I think he cares for the girl out\nthere.\"\n\n\"He ought not to think I'm knocking around, since I have just introduced\nhim out there,\" thought Drouet.\n\n\"I saw you,\" Hurstwood said, genially, the next time Drouet drifted in\nto his polished resort, from which he could not stay away. He raised his\nforefinger indicatively, as parents do to children.\n\n\"An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming up\nfrom the station,\" explained Drouet. \"She used to be quite a beauty.\"\n\n\"Still attracts a little, eh?\" returned the other, affecting to jest.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Drouet, \"just couldn't escape her this time.\"\n\n\"How long are you here?\" asked Hurstwood.\n\n\"Only a few days.\"\n\n\"You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me,\" he said. \"I'm\nafraid you keep her cooped up out there. I'll get a box for Joe\nJefferson.\"\n\n\"Not me,\" answered the drummer. \"Sure I'll come.\"\n\nThis pleased Hurstwood immensely. He gave Drouet no credit for any\nfeelings toward Carrie whatever. He envied him, and now, as he looked at\nthe well-dressed, jolly salesman, whom he so much liked, the gleam of\nthe rival glowed in his eye. He began to \"size up\" Drouet from the\nstandpoints of wit and fascination. He began to look to see where he was\nweak. There was no disputing that, whatever he might think of him as a\ngood fellow, he felt a certain amount of contempt for him as a lover. He\ncould hoodwink him all right. Why, if he would just let Carrie see one\nsuch little incident as that of Thursday, it would settle the matter. He\nran on in thought, almost exulting, the while he laughed and chatted,\nand Drouet felt nothing. He had no power of analysing the glance and the\natmosphere of a man like Hurstwood. He stood and smiled and accepted the\ninvitation while his friend examined him with the eye of a hawk.\n\nThe object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of\neither. She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newer\nconditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs from\neither quarter.\n\nOne evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the glass.\n\n\"Cad,\" said he, catching her, \"I believe you're getting vain.\"\n\n\"Nothing of the kind,\" she returned, smiling.\n\n\"Well, you're mighty pretty,\" he went on, slipping his arm around her.\n\"Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I'll take you to the show.\"\n\n\"Oh, I've promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Exposition to-night,\"\nshe returned, apologetically.\n\n\"You did, eh?\" he said, studying the situation abstractedly. \"I wouldn't\ncare to go to that myself.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering to\nbreak her promise in his favour.\n\nJust then a knock came at their door and the maid-servant handed a\nletter in.\n\n\"He says there's an answer expected,\" she explained.\n\n\"It's from Hurstwood,\" said Drouet, noting the superscription as he tore\nit open.\n\n\"You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me to-night,\" it ran in\npart. \"It's my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets are\noff.\"\n\n\"Well, what do you say to this?\" asked Drouet, innocently, while\nCarrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies.\n\n\"You had better decide, Charlie,\" she said, reservedly.\n\n\"I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement upstairs,\"\nsaid Drouet.\n\n\"Oh, I can,\" returned Carrie without thinking.\n\nDrouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress. She\nhardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to her\nmost.\n\n\"Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?\" she asked, as she came out\nwith several articles of apparel pending.\n\n\"Sure,\" he returned, pleasantly.\n\nShe was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her\nwillingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemed\nthat the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was more\nagreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayed\nherself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses upstairs.\n\n\"I say,\" said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, \"we are\nexceedingly charming this evening.\"\n\nCarrie fluttered under his approving glance.\n\n\"Now, then,\" he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre.\n\nIf ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personification of\nthe old term spick and span.\n\n\"Did you ever see Jefferson?\" he questioned, as he leaned toward Carrie\nin the box.\n\n\"I never did,\" she returned.\n\n\"He's delightful, delightful,\" he went on, giving the commonplace\nrendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after a\nprogramme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he had\nheard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was really\nhypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, the elegance of\nher companion. Several times their eyes accidentally met, and then there\npoured into hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before\nexperienced. She could not for the moment explain it, for in the next\nglance or the next move of the hand there was seeming indifference,\nmingled only with the kindest attention.\n\nDrouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in comparison.\nHurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven into Carrie's\nmind that here was the superior man. She instinctively felt that he was\nstronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By the end of the third\nact she was sure that Drouet was only a kindly soul, but otherwise\ndefective. He sank every moment in her estimation by the strong\ncomparison.\n\n\"I have had such a nice time,\" said Carrie, when it was all over and\nthey were coming out.\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that a\nbattle had been fought and his defences weakened. He was like the\nEmperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his fairest\nprovinces were being wrested from him.\n\n\"Well, you have saved me a dreary evening,\" returned Hurstwood.\n\"Good-night.\"\n\nHe took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from one to\nthe other.\n\n\"I'm so tired,\" said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet began\nto talk.\n\n\"Well, you rest a little while I smoke,\" he said, rising, and then he\nfoolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game as\nit stood.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nOF THE LAMPS OF THE MANSIONS: THE AMBASSADOR'S PLEA\n\n\nMrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moral defections,\nthough she might readily have suspected his tendencies, which she well\nunderstood. She was a woman upon whose action under provocation you\ncould never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not the slightest idea of\nwhat she would do under certain circumstances. He had never seen her\nthoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a\npassion. She had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were\nerring. She was too calculating to jeopardise any advantage she might\ngain in the way of information by fruitless clamour. Her wrath would\nnever wreak itself in one fell blow. She would wait and brood, studying\nthe details and adding to them until her power might be commensurate\nwith her desire for revenge. At the same time, she would not delay to\ninflict any injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her\nrevenge and still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She\nwas a cold, self-centred woman, with many a thought of her own which\nnever found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye.\n\nHurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not actually\nperceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and some satisfaction. He did\nnot fear her in the least--there was no cause for it. She still took a\nfaint pride in him, which was augmented by her desire to have her\nsocial integrity maintained. She was secretly somewhat pleased by the\nfact that much of her husband's property was in her name, a precaution\nwhich Hurstwood had taken when his home interests were somewhat more\nalluring than at present. His wife had not the slightest reason to feel\nthat anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet the\nshadows which run before gave her a thought of the good of it now and\nthen. She was in a position to become refractory with considerable\nadvantage, and Hurstwood conducted himself circumspectly because he felt\nthat he could not be sure of anything once she became dissatisfied.\n\nIt so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and Drouet were\nin the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the sixth row of the\nparquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the third partner of a\nwholesale dry-goods house of that city. Hurstwood did not see his son,\nfor he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible, leaving himself\njust partially visible, when he bent forward, to those within the first\nsix rows in question. It was his wont to sit this way in every\ntheatre--to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it\nwould be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.\n\nHe never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct being\nmisconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him and counted\nthe cost of every inch of conspicuity.\n\nThe next morning at breakfast his son said:\n\n\"I saw you, Governor, last night.\"\n\n\"Were you at McVickar's?\" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in the\nworld.\n\n\"Yes,\" said young George.\n\n\"Who with?\"\n\n\"Miss Carmichael.\"\n\nMrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could\nnot judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual look\ninto the theatre which was referred to.\n\n\"How was the play?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Very good,\" returned Hurstwood, \"only it's the same old thing, 'Rip Van\nWinkle.'\"\n\n\"Whom did you go with?\" queried his wife, with assumed indifference.\n\n\"Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy's, visiting here.\"\n\nOwing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as this\nwould ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it for granted that\nhis situation called for certain social movements in which she might not\nbe included. But of late he had pleaded office duty on several occasions\nwhen his wife asked for his company to any evening entertainment. He had\ndone so in regard to the very evening in question only the morning\nbefore.\n\n\"I thought you were going to be busy,\" she remarked, very carefully.\n\n\"So I was,\" he exclaimed. \"I couldn't help the interruption, but I made\nup for it afterward by working until two.\"\n\nThis settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a residue\nof opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time at which the\nclaims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily pushed. For\nyears he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial devotion, and found\nher company dull. Now that a new light shone upon the horizon, this\nolder luminary paled in the west. He was satisfied to turn his face away\nentirely, and any call to look back was irksome.\n\nShe, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything less\nthan a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship, though\nthe spirit might be wanting.\n\n\"We are coming down town this afternoon,\" she remarked, a few days\nlater. \"I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr. Phillips and\nhis wife. They're stopping at the Tremont, and we're going to show them\naround a little.\"\n\nAfter the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though the\nPhillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could make\nthem. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when he left\nthe house.\n\n\"I'll put a stop to this,\" he thought. \"I'm not going to be bothered\nfooling around with visitors when I have work to do.\"\n\nNot long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar proposition, only\nit was to a matinée this time.\n\n\"My dear,\" he returned, \"I haven't time. I'm too busy.\"\n\n\"You find time to go with other people, though,\" she replied, with\nconsiderable irritation.\n\n\"Nothing of the kind,\" he answered. \"I can't avoid business relations,\nand that's all there is to it.\"\n\n\"Well, never mind,\" she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling of\nmutual antagonism was increased.\n\nOn the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew in an\nalmost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the stress of\nher situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed effectively.\nShe had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks emancipation. The glow\nof a more showy life was not lost upon her. She did not grow in\nknowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of desire. Mrs. Hale's\nextended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and position taught her\nto distinguish between degrees of wealth.\n\nMrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was fine,\nand to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and lawns which\nshe could not afford. On the North Side had been erected a number of\nelegant mansions along what is now known as the North Shore Drive. The\npresent lake wall of stone and granitoid was not then in place, but the\nroad had been well laid out, the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely\nto look upon, and the houses were thoroughly new and imposing. When the\nwinter season had passed and the first fine days of the early spring\nappeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited Carrie.\nThey rode first through Lincoln Park and on far out towards Evanston,\nturning back at four and arriving at the north end of the Shore Drive at\nabout five o'clock. At this time of year the days are still\ncomparatively short, and the shadows of the evening were beginning to\nsettle down upon the great city. Lamps were beginning to burn with that\nmellow radiance which seems almost watery and translucent to the eye.\nThere was a softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy\nof feeling to the flesh as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was\na lovely day. She was ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As\nthey drove along the smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She\nsaw one stop and the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman\nwho seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure.\nAcross the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps\nfaintly glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a\ntable, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her\nas almost nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had had of\nfairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imagined that\nacross these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed and\ncrystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained and designed\npanes of glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire. She was\nperfectly certain that here was happiness. If she could but stroll up\nyon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to her was of the\nbeauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to possession and\ncommand--oh! how quickly would sadness flee; how, in an instant, would\nthe heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting, longing,\nand all the while the siren voice of the unrestful was whispering in her\near.\n\n\"If we could have such a home as that,\" said Mrs. Hale sadly, \"how\ndelightful it would be.\"\n\n\"And yet they do say,\" said Carrie, \"that no one is ever happy.\"\n\nShe had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox.\n\n\"I notice,\" said Mrs. Hale, \"that they all try mighty hard, though, to\ntake their misery in a mansion.\"\n\nWhen she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative\ninsignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive they\nwere but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished\nboarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had had,\nbut what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors was\nstill in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears.\nWhat, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, she thought it\nover, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park toward\nthe lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashland avenues. She was too wrought\nup to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing.\nSome old tunes crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her heart sank.\nShe longed and longed and longed. It was now for the old cottage room in\nColumbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now the fine dress\nof some lady, now the elegance of some scene. She was sad beyond\nmeasure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally, it seemed as if\nall her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could\nscarce refrain from trembling at the lip. She hummed and hummed as the\nmoments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as\nhappy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be.\n\nWhile Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought\nup the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour asking to see\nMr. and Mrs. Drouet.\n\n\"I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town,\" thought Carrie.\n\nShe had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter, but\nhad been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another,\nprincipally by the strong impression he had made. She was quite\ndisturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied\nherself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.\n\nHurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard that Drouet\nwas out of town. He was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and\ndevoted himself to the more general topics which would interest Carrie.\nIt was surprising--the ease with which he conducted a conversation. He\nwas like every man who has had the advantage of practice and knows he\nhas sympathy. He knew that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and,\nwithout the least effort, he fell into a train of observation which\nabsorbed her fancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such\na degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confined\nhimself almost exclusively to his observation of men and pleasures. He\nhad been here and there, he had seen this and that. Somehow he made\nCarrie wish to see similar things, and all the while kept her aware of\nhimself. She could not shut out the consciousness of his individuality\nand presence for a moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling\nemphasis of something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would\ndraw out, with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand\nfor emphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere\nwhich suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and seemed to\nmake her clever. At least, she brightened under his influence until all\nher best side was exhibited. She felt that she was more clever with him\nthan with others. At least, he seemed to find so much in her to applaud.\nThere was not the slightest touch of patronage. Drouet was full of it.\n\nThere had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting between\nthem, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent, that Carrie\ncould not speak of it without feeling a sense of difficulty. She was no\ntalker. She could never arrange her thoughts in fluent order. It was\nalways a matter of feeling with her, strong and deep. Each time there\nhad been no sentence of importance which she could relate, and as for\nthe glances and sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such things\nhad never been between her and Drouet. As a matter of fact, they could\nnever be. She had been dominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces\nof relief which Drouet represented at an opportune moment when she\nyielded to him. Now she was persuaded by secret current feelings which\nDrouet had never understood. Hurstwood's glance was as effective as the\nspoken words of a lover, and more. They called for no immediate\ndecision, and could not be answered.\n\nPeople in general attach too much importance to words. They are under\nthe illusion that talking effects great results. As a matter of fact,\nwords are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. They\nbut dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which lie\nbehind. When the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart\nlistens.\n\nIn this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices of the\nthings which he represented. How suave was the counsel of his\nappearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! The\ngrowing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand. She\ndid not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she did not\nneed to worry over what other people would say--what she herself would\nsay--because it had no tangibility. She was being pleaded with,\npersuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet\nthere were no words to prove it. Such conversation as was indulged in\nheld the same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain\nthat the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident which\nit is used to cover.\n\n\"Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North Side?\"\nasked Hurstwood.\n\n\"Why, I was just over there this afternoon--Mrs. Hale and I. Aren't they\nbeautiful?\"\n\n\"They're very fine,\" he answered.\n\n\"Oh, me,\" said Carrie, pensively. \"I wish I could live in such a place.\"\n\n\"You're not happy,\" said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.\n\nHe had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He assumed\nthat he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to say a word\nin his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his steady gaze.\nHe felt the critical character of the period. She endeavoured to stir,\nbut it was useless. The whole strength of a man's nature was working. He\nhad good cause to urge him on. He looked and looked, and the longer the\nsituation lasted the more difficult it became. The little shop-girl was\ngetting into deep water. She was letting her few supports float away\nfrom her.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said at last, \"you mustn't look at me like that.\"\n\n\"I can't help it,\" he answered.\n\nShe relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him strength.\n\n\"You are not satisfied with life, are you?\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered, weakly.\n\nHe saw he was the master of the situation--he felt it. He reached over\nand touched her hand.\n\n\"You mustn't,\" she exclaimed, jumping up.\n\n\"I didn't intend to,\" he answered, easily.\n\nShe did not run away, as she might have done. She did not terminate the\ninterview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of thought with the\nreadiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and she felt that he was\nin power.\n\n\"You mustn't feel bad,\" he said, kindly; \"things will straighten out in\nthe course of time.\"\n\nShe made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.\n\n\"We are good friends, aren't we?\" he said, extending his hand.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\n\"Not a word, then, until I see you again.\"\n\nHe retained a hold on her hand.\n\n\"I can't promise,\" she said, doubtfully.\n\n\"You must be more generous than that,\" he said, in such a simple way\nthat she was touched.\n\n\"Let's not talk about it any more,\" she returned.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, brightening.\n\nHe went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door and\nascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the\nmirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently\nbought.\n\n\"I'm getting terrible,\" she said, honestly affected by a feeling of\ntrouble and shame. \"I don't seem to do anything right.\"\n\nShe unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown\nwaves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she murmured at last, \"what I can do.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Hurstwood as he rode away, \"she likes me all right; that I\nknow.\"\n\nThe aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his office\nan old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nHIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED: A BABEL OF TONGUES\n\n\nIt was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and Hurstwood\nin the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his appearance. He had\nbeen thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Her leniency had, in a way,\ninflamed his regard. He felt that he must succeed with her, and that\nspeedily.\n\nThe reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than\nmere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had been withering\nin dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probable that Carrie\nrepresented a better order of woman than had ever attracted him before.\nHe had had no love affair since that which culminated in his marriage,\nand since then time and the world had taught him how raw and erroneous\nwas his original judgment. Whenever he thought of it, he told himself\nthat, if he had it to do over again, he would never marry such a woman.\nAt the same time, his experience with women in general had lessened his\nrespect for the sex. He maintained a cynical attitude, well grounded on\nnumerous experiences. Such women as he had known were of nearly one\ntype, selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends were not\ninspiring to look upon. His own wife had developed a cold, commonplace\nnature which to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew of that\nunder-world where grovel the beast-men of society (and he knew a great\ndeal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women with\nsuspicion--a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. He followed\nthem with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he was not so\ndull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally, he did not\nattempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. He would take off his\nhat, and would silence the light-tongued and the vicious in her\npresence--much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hall will humble himself\nbefore a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll to charity with a willing and\nreverent hand. But he would not think much upon the question of why he\ndid so.\n\nA man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless or\nhardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul, is\napt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness, or to\ndraw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery. It is only\nby a roundabout process that such men ever do draw near such a girl.\nThey have no method, no understanding of how to ingratiate themselves in\nyouthful favour, save when they find virtue in the toils. If,\nunfortunately, the fly has got caught in the net, the spider can come\nforth and talk business upon its own terms. So when maidenhood has\nwandered into the moil of the city, when it is brought within the circle\nof the \"rounder\" and the roué, even though it be at the outermost rim,\nthey can come forth and use their alluring arts.\n\nHurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage of\nfine clothes and pretty features. He entered, expecting to indulge in an\nevening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomer\nforever. Instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attracted him.\nIn the mild light of Carrie's eye was nothing of the calculation of the\nmistress. In the diffident manner was nothing of the art of the\ncourtesan. He saw at once that a mistake had been made, that some\ndifficult conditions had pushed this troubled creature into his\npresence, and his interest was enlisted. Here sympathy sprang to the\nrescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness. He wanted to win Carrie\nbecause he thought her fate mingled with his was better than if it were\nunited with Drouet's. He envied the drummer his conquest as he had never\nenvied any man in all the course of his experience.\n\nCarrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior,\nmentally, to Drouet. She came fresh from the air of the village, the\nlight of the country still in her eye. Here was neither guile nor\nrapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, but they\nwere rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to be greedy.\nShe still looked about her upon the great maze of the city without\nunderstanding. Hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth. He picked her as\nhe would the fresh fruit of a tree. He felt as fresh in her presence as\none who is taken out of the flash of summer to the first cool breath of\nspring.\n\nCarrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one with\nwhom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mental\nconclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up. She\nowed something to Drouet, she thought. It did not seem more than\nyesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed. She\nhad the kindliest feelings for him in every way. She gave him credit for\nhis good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact, failed to\nrecollect his egotism when he was absent; but she could not feel any\nbinding influence keeping her for him as against all others. In fact,\nsuch a thought had never had any grounding, even in Drouet's desires.\n\nThe truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all enduring\nrelationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy. He went\nmerrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affection followed\ntenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchangingly for his\npleasure. When he missed some old face, or found some door finally shut\nto him, it did not grieve him deeply. He was too young, too successful.\nHe would remain thus young in spirit until he was dead.\n\nAs for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerning\nCarrie. He had no definite plans regarding her, but he was determined to\nmake her confess an affection for him. He thought he saw in her drooping\neye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, the symptoms of a budding\npassion. He wanted to stand near her and make her lay her hand in\nhis--he wanted to find out what her next step would be--what the next\nsign of feeling for him would be. Such anxiety and enthusiasm had not\naffected him for years. He was a youth again in feeling--a cavalier in\naction.\n\nIn his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was excellent.\nHe was a most faithful worker in general, and a man who commanded the\nconfidence of his employers in so far as the distribution of his time\nwas concerned. He could take such hours off as he chose, for it was well\nknown that he fulfilled his managerial duties successfully, whatever\ntime he might take. His grace, tact, and ornate appearance gave the\nplace an air which was most essential, while at the same time his long\nexperience made him a most excellent judge of its stock necessities.\nBartenders and assistants might come and go, singly or in groups, but,\nso long as he was present, the host of old-time customers would barely\nnotice the change. He gave the place the atmosphere to which they were\nused. Consequently, he arranged his hours very much to suit himself,\ntaking now an afternoon, now an evening, but invariably returning\nbetween eleven and twelve to witness the last hour or two of the day's\nbusiness and look after the closing details.\n\n\"You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when you go\nhome, George,\" Moy had once remarked to him, and he never once, in all\nthe period of his long service, neglected to do this. Neither of the\nowners had for years been in the resort after five in the afternoon, and\nyet their manager as faithfully fulfilled this request as if they had\nbeen there regularly to observe.\n\nOn this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous visit, he\nmade up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay away longer.\n\n\"Evans,\" he said, addressing the head barkeeper, \"if any one calls, I\nwill be back between four and five.\"\n\nHe hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, which carried him\nto Ogden Place in half an hour.\n\nCarrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light grey\nwoollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. She had out her hat\nand gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about her throat when the\nhouse-maid brought up the information that Mr. Hurstwood wished to see\nher.\n\nShe started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to say that\nshe would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten her dressing.\n\nCarrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was glad\nor sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her presence. She was\nslightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks, but it was more\nnervousness than either fear or favour. She did not try to conjecture\nwhat the drift of the conversation would be. She only felt that she must\nbe careful, and that Hurstwood had an indefinable fascination for her.\nThen she gave her tie its last touch with her fingers and went below.\n\nThe deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the nerves by\nthe thorough consciousness of his mission. He felt that he must make a\nstrong play on this occasion, but now that the hour was come, and he\nheard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his nerve failed him. He sank a\nlittle in determination, for he was not so sure, after all, what her\nopinion might be.\n\nWhen she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him courage. She\nlooked simple and charming enough to strengthen the daring of any lover.\nHer apparent nervousness dispelled his own.\n\n\"How are you?\" he said, easily. \"I could not resist the temptation to\ncome out this afternoon, it was so pleasant.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie, halting before him, \"I was just preparing to go for\na walk myself.\"\n\n\"Oh, were you?\" he said. \"Supposing, then, you get your hat and we both\ngo?\"\n\nThey crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard,\nbeautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses set\nback from the sidewalks. It was a street where many of the more\nprosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood could not\nhelp feeling nervous over the publicity of it. They had gone but a few\nblocks when a livery stable sign in one of the side streets solved the\ndifficulty for him. He would take her to drive along the new Boulevard.\n\nThe Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road. The part\nhe intended showing her was much farther out on this same West Side,\nwhere there was scarcely a house. It connected Douglas Park with\nWashington or South Park, and was nothing more than a neatly made road,\nrunning due south for some five miles over an open, grassy prairie, and\nthen due east over the same kind of prairie for the same distance. There\nwas not a house to be encountered anywhere along the larger part of the\nroute, and any conversation would be pleasantly free of interruption.\n\nAt the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of range\nof either public observation or hearing.\n\n\"Can you drive?\" he said, after a time.\n\n\"I never tried,\" said Carrie.\n\nHe put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms.\n\n\"You see there's nothing to it much,\" he said, smilingly.\n\n\"Not when you have a gentle horse,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little practice,\" he\nadded, encouragingly.\n\nHe had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation when\nhe could give it a serious turn. Once or twice he had held his peace,\nhoping that in silence her thoughts would take the colour of his own,\nbut she had lightly continued the subject. Presently, however, his\nsilence controlled the situation. The drift of his thoughts began to\ntell. He gazed fixedly at nothing in particular, as if he were thinking\nof something which concerned her not at all. His thoughts, however,\nspoke for themselves. She was very much aware that a climax was pending.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he said, \"I have spent the happiest evenings in years\nsince I have known you?\"\n\n\"Have you?\" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by the\nconviction which the tone of his voice carried.\n\n\"I was going to tell you the other evening,\" he added, \"but somehow the\nopportunity slipped away.\"\n\nCarrie was listening without attempting to reply. She could think of\nnothing worth while to say. Despite all the ideas concerning right which\nhad troubled her vaguely since she had last seen him, she was now\ninfluenced again strongly in his favour.\n\n\"I came out here to-day,\" he went on, solemnly, \"to tell you just how I\nfeel--to see if you wouldn't listen to me.\"\n\nHurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He was capable\nof strong feelings--often poetic ones--and under a stress of desire,\nsuch as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, his feelings and his\nvoice were coloured with that seeming repression and pathos which is the\nessence of eloquence.\n\n\"You know,\" he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a strange\nsilence while he formulated words, \"that I love you?\"\n\nCarrie did not stir at the words. She was bound up completely in the\nman's atmosphere. He would have church-like silence in order to express\nhis feelings, and she kept it. She did not move her eyes from the flat,\nopen scene before her. Hurstwood waited for a few moments, and then\nrepeated the words.\n\n\"You must not say that,\" she said, weakly.\n\nHer words were not convincing at all. They were the result of a feeble\nthought that something ought to be said. He paid no attention to them\nwhatever.\n\n\"Carrie,\" he said, using her first name with sympathetic familiarity, \"I\nwant you to love me. You don't know how much I need some one to waste a\nlittle affection on me. I am practically alone. There is nothing in my\nlife that is pleasant or delightful. It's all work and worry with people\nwho are nothing to me.\"\n\nAs he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state was pitiful.\nHe had the ability to get off at a distance and view himself\nobjectively--of seeing what he wanted to see in the things which made up\nhis existence. Now, as he spoke, his voice trembled with that peculiar\nvibration which is the result of tensity. It went ringing home to his\ncompanion's heart.\n\n\"Why, I should think,\" she said, turning upon him large eyes which were\nfull of sympathy and feeling, \"that you would be very happy. You know so\nmuch of the world.\"\n\n\"That is it,\" he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, \"I know too\nmuch of the world.\"\n\nIt was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned and\npowerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling the\nstrangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little a while, the\nnarrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, and the\ncity, with all its mystery, taken its place? Here was this greatest\nmystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her, appealing to\nher. Behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength was great, his\nposition high, his clothing rich, and yet he was appealing to her. She\ncould formulate no thought which would be just and right. She troubled\nherself no more upon the matter. She only basked in the warmth of his\nfeeling, which was as a grateful blaze to one who is cold. Hurstwood\nglowed with his own intensity, and the heat of his passion was already\nmelting the wax of his companion's scruples.\n\n\"You think,\" he said, \"I am happy; that I ought not to complain? If you\nwere to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothing about you,\nif you went day after day to a place where there was nothing but show\nand indifference, if there was not one person in all those you knew to\nwhom you could appeal for sympathy or talk to with pleasure, perhaps you\nwould be unhappy too.\"\n\nHe was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in her own\nsituation. She knew what it was to meet with people who were\nindifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing\nabout you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone?\nWho was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for\nsympathy? Not one. She was left to herself to brood and wonder.\n\n\"I could be content,\" went on Hurstwood, \"if I had you to love me. If I\nhad you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I simply move about\nfrom place to place without any satisfaction. Time hangs heavily on my\nhands. Before you came I did nothing but idle and drift into anything\nthat offered itself. Since you came--well, I've had you to think about.\"\n\nThe old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began to grow\nin Carrie's mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. To think\nthat all his fine state should be so barren for want of her; that he\nneeded to make such an appeal when she herself was lonely and without\nanchor. Surely, this was too bad.\n\n\"I am not very bad,\" he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to her to\nexplain on this score. \"You think, probably, that I roam around, and get\ninto all sorts of evil? I have been rather reckless, but I could easily\ncome out of that. I need you to draw me back, if my life ever amounts to\nanything.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels in its\nhope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man need reclaiming? His\nerrors, what were they, that she could correct? Small they must be,\nwhere all was so fine. At worst, they were gilded affairs, and with what\nleniency are gilded errors viewed.\n\nHe put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved.\n\n\"Is it that way?\" she mused.\n\nHe slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart to\ndraw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. A breath of\nsoft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some brown twigs\nof the previous autumn before it. The horse paced leisurely on,\nunguided.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said, softly, \"that you love me.\"\n\nHer eyes fell consciously.\n\n\"Own to it, dear,\" he said, feelingly; \"you do, don't you?\"\n\nShe made no answer, but he felt his victory.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips were\nnear together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released it to touch\nher cheek.\n\n\"You do?\" he said, pressing his lips to her own.\n\nFor answer, her lips replied.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, \"you're my own girl,\naren't you?\"\n\nBy way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nWITH EYES AND NOT SEEING: ONE INFLUENCE WANES\n\n\nCarrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and\nmentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for Hurstwood and\nhis love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting\nSunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling of enforced secrecy,\nthat she should come down town and meet him, though, after all, the need\nof it was the cause.\n\nMrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.\n\n\"Um,\" she thought to herself, \"she goes riding with another man when her\nhusband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her.\"\n\nThe truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thought on\nthis score. The house-maid who had welcomed Hurstwood had her opinion\nalso. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she took to be cold\nand disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for the merry and\neasy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now and then, and\nin other ways extended her the evidence of that regard which he had for\nall members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reserved and critical in his\nmanner. He did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the same\npleasant way. She wondered that he came so frequently, that Mrs. Drouet\nshould go out with him this afternoon when Mr. Drouet was absent. She\ngave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook was. As a\nresult, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the house in\nthat secret manner common to gossip.\n\nCarrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to confess\nher affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards him.\nTemporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only of the\ndignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection for her.\nOn the first evening, she did little but go over the details of the\nafternoon. It was the first time her sympathies had ever been thoroughly\naroused, and they threw a new light on her character. She had some power\nof initiative, latent before, which now began to exert itself. She\nlooked more practically upon her state and began to see glimmerings of a\nway out. Hurstwood seemed a drag in the direction of honour. Her\nfeelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they constructed out of\nthese recent developments something which conquered freedom from\ndishonour. She had no idea what Hurstwood's next word would be. She only\ntook his affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more\ngenerous results accordingly.\n\nAs yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without responsibility.\nHe did not feel that he was doing anything to complicate his life. His\nposition was secure, his home-life, if not satisfactory, was at least\nundisturbed, his personal liberty rather untrammelled. Carrie's love\nrepresented only so much added pleasure. He would enjoy this new gift\nover and above his ordinary allowance of pleasure. He would be happy\nwith her and his own affairs would go on as they had, undisturbed.\n\nOn Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selected in\nEast Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was then a\npleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39th Street. In\nthe process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrie took his\nlove upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kept him at a\ndistance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those tender\ntokens of affection which better become the inexperienced lover.\nHurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and\ndeferred pressing his suit too warmly.\n\nSince he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he had to\ncarry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at a little distance.\nHow far he could not guess.\n\nThey were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:\n\n\"When will I see you again?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she answered, wondering herself.\n\n\"Why not come down to The Fair,\" he suggested, \"next Tuesday?\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"Not so soon,\" she answered.\n\n\"I'll tell you what I'll do,\" he added. \"I'll write you, care of this\nWest Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?\"\n\nCarrie assented.\n\nThe cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.\n\n\"Good-night,\" he whispered, as the cab rolled away.\n\nUnfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet\nreturned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next\nafternoon when he saw Drouet enter.\n\n\"Why, hello, Charles,\" he called affably; \"back again?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.\n\nHurstwood arose.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, looking the drummer over, \"rosy as ever, eh?\"\n\nThey began talking of the people they knew and things that had happened.\n\n\"Been home yet?\" finally asked Hurstwood.\n\n\"No, I am going, though,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"I remembered the little girl out there,\" said Hurstwood, \"and called\nonce. Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone.\"\n\n\"Right you are,\" agreed Drouet. \"How is she?\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Hurstwood. \"Rather anxious about you, though. You'd\nbetter go out now and cheer her up.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Drouet, smilingly.\n\n\"Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me Wednesday,\"\nconcluded Hurstwood at parting.\n\n\"Thanks, old man,\" said his friend, \"I'll see what the girl says and let\nyou know.\"\n\nThey separated in the most cordial manner.\n\n\"There's a nice fellow,\" Drouet thought to himself as he turned the\ncorner towards Madison.\n\n\"Drouet is a good fellow,\" Hurstwood thought to himself as he went back\ninto his office, \"but he's no man for Carrie.\"\n\nThe thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein, and\nhe wondered how he would get ahead of the drummer.\n\nWhen Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms as\nusual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I had a great trip.\"\n\n\"Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were telling\nme about?\"\n\n\"Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,\nrepresenting Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn't in\nit. I made him look like nothing at all.\"\n\nAs he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to washing\nhis face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip. Carrie\ncould not help listening with amusement to his animated descriptions.\n\n\"I tell you,\" he said, \"I surprised the people at the office. I've sold\nmore goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on the\nroad. I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La Crosse.\"\n\nHe plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he\nrubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon him\nwith mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He was still\nwiping his face, when he continued:\n\n\"I'm going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it, as\nmuch business as I turn in. I'll get it too, don't you forget.\"\n\n\"I hope you do,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goes through,\nwe'll get married,\" he said with a great show of earnestness, the while\nhe took his place before the mirror and began brushing his hair.\n\n\"I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie,\" Carrie said\nruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given her courage to\nsay this.\n\n\"Oh, yes I do--course I do--what put that into your head?\"\n\nHe had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over to\nher. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away from him.\n\n\"But you've been saying that so long,\" she said, looking with her pretty\nface upturned into his.\n\n\"Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to. Now,\nwhen I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing things all\nright, and I'll do it. Now, don't you worry, girlie.\"\n\nHe patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how really\nfutile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that this easy-going\nsoul intended no move in her behalf. He was simply letting things drift\nbecause he preferred the free round of his present state to any legal\ntrammellings.\n\nIn contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easy\nmanner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her what\nher true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own\nsuccess and more of her helplessness, \"you never will.\"\n\n\"Well, you wait a little while and see,\" he concluded. \"I'll marry you\nall right.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking for something\nwhich would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light, airy\ndisregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfully promised to\nmarry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise.\n\n\"Say,\" he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the\nmarriage question, \"I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to the\ntheatre with him.\"\n\nCarrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid\nnotice.\n\n\"When?\" she asked, with assumed indifference.\n\n\"Wednesday. We'll go, won't we?\"\n\n\"If you think so,\" she answered, her manner being so enforcedly reserved\nas to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something, but he thought\nit was due to her feelings concerning their talk about marriage.\n\n\"He called once, he said.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie, \"he was out here Sunday evening.\"\n\n\"Was he?\" said Drouet. \"I thought from what he said that he had called a\nweek or so ago.\"\n\n\"So he did,\" answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what\nconversation her lovers might have held. She was all at sea mentally,\nand fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what she would\nanswer.\n\n\"Oh, then he called twice?\" said Drouet, the first shade of\nmisunderstanding showing in his face.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must have\nmentioned but one call.\n\nDrouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He did not\nattach particular importance to the information, after all.\n\n\"What did he have to say?\" he queried, with slightly increased\ncuriosity.\n\n\"He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn't been\nin there so long he wondered what had become of you.\"\n\n\"George is a fine fellow,\" said Drouet, rather gratified by his\nconception of the manager's interest. \"Come on and we'll go out to\ndinner.\"\n\nWhen Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to Carrie,\nsaying:\n\n\"I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did not say\nhow often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anything you may\nhave said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and, darling,\nI must see you. Let me know if you can't meet me at Jackson and Throop\nStreets Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I want to speak with you\nbefore we meet at the theatre.\"\n\nCarrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West Side\nbranch of the post-office, and answered at once.\n\n\"I said you called twice,\" she wrote. \"He didn't seem to mind. I will\ntry and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to be getting\nvery bad. It's wrong to act as I do, I know.\"\n\nHurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score.\n\n\"You mustn't worry, sweetheart,\" he said. \"Just as soon as he goes on\nthe road again we will arrange something. We'll fix it so that you won't\nhave to deceive any one.\"\n\nCarrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not\ndirectly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make the best of\nthe situation until Drouet left again.\n\n\"Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have,\" Hurstwood\ncounselled concerning the evening at the theatre.\n\n\"You mustn't look at me steadily then,\" she answered, mindful of the\npower of his eyes.\n\n\"I won't,\" he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance\nshe had just cautioned against.\n\n\"There,\" she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.\n\n\"The show hasn't begun yet,\" he returned.\n\nHe watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youth and\nprettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.\n\nAt the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favour. If he\nhad been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now. His\ngrace was more permeating because it found a readier medium. Carrie\nwatched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgot poor Drouet,\nwho babbled on as if he were the host.\n\nHurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change.\nHe paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and\nyet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in\nfavour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his heart. If\nanything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not\ncheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt.\n\nOnly the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to Drouet\nalone.\n\nThe scene was one in \"The Covenant,\" in which the wife listened to the\nseductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.\n\n\"Served him right,\" said Drouet afterward, even in view of her keen\nexpiation of her error. \"I haven't any pity for a man who would be such\na chump as that.\"\n\n\"Well, you never can tell,\" returned Hurstwood gently. \"He probably\nthought he was right.\"\n\n\"Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he\nwants to keep her.\"\n\nThey had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy\ncrush about the entrance way.\n\n\"Say, mister,\" said a voice at Hurstwood's side, \"would you mind giving\nme the price of a bed?\"\n\nHurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.\n\n\"Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep.\"\n\nThe plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the\npicture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first to see. He\nhanded over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart.\nHurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nTHE IRK OF THE OLD TIES: THE MAGIC OF YOUTH\n\n\nThe complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the growth\nof his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that related to his\nfamily, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat at breakfast with his\nwife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far\nwithout the realm of their interests. He read his paper, which was\nheightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by his\nson and daughter. Between himself and his wife ran a river of\nindifference.\n\nNow that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.\nThere was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth in\nthe short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began to\nexperience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's feet.\nWhen he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her\neyes were young.\n\nWhen in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when the\ninsistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale\npractice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain which bound\nhis feet.\n\n\"George,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long\nsince come to be associated in his mind with demands, \"we want you to\nget us a season ticket to the races.\"\n\n\"Do you want to go to all of them?\" he said with a rising inflection.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\nThe races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on the South\nSide, and were considered quite society affairs among those who did not\naffect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs. Hurstwood had never\nasked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain\nconsiderations decided her to get a box. For one thing, one of her\nneighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who were possessors of money,\nmade out of the coal business, had done so. In the next place, her\nfavourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and\nbetting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a\ntwo-year-old in the Derby. In the third place, she wished to exhibit\nJessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to\nmarry to a man of means. Her own desire to be about in such things and\nparade among her acquaintances and the common throng was as much an\nincentive as anything.\n\nHurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering.\nThey were in the sitting-room on the second floor, waiting for supper.\nIt was the evening of his engagement with Carrie and Drouet to see \"The\nCovenant,\" which had brought him home to make some alterations in his\ndress.\n\n\"You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?\" he asked, hesitating\nto say anything more rugged.\n\n\"No,\" she replied impatiently.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, taking offence at her manner, \"you needn't get mad\nabout it. I'm just asking you.\"\n\n\"I'm not mad,\" she snapped. \"I'm merely asking you for a season ticket.\"\n\n\"And I'm telling you,\" he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her,\n\"that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the manager will\ngive it to me.\"\n\nHe had been thinking all the time of his \"pull\" with the race-track\nmagnates.\n\n\"We can buy it then,\" she exclaimed sharply.\n\n\"You talk easy,\" he said. \"A season family ticket costs one hundred and\nfifty dollars.\"\n\n\"I'll not argue with you,\" she replied with determination. \"I want the\nticket and that's all there is to it.\"\n\nShe had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.\n\n\"Well, you get it then,\" he said grimly, though in a modified tone of\nvoice.\n\nAs usual, the table was one short that evening.\n\nThe next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the ticket\nwas duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did not mind giving\nhis family a fair share of all that he earned, but he did not like to be\nforced to provide against his will.\n\n\"Did you know, mother,\" said Jessica another day, \"the Spencers are\ngetting ready to go away?\"\n\n\"No. Where, I wonder?\"\n\n\"Europe,\" said Jessica. \"I met Georgine yesterday and she told me. She\njust put on more airs about it.\"\n\n\"Did she say when?\"\n\n\"Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again--they always\ndo.\"\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, \"we'll go one of these\ndays.\"\n\nHurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.\n\n\"'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'\" Jessica exclaimed, mocking her\nacquaintance. \"'Expect to spend most of the \"summah\" in France,'--vain\nthing. As if it was anything to go to Europe.\"\n\n\"It must be if you envy her so much,\" put in Hurstwood.\n\nIt grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.\n\n\"Don't worry over them, my dear,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood.\n\n\"Did George get off?\" asked Jessica of her mother another day, thus\nrevealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.\n\n\"Where has he gone?\" he asked, looking up. He had never before been kept\nin ignorance concerning departures.\n\n\"He was going to Wheaton,\" said Jessica, not noticing the slight put\nupon her father.\n\n\"What's out there?\" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to think\nthat he should be made to pump for information in this manner.\n\n\"A tennis match,\" said Jessica.\n\n\"He didn't say anything to me,\" Hurstwood concluded, finding it\ndifficult to refrain from a bitter tone.\n\n\"I guess he must have forgotten,\" exclaimed his wife blandly.\n\nIn the past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect, which\nwas a compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which in part\nstill existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. As it\nwas, it did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The tone was\nalways modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection, and now\nhe saw that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledge was no\nlonger intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did not.\nHe heard of their doings occasionally, more often not. Some days he\nfound that he was all at sea as to what they were talking about--things\nthey had arranged to do or that they had done in his absence. More\naffecting was the feeling that there were little things going on of\nwhich he no longer heard. Jessica was beginning to feel that her affairs\nwere her own. George, Jr., flourished about as if he were a man entirely\nand must needs have private matters. All this Hurstwood could see, and\nit left a trace of feeling, for he was used to being considered--in his\nofficial position, at least--and felt that his importance should not\nbegin to wane here. To darken it all, he saw the same indifference and\nindependence growing in his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills.\n\nHe consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he was\nnot without affection. Things might go as they would at his house, but\nhe had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked into her\ncomfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several such\ndelightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when Drouet\nwas disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in cosey little\nquarters for him. That no cause would come up whereby Drouet would be\nled to inform Carrie concerning his married state, he felt hopeful.\nThings were going so smoothly that he believed they would not change.\nShortly now he would persuade Carrie and all would be satisfactory.\n\nThe day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly--a\nletter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. He was not\nliterary by any means, but experience of the world and his growing\naffection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised at his office\ndesk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box of delicately\ncoloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he kept locked in\none of the drawers. His friends now wondered at the cleric and very\nofficial-looking nature of his position. The five bartenders viewed with\nrespect the duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work and\npenmanship.\n\nHurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural law which\ngoverns all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He began to feel\nthose subtleties which he could find words to express. With every\nexpression came increased conception. Those inmost breathings which\nthere found words took hold upon him. He thought Carrie worthy of all\nthe affection he could there express.\n\nCarrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to command\nthat token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom. Experience had\nnot yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which is the charm of\nthe body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquid lustre no suggestion\nof the knowledge of disappointment. She had been troubled in a way by\ndoubt and longing, but these had made no deeper impression than could be\ntraced in a certain open wistfulness of glance and speech. The mouth had\nthe expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who might be\nupon the verge of tears. It was not that grief was thus ever present.\nThe pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity\nof formation--a formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself.\n\nThere was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught her\ndomination--superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of some\nwomen. Her longing for consideration was not sufficiently powerful to\nmove her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance, but there was\nthat in what she had already experienced which left her a little less\nthan timid. She wanted pleasure, she wanted position, and yet she was\nconfused as to what these things might be. Every hour the kaleidoscope\nof human affairs threw a new lustre upon something, and therewith it\nbecame for her the desired--the all. Another shift of the box, and some\nother had become the beautiful, the perfect.\n\nOn her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a nature\nwell might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle--an\nuncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. She was\nconstantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men who\nslopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor. The\npoorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings, hurrying home\nfrom some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied from the depths of\nher heart. She would stand and bite her lips as they passed, shaking her\nlittle head and wondering. They had so little, she thought. It was so\nsad to be ragged and poor. The hang of faded clothes pained her eyes.\n\n\"And they have to work so hard!\" was her only comment.\n\nOn the street sometimes she would see men working--Irishmen with picks,\ncoal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy about some work\nwhich was a mere matter of strength--and they touched her fancy. Toil,\nnow that she was free of it, seemed even a more desolate thing than when\nshe was part of it. She saw it through a mist of fancy--a pale, sombre\nhalf-light, which was the essence of poetic feeling. Her old father, in\nhis flour-dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in memory,\nrevived by a face in a window. A shoemaker pegging at his last, a\nblastman seen through a narrow window in some basement where iron was\nbeing melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in some window, his coat\noff, his sleeves rolled up; these took her back in fancy to the details\nof the mill. She felt, though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts\nupon this score. Her sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil\nfrom which she had so recently sprung, and which she best understood.\n\nThough Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose feelings\nwere as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know, but it was this\nin her, after all, which attracted him. He never attempted to analyse\nthe nature of his affection. It was sufficient that there was\ntenderness in her eye, weakness in her manner, good-nature and hope in\nher thoughts. He drew near this lily, which had sucked its waxen beauty\nand perfume from below a depth of waters which he had never penetrated,\nand out of ooze and mould which he could not understand. He drew near\nbecause it was waxen and fresh. It lightened his feelings for him. It\nmade the morning worth while.\n\nIn a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardness had\nall but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was as\npleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted her smartly and\nhad high heels. She had learned much about laces and those little\nneck-pieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her form had\nfilled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded.\n\nHurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in Jefferson\nPark, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more,\neven when Drouet was at home.\n\nThe next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and had\nfound a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush which\nbordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the year when the\nfulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a little pond near by\nsome cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats. In the\nshade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was resting, his\narms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An old gardener was upon the\nlawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking after some bushes. High\noverhead was the clear blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness\nof the shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy\nsparrows.\n\nHurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the\nsame old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being no need to\nwrite. He had come away to this place with the lightness of heart which\ncharacterises those who put weariness behind. Now, in the shade of this\ncool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy of the lover. He\nheard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouring streets, but they\nwere far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. The hum of the surrounding\ncity was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music. He looked\nand dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned his present fixed\ncondition not at all. He got back in fancy to the old Hurstwood, who was\nneither married nor fixed in a solid position for life. He remembered\nthe light spirit in which he once looked after the girls--how he had\ndanced, escorted them home, hung over their gates. He almost wished he\nwas back there again--here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were\nwholly free.\n\nAt two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and clean.\nShe had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a band of\npretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich blue material,\nand her shirt waist matched it, with a thin stripe of blue upon a\nsnow-white ground--stripes that were as fine as hairs. Her brown shoes\npeeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carried her gloves in\nher hand.\n\nHurstwood looked up at her with delight.\n\n\"You came, dearest,\" he said eagerly, standing to meet her and taking\nher hand.\n\n\"Of course,\" she said, smiling; \"did you think I wouldn't?\"\n\n\"I didn't know,\" he replied.\n\nHe looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Then he\ntook out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and touched her\nface here and there.\n\n\"Now,\" he said affectionately, \"you're all right.\"\n\nThey were happy in being near one another--in looking into each other's\neyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had subsided, he said:\n\n\"When is Charlie going away again?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she answered. \"He says he has some things to do for the\nhouse here now.\"\n\nHurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. He looked up\nafter a time to say:\n\n\"Come away and leave him.\"\n\nHe turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request were of\nlittle importance.\n\n\"Where would we go?\" she asked in much the same manner, rolling her\ngloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree.\n\n\"Where do you want to go?\" he enquired.\n\nThere was something in the tone in which he said this which made her\nfeel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation.\n\n\"We can't stay in Chicago,\" she replied.\n\nHe had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removal would be\nsuggested.\n\n\"Why not?\" he asked softly.\n\n\"Oh, because,\" she said, \"I wouldn't want to.\"\n\nHe listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant. It had no\nserious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate decision.\n\n\"I would have to give up my position,\" he said.\n\nThe tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only slight\nconsideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying the pretty\nscene.\n\n\"I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here,\" she said, thinking of\nDrouet.\n\n\"It's a big town, dearest,\" Hurstwood answered. \"It would be as good as\nmoving to another part of the country to move to the South Side.\"\n\nHe had fixed upon that region as an objective point.\n\n\"Anyhow,\" said Carrie, \"I shouldn't want to get married as long as he is\nhere. I wouldn't want to run away.\"\n\nThe suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly\nthat this was her idea--he felt that it was not to be gotten over\neasily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a\nmoment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out. He\ncould not see that he was making any progress save in her regard. When\nhe looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it was to\nhave her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased in value in\nhis eyes because of her objection. She was something to struggle for,\nand that was everything. How different from the women who yielded\nwillingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.\n\n\"And you don't know when he'll go away?\" asked Hurstwood, quietly.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\nHe sighed.\n\n\"You're a determined little miss, aren't you?\" he said, after a few\nmoments, looking up into her eyes.\n\nShe felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at what\nseemed his admiration--affection for the man who could feel this\nconcerning her.\n\n\"No,\" she said coyly, \"but what can I do?\"\n\nAgain he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the street.\n\n\"I wish,\" he said pathetically, \"you would come to me. I don't like to\nbe away from you this way. What good is there in waiting? You're not any\nhappier, are you?\"\n\n\"Happier!\" she exclaimed softly, \"you know better than that.\"\n\n\"Here we are then,\" he went on in the same tone, \"wasting our days. If\nyou are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to you the biggest\npart of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie,\" he exclaimed, throwing\nsudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with his eyes,\n\"I can't live without you, and that's all there is to it. Now,\" he\nconcluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of\nat-an-end, helpless expression, \"what shall I do?\"\n\nThis shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance of\nthe load without the weight touched the woman's heart.\n\n\"Can't you wait a little while yet?\" she said tenderly. \"I'll try and\nfind out when he's going.\"\n\n\"What good will it do?\" he asked, holding the same strain of feeling.\n\n\"Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere.\"\n\nShe really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was getting\ninto that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields.\n\nHurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be\npersuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to\nwonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was thinking of\nsome question which would make her tell.\n\nFinally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often\ndisguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the\ndifficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way. It\nhad not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part, and\nwas spoken at random before he had given it a moment's serious thought.\n\n\"Carrie,\" he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look\nwhich he did not feel, \"suppose I were to come to you next week; or this\nweek for that matter--to-night say--and tell you I had to go away--that\nI couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more--would\nyou come with me?\"\n\nHis sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her answer\nready before the words were out of his mouth.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said.\n\n\"You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?\"\n\n\"Not if you couldn't wait.\"\n\nHe smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what a\nchance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two. He had a\nnotion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet\nseriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful. He let it stand.\n\n\"Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?\" he added, an\nafterthought striking him.\n\n\"If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey it\nwould be all right.\"\n\n\"I meant that,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered whatever\ncould have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it was, he\ncould not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she loved him.\nThere was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way to win her.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, jokingly, \"I'll come and get you one of these\nevenings,\" and then he laughed.\n\n\"I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me,\" Carrie added\nreflectively.\n\n\"I don't want you to,\" he said tenderly, taking her hand.\n\nShe was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the more\nfor thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the marriage\nclause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with such\naffection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.\n\n\"Let's stroll about,\" he said gayly, rising and surveying all the lovely\npark.\n\n\"All right,\" said Carrie.\n\nThey passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious eyes.\n\n\"Tis a foine couple,\" he observed to himself. \"They must be rich.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nA WITLESS ALADDIN: THE GATE TO THE WORLD\n\n\nIn the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some slight\nattention to the secret order to which he belonged. During his last trip\nhe had received a new light on its importance.\n\n\"I tell you,\" said another drummer to him, \"it's a great thing. Look at\nHazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good house\nbehind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree. He's a\nway-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret sign that\nstands for something.\"\n\nDrouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in such\nmatters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his local lodge\nheadquarters.\n\n\"I say, Drouet,\" said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was very\nprominent in this local branch of the Elks, \"you're the man that can\nhelp us out.\"\n\nIt was after the business meeting and things were going socially with a\nhum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score of\nindividuals whom he knew.\n\n\"What are you up to?\" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face upon\nhis secret brother.\n\n\"We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from to-day, and\nwe want to know if you don't know some young lady who could take a\npart--it's an easy part.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said Drouet, \"what is it?\" He did not trouble to remember that\nhe knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His innate\ngood-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.\n\n\"Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do,\" went on Mr.\nQuincel. \"We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge.\nThere isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we\nthought we would raise it by a little entertainment.\"\n\n\"Sure,\" interrupted Drouet, \"that's a good idea.\"\n\n\"Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry Burbeck,\nhe does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at heavy\ndramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?\"\n\n\"Never did.\"\n\n\"Well, I tell you, he does it fine.\"\n\n\"And you want me to get some woman to take a part?\" questioned Drouet,\nanxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. \"What are\nyou going to play?\"\n\n\"'Under the Gaslight,'\" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly's\nfamous production, which had worn from a great public success down to an\namateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome accessories\ncut out and the _dramatis personæ_ reduced to the smallest possible\nnumber.\n\nDrouet had seen this play some time in the past.\n\n\"That's it,\" he said; \"that's a fine play. It will go all right. You\nought to make a lot of money out of that.\"\n\n\"We think we'll do very well,\" Mr. Quincel replied. \"Don't you forget\nnow,\" he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; \"some young\nwoman to take the part of Laura.\"\n\n\"Sure, I'll attend to it.\"\n\nHe moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel had\nceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.\n\nDrouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt of\na letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the following\nFriday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady's\naddress at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her.\n\n\"Now, who the deuce do I know?\" asked the drummer reflectively,\nscratching his rosy ear. \"I don't know any one that knows anything about\namateur theatricals.\"\n\nHe went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and\nfinally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of her\nhome on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out that\nevening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the car he\nforgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item in the\n\"Evening News\"--a small three-line affair under the head of Secret\nSociety Notes--which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of Elks would\ngive a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th, when \"Under the\nGaslight\" would be produced.\n\n\"George!\" exclaimed Drouet, \"I forgot that.\"\n\n\"What?\" inquired Carrie.\n\nThey were at their little table in the room which might have been used\nfor a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal. To-night the\nfancy had caught her, and the little table was spread with a pleasing\nrepast.\n\n\"Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and they\nwanted me to get them some young lady to take a part.\"\n\n\"What is it they're going to play?\"\n\n\"'Under the Gaslight.'\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"On the 16th.\"\n\n\"Well, why don't you?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"I don't know any one,\" he replied.\n\nSuddenly he looked up.\n\n\"Say,\" he said, \"how would you like to take the part?\"\n\n\"Me?\" said Carrie. \"I can't act.\"\n\n\"How do you know?\" questioned Drouet reflectively.\n\n\"Because,\" answered Carrie, \"I never did.\"\n\nNevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyes\nbrightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies it\nwas the art of the stage.\n\nTrue to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out.\n\n\"That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there.\"\n\n\"No, I can't,\" said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the\nproposition and yet fearful.\n\n\"Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and it will\nbe lots of fun for you.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, it won't,\" said Carrie seriously.\n\n\"You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around here\nand giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever enough,\nall right.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not,\" said Carrie shyly.\n\n\"Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll be\nfun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good. They\nhaven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?\"\n\nHe frowned as he thought of their ignorance.\n\n\"Hand me the coffee,\" he added.\n\n\"I don't believe I could act, Charlie,\" Carrie went on pettishly. \"You\ndon't think I could, do you?\"\n\n\"Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I know\nyou do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you.\"\n\n\"What is the play, did you say?\"\n\n\"'Under the Gaslight.'\"\n\n\"What part would they want me to take?\"\n\n\"Oh, one of the heroines--I don't know.\"\n\n\"What sort of a play is it?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the best,\n\"it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks--a man and a\nwoman that live in the slums. She had some money or something and they\nwanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go exactly.\"\n\n\"Don't you know what part I would have to take?\"\n\n\"No, I don't, to tell the truth.\" He thought a moment. \"Yes, I do, too.\nLaura, that's the thing--you're to be Laura.\"\n\n\"And you can't remember what the part is like?\"\n\n\"To save me, Cad, I can't,\" he answered. \"I ought to, too; I've seen the\nplay enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was an\ninfant--was picked off the street or something--and she's the one that's\nhounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about.\" He stopped\nwith a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face. \"She comes very\nnear getting drowned--no, that's not it. I'll tell you what I'll do,\" he\nconcluded hopelessly, \"I'll get you the book. I can't remember now for\nthe life of me.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" said Carrie, when he had concluded, her interest\nand desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity for the\nmastery. \"I might go if you thought I'd do all right.\"\n\n\"Of course, you'll do,\" said Drouet, who, in his efforts to enthuse\nCarrie, had interested himself. \"Do you think I'd come home here and\nurge you to do something that I didn't think you would make a success\nof? You can act all right. It'll be good for you.\"\n\n\"When must I go?\" said Carrie, reflectively.\n\n\"The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for you\nto-night.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Carrie resignedly, \"I'll do it, but if I make a\nfailure now it's your fault.\"\n\n\"You won't fail,\" assured Drouet. \"Just act as you do around here. Be\nnatural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make a corking good\nactress.\"\n\n\"Did you really?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"That's right,\" said the drummer.\n\nHe little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret flame\nhe had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carrie was\npossessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever in the\nmost developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She was created\nwith that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of the active\nworld. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and no small ability.\nEven without practice, she could sometimes restore dramatic situations\nshe had witnessed by re-creating, before her mirror, the expressions of\nthe various faces taking part in the scene. She loved to modulate her\nvoice after the conventional manner of the distressed heroine, and\nrepeat such pathetic fragments as appealed most to her sympathies. Of\nlate, seeing the airy grace of the _ingenue_ in several well-constructed\nplays, she had been moved to secretly imitate it, and many were the\nlittle movements and expressions of the body in which she indulged from\ntime to time in the privacy of her chamber. On several occasions, when\nDrouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror,\nshe was doing nothing more than recalling some little grace of the mouth\nor the eyes which she had witnessed in another. Under his airy\naccusation she mistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with a\nfaint sense of error, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing more\nthan the first subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring\nto re-create the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed\nto her. In such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of\ndesire to reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art.\n\nNow, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic\nability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame which welds\nthe loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united those\nfloating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed,\nconcerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred of\nhope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She felt that\nshe could do things if she only had a chance. How often had she looked\nat the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she would\nlook, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their place. The\nglamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the applause, these had\nlured her until she felt that she, too, could act--that she, too, could\ncompel acknowledgment of power. Now she was told that she really\ncould--that little things she had done about the house had made even him\nfeel her power. It was a delightful sensation while it lasted.\n\nWhen Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the window to\nthink about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated the possibilities for\nher. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand and she had\nexercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She saw herself in a score\nof pathetic situations in which she assumed a tremulous voice and\nsuffering manner. Her mind delighted itself with scenes of luxury and\nrefinement, situations in which she was the cynosure of all eyes, the\narbiter of all fates. As she rocked to and fro she felt the tensity of\nwoe in abandonment, the magnificence of wrath after deception, the\nlanguour of sorrow after defeat. Thoughts of all the charming women she\nhad seen in plays--every fancy, every illusion which she had concerning\nthe stage--now came back as a returning tide after the ebb. She built\nup feelings and a determination which the occasion did not warrant.\n\nDrouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashed\naround with a great _air_, as Quincel met him.\n\n\"Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?\" asked the\nlatter.\n\n\"I've got her,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"Have you?\" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness; \"that's\ngood. What's her address?\" and he pulled out his note-book in order to\nbe able to send her part to her.\n\n\"You want to send her her part?\" asked the drummer.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning.\"\n\n\"What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we have any\ninformation to send her.\"\n\n\"Twenty-nine Ogden Place.\"\n\n\"And her name?\"\n\n\"Carrie Madenda,\" said the drummer, firing at random. The lodge members\nknew him to be single.\n\n\"That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?\" said Quincel.\n\n\"Yes, it does.\"\n\nHe took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the manner of\none who does a favour.\n\n\"He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?\"\n\n\"I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now that I've\nsaid I would.\"\n\n\"Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company. The\nrest of them aren't as good as you are.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll see,\" said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all her\nmisgivings.\n\nHe sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to make his\nnext remark.\n\n\"They were getting ready to print the programmes,\" he said, \"and I gave\nthem the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?\"\n\n\"Yes, I guess so,\" said his companion, looking up at him. She was\nthinking it was slightly strange.\n\n\"If you didn't make a hit, you know,\" he went on.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It was\nclever for Drouet.\n\n\"I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worse\nthen if you didn't _go_. They all know me so well. But you'll _go_ all\nright. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't care,\" said Carrie desperately. She was determined now to\nhave a try at the fascinating game.\n\nDrouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he was about\nto precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question.\n\nThe part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it, was\none of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was true to\nthe most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he began his\ncareer. The sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, the long,\nexplanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there.\n\n\"Poor fellow,\" read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her voice\nout pathetically. \"Martin, be sure and give him a glass of wine before\nhe goes.\"\n\nShe was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing that\nshe must be on the stage while others were talking, and not only be\nthere, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic movement of\nthe scenes.\n\n\"I think I can do that, though,\" she concluded.\n\nWhen Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with her\nday's study.\n\n\"Well, how goes it, Caddie?\" he said.\n\n\"All right,\" she laughed. \"I think I have it memorised nearly.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" he said. \"Let's hear some of it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here,\" she said\nbashfully.\n\n\"Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here than it will\nthere.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" she answered.\n\nEventually she took off the ball-room episode with considerable feeling,\nforgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about Drouet, and\nletting herself rise to a fine state of feeling.\n\n\"Good,\" said Drouet; \"fine; out o' sight! You're all right, Caddie, I\ntell you.\"\n\nHe was really moved by her excellent representation and the general\nappearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and finally\nfainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, and now held her\nlaughing in his arms.\n\n\"Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?\" he asked.\n\n\"Not a bit.\"\n\n\"Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything like\nthat.\"\n\n\"I never did, either,\" said Carrie merrily, her face flushed with\ndelight.\n\n\"Well, you can bet that you're all right,\" said Drouet. \"You can take my\nword for that. You won't fail.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nA GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY: HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE\n\n\nThe, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take place\nat the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy than\nwas at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had written to\nHurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was going\nto take part in a play.\n\n\"I really am,\" she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest; \"I\nhave my part now, honest, truly.\"\n\nHurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this.\n\n\"I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that.\"\n\nHe answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability. \"I\nhaven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You must come to\nthe park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it.\"\n\nCarrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the undertaking\nas she understood it.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, you will\ndo well, you're so clever.\"\n\nHe had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her tendency\nto discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared. As she\nspoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much of the\npleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her misgivings--and\nthey were as plentiful as the moments of the day--she was still happy.\nShe could not repress her delight in doing this little thing which, to\nan ordinary observer, had no importance at all.\n\nHurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl had\ncapabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight of a\nlegitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour, force,\nand beauty to the possessor.\n\nCarrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She drew to\nherself commendation from her two admirers which she had not earned.\nTheir affection for her naturally heightened their perception of what\nshe was trying to do and their approval of what she did. Her\ninexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran riot with\nevery straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining rod whereby\nthe treasure of life was to be discovered.\n\n\"Let's see,\" said Hurstwood, \"I ought to know some of the boys in the\nlodge. I'm an Elk myself.\"\n\n\"Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said the manager.\n\n\"I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't see how\nyou can unless he asks you.\"\n\n\"I'll be there,\" said Hurstwood affectionately. \"I can fix it so he\nwon't know you told me. You leave it to me.\"\n\nThis interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the\nperformance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth talking\nabout. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and flowers\nfor Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give the little\ngirl a chance.\n\nWithin a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort, and he\nwas at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon and the\nplace was crowded with merchants, actors, managers, politicians, a\ngoodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed,\nberinged and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. John L. Sullivan, the\npugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a company\nof loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated conversation.\nDrouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan\nshoes squeaking audibly at his progress.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Hurstwood, \"I was wondering what had become of you. I\nthought you had gone out of town again.\"\n\nDrouet laughed.\n\n\"If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the list.\"\n\n\"Couldn't help it,\" said the drummer, \"I've been busy.\"\n\nThey strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company of\nnotables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times in as\nmany minutes.\n\n\"I hear your lodge is going to give a performance,\" observed Hurstwood,\nin the most offhand manner.\n\n\"Yes, who told you?\"\n\n\"No one,\" said Hurstwood. \"They just sent me a couple of tickets, which\nI can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied the drummer. \"They've been trying to get me to\nget some woman to take a part.\"\n\n\"I wasn't intending to go,\" said the manager easily. \"I'll subscribe, of\ncourse. How are things over there?\"\n\n\"All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the manager, \"I hope they make a success of it. Have\nanother?\"\n\nHe did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the scene\nwith a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come along.\nDrouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion.\n\n\"I think the girl is going to take a part in it,\" he said abruptly,\nafter thinking it over.\n\n\"You don't say so! How did that happen?\"\n\n\"Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I told\nCarrie, and she seems to want to try.\"\n\n\"Good for her,\" said the manager. \"It'll be a real nice affair. Do her\ngood, too. Has she ever had any experience?\"\n\n\"Not a bit.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious.\"\n\n\"She's clever, though,\" said Drouet, casting off any imputation against\nCarrie's ability. \"She picks up her part quick enough.\"\n\n\"You don't say so!\" said the manager.\n\n\"Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she didn't.\"\n\n\"We must give her a nice little send-off,\" said the manager. \"I'll look\nafter the flowers.\"\n\nDrouet smiled at his good-nature.\n\n\"After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little supper.\"\n\n\"I think she'll do all right,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her,\" and the\nmanager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a compound\nof good-nature and shrewdness.\n\nCarrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance Mr.\nQuincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had some\nqualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood by\nany one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however, that he\ncame very near being rude--failing to remember, as he did, that the\nindividuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and not\nsalaried underlings.\n\n\"Now, Miss Madenda,\" he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one part\nuncertain as to what move to make, \"you don't want to stand like that.\nPut expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled over the\nintrusion of the stranger. Walk so,\" and he struck out across the Avery\nstage in a most drooping manner.\n\nCarrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of the\nsituation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and the\ndesire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. She\nwalked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling that\nthere was something strangely lacking.\n\n\"Now, Mrs. Morgan,\" said the director to one young married woman who was\nto take the part of Pearl, \"you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger, you stand\nhere, so. Now, what is it you say?\"\n\n\"Explain,\" said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray, Laura's\nlover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts of\nmarrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth.\n\n\"How is that--what does your text say?\"\n\n\"Explain,\" repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.\n\n\"Yes, but it also says,\" the director remarked, \"that you are to look\nshocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked.\"\n\n\"Explain!\" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.\n\n\"No, no, that won't do! Say it this way--_explain_.\"\n\n\"Explain,\" said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.\n\n\"That's better. Now go on.\"\n\n\"One night,\" resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, \"father and\nmother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, the\nusual crowd of children accosted them for alms----\"\n\n\"Hold on,\" said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. \"Put\nmore feeling into what you are saying.\"\n\nMrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her eye\nlightened with resentment.\n\n\"Remember, Mrs. Morgan,\" he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying his\nmanner, \"that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now supposed to\nbe telling something that is a grief to you. It requires feeling,\nrepression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted them for alms.'\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Mrs. Morgan.\n\n\"Now, go on.\"\n\n\"As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a\ncold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly.\n\n\"A pickpocket! Well!\" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines that\nhere fell to him.\n\n\"No, no, Mr. Bamberger,\" said the director, approaching, \"not that way.\n'A pickpocket--well?' so. That's the idea.\"\n\n\"Don't you think,\" said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been\nproved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let\nalone the details of expression, \"that it would be better if we just\nwent through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick up\nsome points.\"\n\n\"A very good idea, Miss Madenda,\" said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the side\nof the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which the\ndirector did not heed.\n\n\"All right,\" said the latter, somewhat abashed, \"it might be well to do\nit.\" Then brightening, with a show of authority, \"Suppose we run right\nthrough, putting in as much expression as we can.\"\n\n\"Good,\" said Mr. Quincel.\n\n\"This hand,\" resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and down\nat her book, as the lines proceeded, \"my mother grasped in her own, and\nso tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain.\nMother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" observed the director, now hopelessly idle.\n\n\"The thief!\" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.\n\n\"Louder,\" put in the director, finding it almost impossible to keep his\nhands off.\n\n\"The thief!\" roared poor Bamberger.\n\n\"Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's.\n'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?'\n\n\"'Trying to steal,' said the child.\n\n\"'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father.\n\n\"'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.'\n\n\"'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother.\n\n\"'She--there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorway\nopposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old Judas,' said\nthe girl.\"\n\nMrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair. He\nfidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.\n\n\"What do you think of them?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape,\" said the latter,\nwith an air of strength under difficulties.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said the director. \"That fellow Bamberger strikes me as\nbeing a pretty poor shift for a lover.\"\n\n\"He's all we've got,\" said Quincel, rolling up his eyes. \"Harrison went\nback on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said the director. \"I'm afraid he'll never pick up.\"\n\nAt this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, \"Pearl, you are joking with\nme.\"\n\n\"Look at that now,\" said the director, whispering behind his hand. \"My\nLord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like that?\"\n\n\"Do the best you can,\" said Quincel consolingly.\n\nThe rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie, as\nLaura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing Pearl's\nstatement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating her,\nwhich, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was just concluding the\nwords of Ray, \"I must go before she returns. Her step! Too late,\" and\nwas cramming the letter in his pocket, when she began sweetly with:\n\n\"Ray!\"\n\n\"Miss--Miss Courtland,\" Bamberger faltered weakly.\n\nCarrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company present.\nShe began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile to her\nlips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he were\nnot present. She did it with a grace which was fascinating to look upon.\n\n\"Who is that woman?\" asked the director, watching Carrie in her little\nscene with Bamberger.\n\n\"Miss Madenda,\" said Quincel.\n\n\"I know her name,\" said the director, \"but what does she do?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Quincel. \"She's a friend of one of our members.\"\n\n\"Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far--seems\nto take an interest in what she's doing.\"\n\n\"Pretty, too, isn't she?\" said Quincel.\n\nThe director strolled away without answering.\n\nIn the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in the\nball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director, who\nvolunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over and speak\nwith her.\n\n\"Were you ever on the stage?\" he asked insinuatingly.\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience.\"\n\nCarrie only smiled consciously.\n\nHe walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting some\nardent line.\n\nMrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with envious\nand snapping black eyes.\n\n\"She's some cheap professional,\" she gave herself the satisfaction of\nthinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.\n\nThe rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that she\nhad acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director were\nringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell\nHurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet,\ntoo, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until he\nshould ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up. The\ndrummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her little\nexperience did not appeal to him as important. He let the conversation\ndrop, save for what she chose to recite without solicitation, and Carrie\nwas not good at that. He took it for granted that she was doing very\nwell and he was relieved of further worry. Consequently he threw Carrie\ninto repression, which was irritating. She felt his indifference keenly\nand longed to see Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend\nshe had on earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the\ndamage had been done.\n\nShe got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time she\ngot it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came, he shone\nupon her as the morning sun.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" he asked, \"how did you come out?\"\n\n\"Well enough,\" she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.\n\n\"Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?\"\n\nCarrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she\nproceeded.\n\n\"Well, that's delightful,\" said Hurstwood. \"I'm so glad. I must get over\nthere to see you. When is the next rehearsal?\"\n\n\"Tuesday,\" said Carrie, \"but they don't allow visitors.\"\n\n\"I imagine I could get in,\" said Hurstwood significantly.\n\nShe was completely restored and delighted by his consideration, but she\nmade him promise not to come around.\n\n\"Now, you must do your best to please me,\" he said encouragingly. \"Just\nremember that I want you to succeed. We will make the performance worth\nwhile. You do that now.\"\n\n\"I'll try,\" said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.\n\n\"That's the girl,\" said Hurstwood fondly. \"Now, remember,\" shaking an\naffectionate finger at her, \"your best.\"\n\n\"I will,\" she answered, looking back.\n\nThe whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped along,\nthe clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed are the\nchildren of endeavour in this, that they try and are hopeful. And\nblessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nJUST OVER THE BORDER: A HAIL AND FAREWELL\n\n\nBy the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made itself\napparent. He had given the word among his friends--and they were many\nand influential--that here was something which they ought to attend,\nand, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel, acting for\nthe lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes had appeared in all of\nthe daily newspapers. These he had arranged for by the aid of one of his\nnewspaper friends on the \"Times,\" Mr. Harry McGarren, the managing\neditor.\n\n\"Say, Harry,\" Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood at\nthe bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, \"you can help\nthe boys out, I guess.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the opulent\nmanager.\n\n\"The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own\ngood, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean--a\nsquib or two saying that it's going to take place.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said McGarren, \"I can fix that for you, George.\"\n\nAt the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background. The\nmembers of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their little\naffair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon as quite a\nstar for this sort of work.\n\nBy the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied like\nRomans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured,\nflatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he thought of\nassisting Carrie.\n\nThat little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction, much\nas she trembled for her fate when she should once face the gathered\nthrong, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried to console herself\nwith the thought that a score of other persons, men and women, were\nequally tremulous concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could\nnot disassociate the general danger from her own individual liability.\nShe feared that she would forget her lines, that she might be unable to\nmaster the feeling which she now felt concerning her own movements in\nthe play. At times she wished that she had never gone into the affair;\nat others, she trembled lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand\nwhite and gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire\nperformance.\n\nIn the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. That\nhopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's criticism.\nMrs. Morgan was still present, but envious and determined, if for\nnothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie at least. A loafing\nprofessional had been called in to assume the rôle of Ray, and, while he\nwas a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms\nwhich attack the spirit of those who have never faced an audience. He\nswashed about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning\nhis past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner that\nhe was like to convince every one of his identity by mere matter of\ncircumstantial evidence.\n\n\"It is so easy,\" he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stage\nvoice. \"An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's the\nspirit of the part, you know, that is difficult.\"\n\nCarrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not to\nswallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must suffer his\nfictitious love for the evening.\n\nAt six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had been provided\nover and above her care. She had practised her make-up in the morning,\nhad rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by one o'clock,\nand had gone home to have a final look at her part, waiting for the\nevening to come.\n\nOn this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with her as far\nas the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores, looking for\nsome good cigars. The little actress marched nervously into her\ndressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up\nwhich was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of\nSociety.\n\nThe flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and\ndisplay, the scattered contents of the make-up box--rouge, pearl powder,\nwhiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eyelids, wigs, scissors,\nlooking-glasses, drapery--in short, all the nameless paraphernalia of\ndisguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their own. Since her arrival\nin the city many things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed\nmanner. This new atmosphere was more friendly. It was wholly unlike the\ngreat brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting her\nonly awe and distant wonder. This took her by the hand kindly, as one\nwho says, \"My dear, come in.\" It opened for her as if for its own. She\nhad wondered at the greatness of the names upon the bill-boards, the\nmarvel of the long notices in the papers, the beauty of the dresses upon\nthe stage, the atmosphere of carriages, flowers, refinement. Here was\nno illusion. Here was an open door to see all of that. She had come upon\nit as one who stumbles upon a secret passage, and, behold, she was in\nthe chamber of diamonds and delight!\n\nAs she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the\nvoices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, noting Mrs.\nMorgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation, seeing\nall the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying over what\nthe result would be, she could not help thinking what a delight this\nwould be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if she could only do\nwell now, and then some time get a place as a real actress. The thought\nhad taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed in her ears as the melody of\nan old song.\n\nOutside in the little lobby another scene was being enacted. Without the\ninterest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been\ncomfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately\ninterested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however, had gone the\nrounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had been taken.\nDr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. This was quite\na card. C. R. Walker, dry-goods merchant and possessor of at least two\nhundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known coal merchant\nhad been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood and his friends the\nfourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people who were now pouring\nhere were not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general\nsense. They were the lights of a certain circle--the circle of small\nfortunes and secret order distinctions. These gentlemen Elks knew the\nstanding of one another. They had regard for the ability which could\namass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep a barouche or carriage,\nperhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain a good mercantile position.\nNaturally, Hurstwood, who was a little above the order of mind which\naccepted this standard as perfect, who had shrewdness and much\nassumption of dignity, who held an imposing and authoritative position,\nand commanded friendship by intuitive tact in handling people, was quite\na figure. He was more generally known than most others in the same\ncircle, and was looked upon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of\ninfluence and solid financial prosperity.\n\nTo-night he was in his element. He came with several friends directly\nfrom Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet, who was just\nreturning from a trip for more cigars. All five now joined in an\nanimated conversation concerning the company present and the general\ndrift of lodge affairs.\n\n\"Who's here?\" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where the\nlights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and\ntalking in the open space back of the seats.\n\n\"Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?\" came from the first individual\nrecognised.\n\n\"Glad to see you,\" said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.\n\n\"Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said the manager.\n\n\"Custer seems to have the backing of its members,\" observed the friend.\n\n\"So it should,\" said the knowing manager. \"I'm glad to see it.\"\n\n\"Well, George,\" said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois made\nnecessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom, \"how goes\nit with you?\"\n\n\"Excellent,\" said the manager.\n\n\"What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer.\"\n\n\"Good-nature,\" returned the manager. \"Like to see the boys, you know.\"\n\n\"Wife here?\"\n\n\"She couldn't come to-night. She's not well.\"\n\n\"Sorry to hear it--nothing serious, I hope.\"\n\n\"No, just feeling a little ill.\"\n\n\"I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you over to\nSt. Joe--\" and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial recollection,\nwhich was terminated by the arrival of more friends.\n\n\"Why, George, how are you?\" said another genial West Side politician and\nlodge member. \"My, but I'm glad to see you again; how are things,\nanyhow?\"\n\n\"Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman.\"\n\n\"Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble.\"\n\n\"What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?\"\n\n\"Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"I didn't know that,\" said the manager. \"Felt pretty sore, I suppose,\nover his defeat.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said the other, winking shrewdly.\n\nSome of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began to\nroll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a great show of\nfinery and much evident feeling of content and importance.\n\n\"Here we are,\" said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom he\nwas talking.\n\n\"That's right,\" returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about forty-five.\n\n\"And say,\" he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the\nshoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, \"if this isn't a good\nshow, I'll punch your head.\"\n\n\"You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!\"\n\nTo another who inquired, \"Is it something really good?\" the manager\nreplied:\n\n\"I don't know. I don't suppose so.\" Then, lifting his hand graciously,\n\"For the lodge.\"\n\n\"Lots of boys out, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago.\"\n\nIt was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of successful\nvoices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of good-nature, and\nall largely because of this man's bidding. Look at him any time within\nthe half hour before the curtain was up, he was a member of an eminent\ngroup--a rounded company of five or more whose stout figures, large\nwhite bosoms, and shining pins bespoke the character of their success.\nThe gentlemen who brought their wives called him out to shake hands.\nSeats clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. He was evidently\na light among them, reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those\nwho greeted him. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised.\nThrough it all one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness\nin a way, small as it was.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nAN HOUR IN ELFLAND: A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD\n\n\nAt last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of the make-up\nhad been completed, and the company settled down as the leader of the\nsmall, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with his\nbaton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwood ceased\ntalking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrison around to\nthe box.\n\n\"Now, we'll see how the little girl does,\" he said to Drouet, in a tone\nwhich no one else could hear.\n\nOn the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the opening\nparlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that Carrie was not\namong them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs. Morgan, Mrs.\nHoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's part were representing\nthe principal rôles in this scene. The professional, whose name was\nPatton, had little to recommend him outside of his assurance, but this\nat the present moment was most palpably needed. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl,\nwas stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat. The whole\ncompany was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken, and nothing\nmore. It took all the hope and uncritical good-nature of the audience to\nkeep from manifesting pity by that unrest which is the agony of failure.\n\nHurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted that it\nwould be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurable enough to\nallow for pretension and congratulation afterward.\n\nAfter the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the danger\nof collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the\nexpression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the extreme,\nwhen Carrie came in.\n\nOne glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that she\nalso was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying:\n\n\"And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock,\" but\nwith so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was positively\npainful.\n\n\"She's frightened,\" whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.\n\nThe manager made no answer.\n\nShe had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.\n\n\"Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill.\"\n\nIt came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouet\nfidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.\n\nThere was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a sense of\nimpending disaster, say, sadly:\n\n\"I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Call a\nmaid by a married name.'\"\n\nThe lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did not get it\nat all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked as if she were\ncertain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopeless than Mrs.\nMorgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly\nat least. Drouet looked away from the stage at the audience. The latter\nheld out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. Hurstwood\nfixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. He\nwas pouring determination of his own in her direction. He felt sorry\nfor her.\n\nIn a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by the\nstrange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by a\nconversation between the professional actor and a character called\nSnorky, impersonated by a short little American, who really developed\nsome humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned messenger for a\nliving. He bawled his lines out with such defiance that, while they\nreally did not partake of the humour intended, they were funny. Now he\nwas off, however, and it was back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief\nfigure. She did not recover. She wandered through the whole scene\nbetween herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the\naudience, and finally exiting, much to their relief.\n\n\"She's too nervous,\" said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark\nthat he was lying for once.\n\n\"Better go back and say a word to her.\"\n\nDrouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustled around to\nthe side entrance, and was let in by the friendly doorkeeper. Carrie was\nstanding in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and\nnerve gone out of her.\n\n\"Say, Cad,\" he said, looking at her, \"you mustn't be nervous. Wake up.\nThose guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraid of?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie. \"I just don't seem to be able to do it.\"\n\nShe was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had found the\ncompany so nervous that her own strength had gone.\n\n\"Come on,\" said Drouet. \"Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on out\nthere now, and do the trick. What do you care?\"\n\nCarrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous\ncondition.\n\n\"Did I do so very bad?\"\n\n\"Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as you showed\nme. Get that toss of your head you had the other night.\"\n\nCarrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think she could\ndo it.\n\n\"What's next?\" he said, looking at her part, which she had been\nstudying.\n\n\"Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him.\"\n\n\"Well, now you do that lively,\" said the drummer. \"Put in snap, that's\nthe thing. Act as if you didn't care.\"\n\n\"Your turn next, Miss Madenda,\" said the prompter.\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, you're a chump for being afraid,\" said Drouet. \"Come on now,\nbrace up. I'll watch you from right here.\"\n\n\"Will you?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid.\"\n\nThe prompter signalled her.\n\nShe started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially\nreturned. She thought of Drouet looking.\n\n\"Ray,\" she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when\nshe had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased the director\nat the rehearsal.\n\n\"She's easier,\" thought Hurstwood to himself.\n\nShe did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. The\naudience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the work of the\nentire company took away direct observation from her. They were making\nvery fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable,\nin the less trying parts at least.\n\nCarrie came off warm and nervous.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, looking at him, \"was it any better?\"\n\n\"Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You did that\nabout a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene. Now go\non and fire up. You can do it. Knock 'em.\"\n\n\"Was it really better?\"\n\n\"Better, I should say so. What comes next?\"\n\n\"That ball-room scene.\"\n\n\"Well, you can do that all right,\" he said.\n\n\"I don't know,\" answered Carrie.\n\n\"Why, woman,\" he exclaimed, \"you did it for me! Now you go out there and\ndo it. It'll be fun for you. Just do as you did in the room. If you'll\nreel it off that way, I'll bet you make a hit. Now, what'll you bet? You\ndo it.\"\n\nThe drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the better of\nhis speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted this particular\nscene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in public. His\nenthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion.\n\nWhen the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He began to\nmake her feel as if she had done very well. The old melancholy of desire\nbegan to come back as he talked at her, and by the time the situation\nrolled around she was running high in feeling.\n\n\"I think I can do this.\"\n\n\"Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see.\"\n\nOn the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation against\nLaura.\n\nCarrie listened, and caught the infection of something--she did not know\nwhat. Her nostrils sniffed thinly.\n\n\"It means,\" the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, \"that society\nis a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of the Siberian\nwolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness, the others devour\nhim. It is not an elegant comparison, but there is something wolfish in\nsociety. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, and society, which is made\nup of pretence, will bitterly resent the mockery.\"\n\nAt the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel the\nbitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast descended upon\nher. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her own mounting thoughts.\nShe hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood.\n\n\"Come, girls,\" said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, \"let us look after our\nthings. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief enters.\"\n\n\"Cue,\" said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear.\nAlready she was moving forward with a steady grace, born of inspiration.\nShe dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud, shifting, with the\nnecessity of the situation, to a cold, white, helpless object, as the\nsocial pack moved away from her scornfully.\n\nHurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiating waves\nof feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the farthest\nwalls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yet dissolve the\nworld, was here at work.\n\nThere was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling,\nheretofore wandering.\n\n\"Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?\" was the cry of Pearl.\n\nEvery eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. They moved as\nshe moved. Their eyes were with her eyes.\n\nMrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her.\n\n\"Let us go home,\" she said.\n\n\"No,\" answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a\npenetrating quality which it had never known. \"Stay with him!\"\n\nShe pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with a\npathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, \"He shall not\nsuffer long.\"\n\nHurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily good. It\nwas heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the curtain\ndescended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now that she was\nbeautiful. She had done something which was above his sphere. He felt a\nkeen delight in realising that she was his.\n\n\"Fine,\" he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and went\nabout to the stage door.\n\nWhen he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. His feelings for\nher were most exuberant. He was almost swept away by the strength and\nfeeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forth his praise with the\nunbounded feelings of a lover, but here was Drouet, whose affection was\nalso rapidly reviving. The latter was more fascinated, if anything, than\nHurstwood. At least, in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said Drouet, \"you did out of sight. That was simply great.\nI knew you could do it. Oh, but you're a little daisy!\"\n\nCarrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement.\n\n\"Did I do all right?\"\n\n\"Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause?\"\n\nThere was some faint sound of clapping yet.\n\n\"I thought I got it something like--I felt it.\"\n\nJust then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change in Drouet.\nHe saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy leaped alight\nin his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproached himself for having\nsent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder. He could scarcely pull\nhimself down to the level where he would have to congratulate Carrie as\na friend. Nevertheless, the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph.\nHe almost jerked the old subtle light to his eyes.\n\n\"I thought,\" he said, looking at Carrie, \"I would come around and tell\nyou how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful.\"\n\nCarrie took the cue, and replied:\n\n\"Oh, thank you.\"\n\n\"I was just telling her,\" put in Drouet, now delighted with his\npossession, \"that I thought she did fine.\"\n\n\"Indeed you did,\" said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in which she\nread more than the words.\n\nCarrie laughed luxuriantly.\n\n\"If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all think\nyou are a born actress.\"\n\nCarrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's position, and\nwished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did not\nunderstand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found that he could not talk,\nrepressed as he was, and grudging Drouet every moment of his presence,\nhe bowed himself out with the elegance of a Faust. Outside he set his\nteeth with envy.\n\n\"Damn it!\" he said, \"is he always going to be in the way?\" He was moody\nwhen he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking of his\nwretched situation.\n\nAs the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was very\nmuch enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but Hurstwood\npretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carrie was\nnot there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her entrance. He\ndid not see what was going on, however. He was thinking his own\nthoughts, and they were wretched.\n\nThe progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie, from\nnow on, was easily the centre of interest. The audience, which had been\ninclined to feel that nothing could be good after the first gloomy\nimpression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where it was\nnot. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented her part with\nsome felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the\nfeeling at the end of the long first act.\n\nBoth Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising feelings.\nThe fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that they should\nsee it set forth under such effective circumstances, framed almost in\nmassy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights of sentiment and\npersonality, heightened her charm for them. She was more than the old\nCarrie to Drouet. He longed to be at home with her until he could tell\nher. He awaited impatiently the end, when they should go home alone.\n\nHurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new\nattractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the man\nbeside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he\nwould. For once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth.\n\nIt was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers assumed\nits most effective character.\n\nHurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would come on.\nHe had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice of sending all\nthe merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came in alone. It was the\nfirst time that Hurstwood had had a chance to see her facing the\naudience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been without a foil of\nsome sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength--the\npower that had grasped him at the end of the first act--had come back.\nShe seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing to a\nclose and the opportunity for great action was passing.\n\n\"Poor Pearl,\" she said, speaking with natural pathos. \"It is a sad thing\nto want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another groping\nabout blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp.\"\n\nShe was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting\nlistlessly upon the polished door-post.\n\nHurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself. He\ncould almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by a combination\nof feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that quality of voice\nand manner which, like a pathetic strain of music, seems ever a personal\nand intimate thing. Pathos has this quality, that it seems ever\naddressed to one alone.\n\n\"And yet, she can be very happy with him,\" went on the little actress.\n\"Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home.\"\n\nShe turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was so much\nsimplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Then she found\na seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a thought to\nthem.\n\n\"With no longings for what I may not have,\" she breathed in\nconclusion--and it was almost a sigh--\"my existence hidden from all save\ntwo in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent\ngirl who will soon be his wife.\"\n\nHurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom,\ninterrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. He\nwas charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl grey,\nwith a coiled string of pears at the throat. Carrie had the air of one\nwho was weary and in need of protection, and, under the fascinating\nmake-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in\nspirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own\ndelight.\n\nIn a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation:\n\n\"I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here. I must\ngo, secretly if I can; openly, if I must.\"\n\nThere was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice saying:\n\n\"No, I shall not ride again. Put him up.\"\n\nHe entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the\ncreation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything in his\npeculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to make something\nof this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a\nfeeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted the rising\nsentiment as she proceeded.\n\n\"I thought you had gone with Pearl,\" she said to her lover.\n\n\"I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down the road.\"\n\n\"You and Pearl had no disagreement?\"\n\n\"No--yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers always stand at\n'cloudy' and 'overcast.'\"\n\n\"And whose fault is that?\" she said, easily.\n\n\"Not mine,\" he answered, pettishly. \"I know I do all I can--I say all I\ncan--but she----\"\n\nThis was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it with a\ngrace which was inspiring.\n\n\"But she is your wife,\" she said, fixing her whole attention upon the\nstilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was again\nlow and musical. \"Ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which the\nwhole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not let yours be\ndiscontented and unhappy.\"\n\nShe put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly.\n\nHurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting with\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"To be my wife, yes,\" went on the actor in a manner which was weak by\ncomparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere which\nCarrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel that he was\nwretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block of wood. The\naccessories she needed were within her own imagination. The acting of\nothers could not affect them.\n\n\"And you repent already?\" she said, slowly.\n\n\"I lost you,\" he said, seizing her little hand, \"and I was at the mercy\nof any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It was your\nfault--you know it was--why did you leave me?\"\n\nCarrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse in\nsilence. Then she turned back.\n\n\"Ray,\" she said, \"the greatest happiness I have ever felt has been the\nthought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a virtuous\nwoman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments. What a\nrevelation do you make to me now! What is it makes you continually war\nwith your happiness?\"\n\nThe last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience and\nthe lover as a personal thing.\n\nAt last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, \"Be to me as you\nused to be.\"\n\nCarrie answered, with affecting sweetness, \"I cannot be that to you, but\nI can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to you forever.\"\n\n\"Be it as you will,\" said Patton.\n\nHurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and intent.\n\n\"Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain,\" said Carrie, her eyes\nbent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, \"beautiful or\nhomely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or\nrefuse--her heart.\"\n\nDrouet felt a scratch in his throat.\n\n\"Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you; but her\nlove is the treasure without money and without price.\"\n\nThe manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as if\nthey were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow over\nthe hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whom he\nloved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was resolving that he would be\nto Carrie what he had never been before. He would marry her, by George!\nShe was worth it.\n\n\"She asks only in return,\" said Carrie, scarcely hearing the small,\nscheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even more in harmony\nwith the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra, \"that when you\nlook upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that when you address her\nyour voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that you shall not despise\nher because she cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts and\nambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil have defeated your\ngreatest purposes, her love remains to console you. You look to the\ntrees,\" she continued, while Hurstwood restrained his feelings only by\nthe grimmest repression, \"for strength and grandeur; do not despise the\nflowers because their fragrance is all they have to give. Remember,\" she\nconcluded, tenderly, \"love is all a woman has to give,\" and she laid a\nstrange, sweet accent on the all, \"but it is the only thing which God\npermits us to carry beyond the grave.\"\n\nThe two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. They scarcely\nheard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded. They only\nsaw their idol, moving about with appealing grace, continuing a power\nwhich to them was a revelation.\n\nHurstwood resolved a thousand things, Drouet as well. They joined\nequally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drouet pounded\nhis hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again and started out. As\nhe went, Carrie came out, and, seeing an immense basket of flowers being\nhurried down the aisle toward her, she waited. They were Hurstwood's.\nShe looked toward the manager's box for a moment, caught his eye, and\nsmiled. He could have leaped out of the box to enfold her. He forgot the\nneed of circumspectness which his married state enforced. He almost\nforgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him. By the Lord,\nhe would have that lovely girl if it took his all. He would act at once.\nThis should be the end of Drouet, and don't you forget it. He would not\nwait another day. The drummer should not have her.\n\nHe was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went into the\nlobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did not return. In a\nfew minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy to have Carrie\nalone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling, bowing, shamming,\nwhen he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when he wanted to whisper\nto her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopes were futile. He must\neven take her to supper, shamming. He finally went about and asked how\nshe was getting along. The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying\nabout. Drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of excitement\nand passion. The manager mastered himself only by a great effort.\n\n\"We are going to supper, of course,\" he said, with a voice that was a\nmockery of his heart.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Carrie, smiling.\n\nThe little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now what it\nwas to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. The\nindependence of success now made its first faint showing. With the\ntables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover. She\ndid not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in\ncondescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she was\nready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once,\nonly, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was\nwhen the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her. Before\nDrouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a gentle,\nimpulsive manner. The manager was beside himself with affection. He\ncould have sold his soul to be with her alone. \"Ah,\" he thought, \"the\nagony of it.\"\n\nDrouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiled by\nhis enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die if he\ndid not find affectionate relief. He whispered \"to-morrow\" passionately\nto Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from the drummer and his\nprize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and not regret. Carrie\nalso felt the misery of it.\n\n\"Good-night,\" he said, simulating an easy friendliness.\n\n\"Good-night,\" said the little actress, tenderly.\n\n\"The fool!\" he said, now hating Drouet. \"The idiot! I'll do him yet, and\nthat quick! We'll see to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Well, if you aren't a wonder,\" Drouet was saying, complacently,\nsqueezing Carrie's arm. \"You are the dandiest little girl on earth.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nTHE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT\n\n\nPassion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. It is no\nmusing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to sing outside of\nmy lady's window--to languish and repine in the face of difficulties. In\nthe night he was long getting to sleep because of too much thinking, and\nin the morning he was early awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same\ndear subject and pursuing it with vigour. He was out of sorts\nphysically, as well as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a\nnew manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet in the way? Never was man\nmore harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the\nelated, flush-mannered drummer. He would have given anything, it seemed\nto him, to have the complication ended--to have Carrie acquiesce to an\narrangement which would dispose of Drouet effectually and forever.\n\nWhat to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the same chamber with\nhis wife, unmindful of her presence.\n\nAt breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to which he\nhelped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grew cold,\nwhile he scanned the paper indifferently. Here and there he read a\nlittle thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down. His\nwife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her own in\nsilence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgot the\nnapkins. On this account the silence was irritably broken by a reproof.\n\n\"I've told you about this before, Maggie,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood. \"I'm not\ngoing to tell you again.\"\n\nHurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just now her\nmanner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed to him.\n\n\"Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your vacation?\"\n\nIt was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at this\nseason of the year.\n\n\"Not yet,\" he said, \"I'm very busy just now.\"\n\n\"Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you, if we're\ngoing?\" she returned.\n\n\"I guess we have a few days yet,\" he said.\n\n\"Hmff,\" she returned. \"Don't wait until the season's over.\"\n\nShe stirred in aggravation as she said this.\n\n\"There you go again,\" he observed. \"One would think I never did\nanything, the way you begin.\"\n\n\"Well, I want to know about it,\" she reiterated.\n\n\"You've got a few days yet,\" he insisted. \"You'll not want to start\nbefore the races are over.\"\n\nHe was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to\nhave his thoughts for other purposes.\n\n\"Well, we may. Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the races.\"\n\n\"What did you want with a season ticket, then?\"\n\n\"Uh!\" she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust, \"I'll not\nargue with you,\" and therewith arose to leave the table.\n\n\"Say,\" he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his voice\nwhich caused her to delay her departure, \"what's the matter with you of\nlate? Can't I talk with you any more?\"\n\n\"Certainly, you can _talk_ with me,\" she replied, laying emphasis on the\nword.\n\n\"Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. Now, you want to know\nwhen I'll be ready--not for a month yet. Maybe not then.\"\n\n\"We'll go without you.\"\n\n\"You will, eh?\" he sneered.\n\n\"Yes, we will.\"\n\nHe was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only irritated\nhim the more.\n\n\"Well, we'll see about that. It seems to me you're trying to run things\nwith a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settled my\naffairs for me. Well, you don't. You don't regulate anything that's\nconnected with me. If you want to go, go, but you won't hurry me by any\nsuch talk as that.\"\n\nHe was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and he crunched\nhis paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothing more. He was\njust finishing when she turned on her heel and went out into the hall\nand upstairs. He paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then sat down\nand drank a little coffee, and thereafter arose and went for his hat and\ngloves upon the main floor.\n\nHis wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She had\ncome down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with\nherself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessica had\ncalled her attention to the fact that the races were not what they were\nsupposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they had thought\nthey would be this year. The beautiful girl found going every day a dull\nthing. There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody\nto the watering places and Europe. In her own circle of acquaintances\nseveral young men in whom she was interested had gone to Waukesha. She\nbegan to feel that she would like to go too, and her mother agreed with\nher.\n\nAccordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She was\nthinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some reason\nthe atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was all over, just\nhow the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however, that her\nhusband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances, would she let\nthis go by unsettled. She would have more lady-like treatment or she\nwould know why.\n\nFor his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new argument\nuntil he reached his office and started from there to meet Carrie. Then\nthe other complications of love, desire, and opposition possessed him.\nHis thoughts fled on before him upon eagles' wings. He could hardly wait\nuntil he should meet Carrie face to face. What was the night, after all,\nwithout her--what the day? She must and should be his.\n\nFor her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling since\nshe had left him, the night before. She had listened to Drouet's\nenthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part which concerned\nherself, with very little for that which affected his own gain. She kept\nhim at such lengths as she could, because her thoughts were with her own\ntriumph. She felt Hurstwood's passion as a delightful background to her\nown achievement, and she wondered what he would have to say. She was\nsorry for him, too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something\ncomplimentary to itself in the misery of another. She was now\nexperiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change which\nremoves one out of the ranks of the suppliants into the lines of the\ndispensers of charity. She was, all in all, exceedingly happy.\n\nOn the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerning the\nevent, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday things about, it now\nlost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Drouet himself was not\ntalking so much _of_ as _for_ her. He felt instinctively that, for some\nreason or other, he needed reconstruction in her regard.\n\n\"I think,\" he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next\nmorning, preparatory to going down town, \"that I'll straighten out that\nlittle deal of mine this month and then we'll get married. I was talking\nwith Mosher about that yesterday.\"\n\n\"No, you won't,\" said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint\npower to jest with the drummer.\n\n\"Yes, I will,\" he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, with the\ntone of one who pleads, \"Don't you believe what I've told you?\"\n\nCarrie laughed a little.\n\n\"Of course I do,\" she answered.\n\nDrouet's assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mental\nobservation, there was that in the things which had happened which made\nhis little power of analysis useless. Carrie was still with him, but not\nhelpless and pleading. There was a lilt in her voice which was new. She\ndid not study him with eyes expressive of dependence. The drummer was\nfeeling the shadow of something which was coming. It coloured his\nfeelings and made him develop those little attentions and say those\nlittle words which were mere forefendations against danger.\n\nShortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her meeting with\nHurstwood. She hurried at her toilet, which was soon made, and hastened\ndown the stairs. At the corner she passed Drouet, but they did not see\neach other.\n\nThe drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into his\nhouse. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room, but found\nonly the chambermaid, who was cleaning up.\n\n\"Hello,\" he exclaimed, half to himself, \"has Carrie gone?\"\n\n\"Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago.\"\n\n\"That's strange,\" thought Drouet. \"She didn't say a word to me. I wonder\nwhere she went?\"\n\nHe hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted, and\nfinally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his fair\nneighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards him.\n\n\"What are you up to?\" he said, smiling.\n\n\"Just cleaning,\" she replied, stopping and winding a dusting towel about\nher hand.\n\n\"Tired of it?\"\n\n\"Not so very.\"\n\n\"Let me show you something,\" he said, affably, coming over and taking\nout of his pocket a little lithographed card which had been issued by a\nwholesale tobacco company. On this was printed a picture of a pretty\ngirl, holding a striped parasol, the colours of which could be changed\nby means of a revolving disk in the back, which showed red, yellow,\ngreen, and blue through little interstices made in the ground occupied\nby the umbrella top.\n\n\"Isn't that clever?\" he said, handing it to her and showing her how it\nworked. \"You never saw anything like that before.\"\n\n\"Isn't it nice?\" she answered.\n\n\"You can have it if you want it,\" he remarked.\n\n\"That's a pretty ring you have,\" he said, touching a commonplace setting\nwhich adorned the hand holding the card he had given her.\n\n\"Do you think so?\"\n\n\"That's right,\" he answered, making use of a pretence at examination to\nsecure her finger. \"That's fine.\"\n\nThe ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation,\npretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his. She\nsoon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest against\nthe window-sill.\n\n\"I didn't see you for a long time,\" she said, coquettishly, repulsing\none of his exuberant approaches. \"You must have been away.\"\n\n\"I was,\" said Drouet.\n\n\"Do you travel far?\"\n\n\"Pretty far--yes.\"\n\n\"Do you like it?\"\n\n\"Oh, not very well. You get tired of it after a while.\"\n\n\"I wish I could travel,\" said the girl, gazing idly out of the window.\n\n\"What has become of your friend, Mr. Hurstwood?\" she suddenly asked,\nbethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation, seemed\nto contain promising material.\n\n\"He's here in town. What makes you ask about him?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back.\"\n\n\"How did you come to know him?\"\n\n\"Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?\"\n\n\"Get out,\" said the drummer, lightly. \"He hasn't called more than half a\ndozen times since we've been here.\"\n\n\"He hasn't, eh?\" said the girl, smiling. \"That's all you know about it.\"\n\nDrouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain as to\nwhether she was joking or not.\n\n\"Tease,\" he said, \"what makes you smile that way?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing.\"\n\n\"Have you seen him recently?\"\n\n\"Not since you came back,\" she laughed.\n\n\"Before?\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"How often?\"\n\n\"Why, nearly every day.\"\n\nShe was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what the\neffect of her words would be.\n\n\"Who did he come to see?\" asked the drummer, incredulously.\n\n\"Mrs. Drouet.\"\n\nHe looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to correct\nhimself so as not to appear a dupe.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"what of it?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one side.\n\n\"He's an old friend,\" he went on, getting deeper into the mire.\n\nHe would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the taste\nfor it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when the girl's\nname was called from below.\n\n\"I've got to go,\" she said, moving away from him airily.\n\n\"I'll see you later,\" he said, with a pretence of disturbance at being\ninterrupted.\n\nWhen she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. His face, never\neasily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and disturbance\nwhich he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received so many visits and\nyet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood lying? What did the\nchambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had thought there was something odd\nabout Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look so disturbed when he\nhad asked her how many times Hurstwood had called? By George! he\nremembered now. There was something strange about the whole thing.\n\nHe sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one leg\non his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a great rate.\n\nAnd yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be, by\nGeorge, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why, even\nlast night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and\nHurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could hardly believe they would\ntry to deceive him.\n\nHis thoughts burst into words.\n\n\"She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed and gone out\nthis morning and never said a word.\"\n\nHe scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was still\nfrowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was now\nlooking after another chamber. She had on a white dusting cap, beneath\nwhich her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Drouet almost forgot his\nworry in the fact that she was smiling on him. He put his hand\nfamiliarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing.\n\n\"Got over being mad?\" she said, still mischievously inclined.\n\n\"I'm not mad,\" he answered.\n\n\"I thought you were,\" she said, smiling.\n\n\"Quit your fooling about that,\" he said, in an offhand way. \"Were you\nserious?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" she answered. Then, with an air of one who did not\nintentionally mean to create trouble, \"He came lots of times. I thought\nyou knew.\"\n\nThe game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to simulate\nindifference further.\n\n\"Did he spend the evenings here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Sometimes. Sometimes they went out.\"\n\n\"In the evening?\"\n\n\"Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though.\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" he said. \"Did any one else see him?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in\nparticular.\n\n\"How long ago was this?\"\n\n\"Just before you came back.\"\n\nThe drummer pinched his lip nervously.\n\n\"Don't say anything, will you?\" he asked, giving the girl's arm a gentle\nsqueeze.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" she returned. \"I wouldn't worry over it.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and yet\nnot wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most excellent\nimpression upon the chambermaid.\n\n\"I'll see her about that,\" he said to himself, passionately, feeling\nthat he had been unduly wronged. \"I'll find out, b'George, whether\nshe'll act that way or not.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTHE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT\n\n\nWhen Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. His blood was\nwarm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the woman who had\nstirred him so profoundly the night before.\n\n\"Here you are,\" he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and\nan elation which was tragic in itself.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie.\n\nThey walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwood\ndrank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her pretty skirt\nwas like music to him.\n\n\"Are you satisfied?\" he asked, thinking of how well she did the night\nbefore.\n\n\"Are you?\"\n\nHe tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.\n\n\"It was wonderful.\"\n\nCarrie laughed ecstatically.\n\n\"That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time,\" he added.\n\nHe was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening\nbefore, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now.\n\nCarrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for her.\nAlready she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felt his drawing\ntoward her in every sound of his voice.\n\n\"Those were such nice flowers you sent me,\" she said, after a moment or\ntwo. \"They were beautiful.\"\n\n\"Glad you liked them,\" he answered, simply.\n\nHe was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being\ndelayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. All was\nripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge in and\nexpostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words and\nfeeling for a way.\n\n\"You got home all right,\" he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tone\nmodifying itself to one of self-commiseration.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie, easily.\n\nHe looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her\nwith his eye.\n\nShe felt the flood of feeling.\n\n\"How about me?\" he asked.\n\nThis confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the floodgates were\nopen. She didn't know exactly what to answer.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she answered.\n\nHe took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let it\ngo. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his toe. He\nsearched her face with a tender, appealing glance.\n\n\"Won't you come away from him?\" he asked, intensely.\n\n\"I don't know,\" returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and finding\nnothing at which to catch.\n\nAs a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was a man\nwhom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her,\nsufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed\nof a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keen eyes,\nhis suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw before her a\nman who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a\nfeeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist the glow of\nhis temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keep from\nfeeling what he felt.\n\nAnd yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What did he\nknow? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, or what?\nWould he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened, and her eyes\nwere lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if Drouet had\ntold him they were not married. There was never anything at all\nconvincing about what Drouet said.\n\nAnd yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain of bitterness\nwas in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidently sincere. His\npassion was real and warm. There was power in what he said. What should\nshe do? She went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing\naffectionately, and altogether drifting, until she was on a borderless\nsea of speculation.\n\n\"Why don't you come away?\" he said, tenderly. \"I will arrange for you\nwhatever--\"\n\n\"Oh, don't,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Don't what?\" he asked. \"What do you mean?\"\n\nThere was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She was wondering\nwhy that miserable thought must be brought in. She was struck as by a\nblade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of\nmarriage.\n\nHe himself realised that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in. He\nwanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. He went\nbeating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely\nenlisted in his plan.\n\n\"Won't you come?\" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent\nfeeling. \"You know I can't do without you--you know it--it can't go on\nthis way--can it?\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"I wouldn't ask if I--I wouldn't argue with you if I could help it. Look\nat me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want to stay away\nfrom me, do you?\"\n\nShe shook her head as if in deep thought.\n\n\"Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment me. Be\nserious.\"\n\n\"I am,\" said Carrie, softly.\n\n\"You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I love you.\nLook at last night.\"\n\nHis manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His face and\nbody retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and they flashed a\nsubtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity of the man's nature\nwas distilling itself.\n\nCarrie made no answer.\n\n\"How can you act this way, dearest?\" he inquired, after a time. \"You\nlove me, don't you?\"\n\nHe turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. For\nthe moment all doubts were cleared away.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, frankly and tenderly.\n\n\"Well, then you'll come, won't you--come to-night?\"\n\nCarrie shook her head in spite of her distress.\n\n\"I can't wait any longer,\" urged Hurstwood. \"If that is too soon, come\nSaturday.\"\n\n\"When will we be married?\" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her\ndifficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet's wife.\n\nThe manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more difficult\nthan hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to\nhis mind.\n\n\"Any time you say,\" he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his\npresent delight with this miserable problem.\n\n\"Saturday?\" asked Carrie.\n\nHe nodded his head.\n\n\"Well, if you will marry me then,\" she said, \"I'll go.\"\n\nThe manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so\ndifficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion had\ngotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with reason. He\ndid not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much\nloveliness. He would accept the situation with all its difficulties; he\nwould not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon him.\nHe would promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to\ndisentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be the\nresult. He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty of\nstatement, all abandonment of truth.\n\nCarrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon his\nshoulder, so delightful did it all seem.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"I'll try and get ready then.\"\n\nHurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows of\nwonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more\nlovely.\n\n\"I'll see you again to-morrow,\" he said, joyously, \"and we'll talk over\nthe plans.\"\n\nHe walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the\nresult. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though\nthere was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he began to\nrealise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the world.\n\n\"To-morrow,\" he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully\nto his brave demeanour.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.\n\nThere had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing\nherself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of her handsome\nadorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go, and they\nwould be happy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nTHE BLAZE OF THE TINDER: FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH\n\n\nThe misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact that\njealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs.\nHurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences could\ntransform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in a physical sense,\nof the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him, but in a social\nsense he fell short. With his regard died his power to be attentive to\nher, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright crime toward\nanother. Our self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in\nanother. In Mrs. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her husband's\nindifferent nature. She saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung\nonly from a faded appreciation of her presence.\n\nAs a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousy that\nprompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of\nthe married relation on his part served to give her notice of the airy\ngrace with which he still took the world. She could see from the\nscrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal\nappearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. Every motion,\nevery glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of\nthe zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days. Mrs. Hurstwood\nfelt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off.\n\nThis feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent\nnature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritation he\nshirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement or\nsatisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more recently, he\nresented her irritating goads. These little rows were really\nprecipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. That\nit would shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunder-clouds, would\nscarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus, after leaving the breakfast\ntable this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration of\nindifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood encountered Jessica in her\ndressing-room, very leisurely arranging her hair. Hurstwood had already\nleft the house.\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast,\" she said,\naddressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. \"Now here the\nthings are quite cold, and you haven't eaten.\"\n\nHer natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed to feel\nthe fag end of the storm.\n\n\"I'm not hungry,\" she answered.\n\n\"Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,\ninstead of keeping her waiting all morning?\"\n\n\"She doesn't mind,\" answered Jessica, coolly.\n\n\"Well, I do, if she doesn't,\" returned the mother, \"and, anyhow, I don't\nlike you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on such an air\nwith your mother.\"\n\n\"Oh, mamma, don't row,\" answered Jessica. \"What's the matter this\nmorning, anyway?\"\n\n\"Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think because I\nindulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. I won't\nhave it.\"\n\n\"I'm not keeping anybody waiting,\" returned Jessica, sharply, stirred\nout of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. \"I said I wasn't\nhungry. I don't want any breakfast.\"\n\n\"Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'll not\nhave it!\"\n\nJessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss of\nher head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the independence\nand indifference she felt. She did not propose to be quarrelled with.\n\nSuch little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a growth of\nnatures which were largely independent and selfish. George, Jr.,\nmanifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in the matter of his\nindividual rights, and attempted to make all feel that he was a man with\na man's privileges--an assumption which, of all things, is most\ngroundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen.\n\nHurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it irritated\nhim excessively to find himself surrounded more and more by a world upon\nwhich he had no hold, and of which he had a lessening understanding.\n\nNow, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start to\nWaukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He was being\nmade to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharp temper was\nmanifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of his authority\nwas added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer or a cynical\nlaugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew into hardly repressed\npassion, and wished himself clear of the whole household. It seemed a\nmost irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities.\n\nFor all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and control,\neven though his wife was straining to revolt. Her display of temper and\nopen assertion of opposition were based upon nothing more than the\nfeeling that she could do it. She had no special evidence wherewith to\njustify herself--the knowledge of something which would give her both\nauthority and excuse. The latter was all that was lacking, however, to\ngive a solid foundation to what, in a way, seemed groundless discontent.\nThe clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to convert\nthe lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath.\n\nAn inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come. Doctor\nBeale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood, met Mrs.\nHurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood and Carrie had\ntaken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale, coming east on\nthe same drive, had recognised Hurstwood, but not before he was quite\npast him. He was not so sure of Carrie--did not know whether it was\nHurstwood's wife or daughter.\n\n\"You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving, do\nyou?\" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.\n\n\"If I see them, I do. Where was I?\"\n\n\"On Washington Boulevard,\" he answered, expecting her eye to light with\nimmediate remembrance.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband.\"\n\n\"I guess you're mistaken,\" she answered. Then, remembering her husband's\npart in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of young\nsuspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign.\n\n\"I know I saw your husband,\" he went on. \"I wasn't so sure about you.\nPerhaps it was your daughter.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it was,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that such was\nnot the case, as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She had\nrecovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details.\n\n\"Was it in the afternoon?\" she asked, artfully, assuming an air of\nacquaintanceship with the matter.\n\n\"Yes, about two or three.\"\n\n\"It must have been Jessica,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to seem to\nattach any importance to the incident.\n\nThe physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the matter\nas worthy of no further discussion on his part at least.\n\nMrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought during\nthe next few hours, and even days. She took it for granted that the\ndoctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding, most\nlikely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as busy to her.\nAs a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had\nrefused to go to places with her, to share in little visits, or, indeed,\ntake part in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion\nof her existence. He had been seen at the theatre with people whom he\ncalled Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most likely, would\nhave an excuse for that. Perhaps there were others of whom she did not\nhear, or why should he be so busy, so indifferent, of late? In the last\nsix weeks he had become strangely irritable--strangely satisfied to pick\nup and go out, whether things were right or wrong in the house. Why?\n\nShe recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her now\nwith any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his eye.\nEvidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be getting old\nand uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles, perhaps. She was fading, while\nhe was still preening himself in his elegance and youth. He was still an\ninterested factor in the merry-makings of the world, while she--but she\ndid not pursue the thought. She only found the whole situation bitter,\nand hated him for it thoroughly.\n\nNothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it did not\nseem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only the atmosphere\nof distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating every now\nand then little sprinklings of irritable conversation, enlivened by\nflashes of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing was merely a\ncontinuation of other things of the same nature.\n\nThe day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwood\nvisited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr. Bart\nTaylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing establishment.\nThey had driven out early, and, as it chanced, encountered several\nfriends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whom had attended the\nperformance the evening before. A thousand chances the subject of the\nperformance had never been brought up had Jessica not been so engaged by\nthe attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as\npossible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood to extend the perfunctory\ngreetings of some who knew her into short conversations, and the short\nconversations of friends into long ones. It was from one who meant but\nto greet her perfunctorily that this interesting intelligence came.\n\n\"I see,\" said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most\nattractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder,\n\"that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening.\"\n\n\"No?\" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he should be\nusing the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not been to\nsomething she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say, \"What was\nit?\" when he added, \"I saw your husband.\"\n\nHer wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of suspicion.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, cautiously, \"was it pleasant? He did not tell me much\nabout it.\"\n\n\"Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever attended.\nThere was one actress who surprised us all.\"\n\n\"Indeed,\" said Mrs. Hurstwood.\n\n\"It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry to hear\nyou weren't feeling well.\"\n\nFeeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after him\nopen-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingled impulse\nto deny and question, and said, almost raspingly:\n\n\"Yes, it is too bad.\"\n\n\"Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?\" the\nacquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.\n\nThe manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no\nopportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think for\nherself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused him to\ngive out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of her company\nnot wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find out more.\n\n\"Were you at the performance last evening?\" she asked of the next of\nHurstwood's friends who greeted her, as she sat in her box.\n\n\"Yes. You didn't get around.\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered, \"I was not feeling very well.\"\n\n\"So your husband told me,\" he answered. \"Well, it was really very\nenjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected.\"\n\n\"Were there many there?\"\n\n\"The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a number of\nyour friends--Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins.\"\n\n\"Quite a social gathering.\"\n\n\"Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much.\"\n\nMrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.\n\n\"So,\" she thought, \"that's the way he does. Tells my friends I am sick\nand cannot come.\"\n\nShe wondered what could induce him to go alone. There was something back\nof this. She rummaged her brain for a reason.\n\nBy evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself into a\nstate of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. She wanted to know\nwhat this peculiar action of his imported. She was certain there was\nmore behind it all than what she had heard, and evil curiosity mingled\nwell with distrust and the remnants of her wrath of the morning. She,\nimpending disaster itself, walked about with gathered shadow at the eyes\nand the rudimentary muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her\nmouth.\n\nOn the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home in the\nsunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie had raised his\nspirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who sings joyously. He\nwas proud of himself, proud of his success, proud of Carrie. He could\nhave been genial to all the world, and he bore no grudge against his\nwife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the\natmosphere of youth and pleasure which had been restored to him.\n\nSo now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and comfortable\nappearance. In the hall he found an evening paper, laid there by the\nmaid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In the dining-room the table was\nclean laid with linen and napery and shiny with glasses and decorated\nchina. Through an open door he saw into the kitchen, where the fire was\ncrackling in the stove and the evening meal already well under way. Out\nin the small back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog he\nhad recently purchased, and in the parlour Jessica was playing at the\npiano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner of the\ncomfortable home. Every one, like himself, seemed to have regained his\ngood spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and beauty, to be inclined to\njoy and merry-making. He felt as if he could say a good word all around\nhimself, and took a most genial glance at the spread table and polished\nsideboard before going upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable\narm-chair of the sitting-room which looked through the open windows into\nthe street. When he entered there, however, he found his wife brushing\nher hair and musing to herself the while.\n\nHe came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that might still\nexist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs. Hurstwood said\nnothing. He seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly in making\nhimself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. In a few\nmoments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account of a baseball\ngame which had taken place between the Chicago and Detroit teams.\n\nThe while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him casually\nthrough the medium of the mirror which was before her. She noticed his\npleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and smiling humour, and it\nmerely aggravated her the more. She wondered how he could think to carry\nhimself so in her presence after the cynicism, indifference, and neglect\nhe had heretofore manifested and would continue to manifest so long as\nshe would endure it. She thought how she should like to tell him--what\nstress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she should drive\nover this whole affair until satisfaction should be rendered her.\nIndeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but weakly suspended by a\nthread of thought.\n\nIn the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning a\nstranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with a\nbunco-steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred and\nchuckled to himself. He wished that he might enlist his wife's attention\nand read it to her.\n\n\"Ha, ha,\" he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, \"that's funny.\"\n\nMrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as deigning a\nglance.\n\nHe stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he felt as if\nhis good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probably still out of\nhumour over that affair of this morning, but that could easily be\nstraightened. As a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, but he didn't\ncare. She could go to Waukesha right away if she wanted to. The sooner\nthe better. He would tell her that as soon as he got a chance, and the\nwhole thing would blow over.\n\n\"Did you notice,\" he said, at last, breaking forth concerning another\nitem which he had found, \"that they have entered suit to compel the\nIllinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?\" he asked.\n\nShe could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say \"No,\"\nsharply.\n\nHurstwood pricked up his ears. There was a note in her voice which\nvibrated keenly.\n\n\"It would be a good thing if they did,\" he went on, half to himself,\nhalf to her, though he felt that something was amiss in that quarter. He\nwithdrew his attention to his paper very circumspectly, listening\nmentally for the little sounds which should show him what was on foot.\n\nAs a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood--as observant and\nsensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his own plane\nof thought--would have made the mistake which he did in regard to his\nwife, wrought up as she was, had he not been occupied mentally with a\nvery different train of thought. Had not the influence of Carrie's\nregard for him, the elation which her promise aroused in him, lasted\nover, he would not have seen the house in so pleasant a mood. It was not\nextraordinarily bright and merry this evening. He was merely very much\nmistaken, and would have been much more fitted to cope with it had he\ncome home in his normal state.\n\nAfter he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that he\nought to modify matters in some way or other. Evidently his wife was not\ngoing to patch up peace at a word. So he said:\n\n\"Where did George get the dog he has there in the yard?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she snapped.\n\nHe put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the window. He\ndid not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be persistent and\nagreeable, and by a few questions bring around a mild understanding of\nsome sort.\n\n\"Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning?\" he said, at\nlast. \"We needn't quarrel about that. You know you can go to Waukesha if\nyou want to.\"\n\n\"So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?\" she\nexclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was drawn\na sharp and wrathful sneer.\n\nHe stopped as if slapped in the face. In an instant his persuasive,\nconciliatory manner fled. He was on the defensive at a wink and puzzled\nfor a word to reply.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he said at last, straightening himself and gazing at\nthe cold, determined figure before him, who paid no attention, but went\non arranging herself before the mirror.\n\n\"You know what I mean,\" she said, finally, as if there were a world of\ninformation which she held in reserve--which she did not need to tell.\n\n\"Well, I don't,\" he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for what\nshould come next. The finality of the woman's manner took away his\nfeeling of superiority in battle.\n\nShe made no answer.\n\n\"Hmph!\" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. It was the\nweakest thing he had ever done. It was totally unassured.\n\nMrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. She turned upon him,\nanimal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow.\n\n\"I want the Waukesha money to-morrow morning,\" she said.\n\nHe looked at her in amazement. Never before had he seen such a cold,\nsteely determination in her eye--such a cruel look of indifference. She\nseemed a thorough master of her mood--thoroughly confident and\ndetermined to wrest all control from him. He felt that all his resources\ncould not defend him. He must attack.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he said, jumping up. \"You want! I'd like to know\nwhat's got into you to-night.\"\n\n\"Nothing's _got_ into me,\" she said, flaming. \"I want that money. You\ncan do your swaggering afterwards.\"\n\n\"Swaggering, eh! What! You'll get nothing from me. What do you mean by\nyour insinuations, anyhow?\"\n\n\"Where were you last night?\" she answered. The words were hot as they\ncame. \"Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard? Who were you\nwith at the theatre when George saw you? Do you think I'm a fool to be\nduped by you? Do you think I'll sit at home here and take your 'too\nbusys' and 'can't come,' while you parade around and make out that I'm\nunable to come? I want you to know that lordly airs have come to an end\nso far as I am concerned. You can't dictate to me nor my children. I'm\nthrough with you entirely.\"\n\n\"It's a lie,\" he said, driven to a corner and knowing no other excuse.\n\n\"Lie, eh!\" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; \"you may call\nit a lie if you want to, but I know.\"\n\n\"It's a lie, I tell you,\" he said, in a low, sharp voice. \"You've been\nsearching around for some cheap accusation for months, and now you think\nyou have it. You think you'll spring something and get the upper hand.\nWell, I tell you, you can't. As long as I'm in this house I'm master of\nit, and you or any one else won't dictate to me--do you hear?\"\n\nHe crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous. Something\nin the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as if she were\nalready master, caused him to feel for the moment as if he could\nstrangle her.\n\nShe gazed at him--a pythoness in humour.\n\n\"I'm not dictating to you,\" she returned; \"I'm telling you what I want.\"\n\nThe answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took the\nwind out of his sails. He could not attack her, he could not ask her for\nproofs. Somehow he felt evidence, law, the remembrance of all his\nproperty which she held in her name, to be shining in her glance. He was\nlike a vessel, powerful and dangerous, but rolling and floundering\nwithout sail.\n\n\"And I'm telling you,\" he said in the end, slightly recovering himself,\n\"what you'll not get.\"\n\n\"We'll see about it,\" she said. \"I'll find out what my rights are.\nPerhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me.\"\n\nIt was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood fell back\nbeaten. He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to contend with. He\nfelt that he was face to face with a dull proposition. What to say he\nhardly knew. All the merriment had gone out of the day. He was\ndisturbed, wretched, resentful. What should he do?\n\n\"Do as you please,\" he said, at last. \"I'll have nothing more to do with\nyou,\" and out he strode.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nA SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL: ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND\n\n\nWhen Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to those\ndoubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of decision.\nShe could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her promise, or\nthat now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. She went over the\nwhole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discovered little objections\nthat had not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager's argument.\nShe saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light, namely, that of\nagreeing to marry when she was already supposedly married. She\nremembered a few things Drouet had done, and now that it came to walking\naway from him without a word, she felt as if she were doing wrong. Now,\nshe was comfortably situated, and to one who is more or less afraid of\nthe world, this is an urgent matter, and one which puts up strange,\nuncanny arguments. \"You do not know what will come. There are miserable\nthings outside. People go a-begging. Women are wretched. You never can\ntell what will happen. Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to what\nyou have.\"\n\nCuriously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken a\nfirm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,\nand yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on his\npart, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from its\nseat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled mass,\nand destroys for the time being the reasoning power. This majesty of\npassion is possessed by nearly every man once in his life, but it is\nusually an attribute of youth and conduces to the first successful\nmating.\n\nHurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain the fire\nof youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning. It was\nstrong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on Carrie's part,\nwe have seen. She might have been said to be imagining herself in love,\nwhen she was not. Women frequently do this. It flows from the fact that\nin each exists a bias toward affection, a craving for the pleasure of\nbeing loved. The longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is\none of the attributes of the sex. This, coupled with sentiment and a\nnatural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult. It\npersuades them that they are in love.\n\nOnce at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for\nherself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never\ntook the house-maid's opinion. That young woman invariably put one of\nthe rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly moved it out.\nTo-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed\nwas she in her own thoughts. She worked about the room until Drouet put\nin appearance at five o'clock. The drummer was flushed and excited and\nfull of determination to know all about her relations with Hurstwood.\nNevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the livelong day,\nhe was rather weary of it and wished it over with. He did not foresee\nserious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated to begin.\nCarrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and looking\nout.\n\n\"Well,\" she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion and\nwondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, \"what makes you\nhurry so?\"\n\nDrouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what\ncourse to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read nor see.\n\n\"When did you get home?\" he asked foolishly.\n\n\"Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?\"\n\n\"You weren't here,\" he said, \"when I came back this morning, and I\nthought you had gone out.\"\n\n\"So I did,\" said Carrie simply. \"I went for a walk.\"\n\nDrouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity in such\nmatters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in the most\nflagrant manner until at last she said:\n\n\"What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" he answered. \"I was just thinking.\"\n\n\"Just thinking what?\" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude.\n\n\"Oh, nothing--nothing much.\"\n\n\"Well, then, what makes you look so?\"\n\nDrouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner. He\nhad laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the little\ntoilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believe that the\npretty woman before him was involved in anything so unsatisfactory to\nhimself. He was very much inclined to feel that it was all right, after\nall. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling\nin his mind. He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some sort,\nbut he knew not what.\n\n\"Where did you go this morning?\" he finally asked weakly.\n\n\"Why, I went for a walk,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Sure you did?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, what makes you ask?\"\n\nShe was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly she drew\nherself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanched slightly.\n\n\"I thought maybe you didn't,\" he said, beating about the bush in the\nmost useless manner.\n\nCarrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. She\nsaw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition\nrealised that there was no occasion for great alarm.\n\n\"What makes you talk like that?\" she asked, wrinkling her pretty\nforehead. \"You act so funny to-night.\"\n\n\"I feel funny,\" he answered.\n\nThey looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged\ndesperately into his subject.\n\n\"What's this about you and Hurstwood?\" he asked.\n\n\"Me and Hurstwood--what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?\"\n\n\"A dozen times,\" repeated Carrie, guiltily. \"No, but what do you mean?\"\n\n\"Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here\nevery night.\"\n\n\"No such thing,\" answered Carrie. \"It isn't true. Who told you that?\"\n\nShe was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did not\ncatch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the room.\nHe was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself with\ndenials.\n\n\"Well, some one,\" he said. \"You're sure you didn't?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Carrie. \"You know how often he came.\"\n\nDrouet paused for a moment and thought.\n\n\"I know what you told me,\" he said finally.\n\nHe moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.\n\n\"Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that,\" said\nCarrie, recovering herself.\n\n\"If I were you,\" went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, \"I wouldn't\nhave anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know.\"\n\n\"Who--who is?\" said Carrie, stumbling at the word.\n\n\"Why, Hurstwood,\" said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he was\ndelivering a telling blow.\n\n\"Hurstwood!\" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changed several\nshades since this announcement was made. She looked within and without\nherself in a half-dazed way.\n\n\"Who told you this?\" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of\norder and exceedingly incriminating.\n\n\"Why, I know it. I've always known it,\" said Drouet.\n\nCarrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making a most\nmiserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which\nwere anything but crumbling cowardice.\n\n\"I thought I told you,\" he added.\n\n\"No, you didn't,\" she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. \"You\ndidn't do anything of the kind.\"\n\nDrouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new.\n\n\"I thought I did,\" he said.\n\nCarrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the\nwindow.\n\n\"You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him,\" said Drouet in an\ninjured tone, \"after all I've done for you.\"\n\n\"You,\" said Carrie, \"you! What have you done for me?\"\n\nHer little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings--shame at\nexposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet's deception, the\nmockery he had made of her. Now one clear idea came into her head. He\nwas at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why did he bring Hurstwood\nout--Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her? Never mind\nnow about Hurstwood's perfidy--why had he done this? Why hadn't he\nwarned her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of\nconfidence and talking about what he had done for her!\n\n\"Well, I like that,\" exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire his\nremark had generated. \"I think I've done a good deal.\"\n\n\"You have, eh?\" she answered. \"You've deceived me--that's what you've\ndone. You've brought your old friends out here under false pretences.\nYou've made me out to be--Oh,\" and with this her voice broke and she\npressed her two little hands together tragically.\n\n\"I don't see what that's got to do with it,\" said the drummer quaintly.\n\n\"No,\" she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. \"No, of\ncourse you don't see. There isn't anything you see. You couldn't have\ntold me in the first place, could you? You had to make me out wrong\nuntil it was too late. Now you come sneaking around with your\ninformation and your talk about what you have done.\"\n\nDrouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She was alive\nwith feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole body\nsensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath.\n\n\"Who's sneaking?\" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, but\ncertain that he was wronged.\n\n\"You are,\" stamped Carrie. \"You're a horrid, conceited coward, that's\nwhat you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn't have\nthought of doing any such thing.\"\n\nThe drummer stared.\n\n\"I'm not a coward,\" he said. \"What do you mean by going with other men,\nanyway?\"\n\n\"Other men!\" exclaimed Carrie. \"Other men--you know better than that. I\ndid go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn't you bring him\nhere? You told him yourself that he should come out here and take me\nout. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that I oughtn't to\ngo with him and that he's a married man.\"\n\nShe paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. The\nknowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife.\n\n\"Oh,\" she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyes\ndry. \"Oh, oh!\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was away,\"\ninsisted Drouet.\n\n\"Didn't think!\" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's\npeculiar attitude. \"Of course not. You thought only of what would be to\nyour satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me--a plaything.\nWell, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to do with\nyou at all. You can take your old things and keep them,\" and unfastening\na little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon the floor\nand began to move about as if to gather up the things which belonged to\nher.\n\nBy this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. He looked\nat her in amazement, and finally said:\n\n\"I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of this\nthing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after all I\ndid for you.\"\n\n\"What have you done for me?\" asked Carrie blazing, her head thrown back\nand her lips parted.\n\n\"I think I've done a good deal,\" said the drummer, looking around. \"I've\ngiven you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've taken you\neverywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, and more\ntoo.\"\n\nCarrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In so far\nas her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received. She\nhardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not placated. She\nfelt that the drummer had injured her irreparably.\n\n\"Did I ask you to?\" she returned.\n\n\"Well, I did it,\" said Drouet, \"and you took it.\"\n\n\"You talk as though I had persuaded you,\" answered Carrie. \"You stand\nthere and throw up what you've done. I don't want your old things. I'll\nnot have them. You take them to-night and do what you please with them.\nI'll not stay here another minute.\"\n\n\"That's nice!\" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his own\napproaching loss. \"Use everything and abuse me and then walk off. That's\njust like a woman. I take you when you haven't got anything, and then\nwhen some one else comes along, why I'm no good. I always thought it'd\ncome out that way.\"\n\nHe felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if he\nsaw no way of obtaining justice.\n\n\"It's not so,\" said Carrie, \"and I'm not going with anybody else. You\nhave been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hate you, I\ntell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're a big,\ninsulting\"--here she hesitated and used no word at all--\"or you wouldn't\ntalk that way.\"\n\nShe had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over her\nlittle evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from the\nbands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot, red\ncheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyes were\nfull of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet. She was\ndistracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an aim or\nconclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the whole\ndifficulty would end.\n\n\"Well, that's a fine finish,\" said Drouet. \"Pack up and pull out, eh?\nYou take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwood or you\nwouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn't pull out\nfor me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, you haven't done\nme right.\"\n\n\"I'll not live with you,\" said Carrie. \"I don't want to live with you.\nYou've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here.\"\n\n\"Aw, I haven't anything of the kind,\" he answered.\n\nCarrie walked over to the door.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" he said, stepping over and heading her off.\n\n\"Let me out,\" she said.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" he repeated.\n\nHe was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering out,\nhe knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.\n\nCarrie merely pulled at the door.\n\nThe strain of the situation was too much for her, however. She made one\nmore vain effort and then burst into tears.\n\n\"Now, be reasonable, Cad,\" said Drouet gently. \"What do you want to rush\nout for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stay here now and\nbe quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stay here any longer.\"\n\nCarrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was so overcome\nshe could not speak.\n\n\"Be reasonable now,\" he said. \"I don't want to hold you. You can go if\nyou want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows, I don't want\nto stop you.\"\n\nHe received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under the influence\nof his plea.\n\n\"You stay here now, and I'll go,\" he added at last.\n\nCarrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shaken loose\nfrom the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred by this\nthought, angered by that--her own injustice, Hurstwood's, Drouet's,\ntheir respective qualities of kindness and favour, the threat of the\nworld outside, in which she had failed once before, the impossibility of\nthis state inside, where the chambers were no longer justly hers, the\neffect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass\nof jangling fibres--an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could\ndo absolutely nothing but drift.\n\n\"Say,\" said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a new\nidea, and putting his hand upon her.\n\n\"Don't!\" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her handkerchief\nfrom her eyes.\n\n\"Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here until the\nmonth's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want to do.\nEh?\"\n\nCarrie made no answer.\n\n\"You'd better do that,\" he said. \"There's no use your packing up now.\nYou can't go anywhere.\"\n\nStill he got nothing for his words.\n\n\"If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll get out.\"\n\nCarrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the window.\n\n\"Will you do that?\" he asked.\n\nStill no answer.\n\n\"Will you?\" he repeated.\n\nShe only looked vaguely into the street.\n\n\"Aw! come on,\" he said, \"tell me. Will you?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie softly, forced to answer.\n\n\"Promise me you'll do that,\" he said, \"and we'll quit talking about it.\nIt'll be the best thing for you.\"\n\nCarrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer reasonably.\nShe felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest in her had not\nabated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She was in a most\nhelpless plight.\n\nAs for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover. Now his\nfeelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at losing Carrie,\nmisery at being defeated. He wanted his rights in some way or other, and\nyet his rights included the retaining of Carrie, the making her feel her\nerror.\n\n\"Will you?\" he urged.\n\n\"Well, I'll see,\" said Carrie.\n\nThis left the matter as open as before, but it was something. It looked\nas if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get some way of\ntalking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and Drouet aggrieved. He\npretended to take up the task of packing some things in a valise.\n\nNow, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain sound\nthoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what had she done?\nHe was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism. Throughout this\nargument he had said nothing very harsh. On the other hand, there was\nHurstwood--a greater deceiver than he. He had pretended all this\naffection, all this passion, and he was lying to her all the while. Oh,\nthe perfidy of men! And she had loved him. There could be nothing more\nin that quarter. She would see Hurstwood no more. She would write him\nand let him know what she thought. Thereupon what would she do? Here\nwere these rooms. Here was Drouet, pleading for her to remain. Evidently\nthings could go on here somewhat as before, if all were arranged. It\nwould be better than the street, without a place to lay her head.\n\nAll this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for collars and\nlaboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. He was in no\nhurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie which would\nnot down. He could not think that the thing would end by his walking out\nof the room. There must be some way round, some way to make her own up\nthat he was right and she was wrong--to patch up a peace and shut out\nHurstwood for ever. Mercy, how he turned at the man's shameless\nduplicity.\n\n\"Do you think,\" he said, after a few moments' silence, \"that you'll try\nand get on the stage?\"\n\nHe was wondering what she was intending.\n\n\"I don't know what I'll do yet,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends in that\nline.\"\n\nShe made no answer to this.\n\n\"Don't go and try to knock around now without any money. Let me help\nyou,\" he said. \"It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here.\"\n\nCarrie only rocked back and forth in her chair.\n\n\"I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way.\"\n\nHe bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on.\n\n\"Why don't you tell me all about this thing,\" he said, after a time,\n\"and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?\"\n\n\"Why do you want to start on that again?\" said Carrie. \"You were to\nblame.\"\n\n\"No, I wasn't,\" he answered.\n\n\"Yes, you were, too,\" said Carrie. \"You shouldn't have ever told me such\na story as that.\"\n\n\"But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?\" went on Drouet,\nanxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial from her.\n\n\"I won't talk about it,\" said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turn the\npeace arrangement had taken.\n\n\"What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?\" insisted the drummer,\nstopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. \"You might let\nme know where I stand, at least.\"\n\n\"I won't,\" said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. \"Whatever has\nhappened is your own fault.\"\n\n\"Then you do care for him?\" said Drouet, stopping completely and\nexperiencing a rush of feeling.\n\n\"Oh, stop!\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, I'll not be made a fool of,\" exclaimed Drouet. \"You may trifle\naround with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. You can tell me\nor not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any longer!\"\n\nHe shoved the last few remaining things he had laid out into his valise\nand snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat, which he had\nlaid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out.\n\n\"You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned,\" he said, as he\nreached the door. \"I'm no sucker,\" and with that he opened it with a\njerk and closed it equally vigorously.\n\nCarrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything else\nat this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardly believe\nher senses--so good-natured and tractable had he invariably been. It was\nnot for her to see the wellspring of human passion. A real flame of love\nis a subtle thing. It burns as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to\nfairylands of delight. It roars as a furnace. Too often jealousy is the\nquality upon which it feeds.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nASHES OF TINDER: A FACE AT THE WINDOW\n\n\nThat night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the Palmer\nHouse for a bed after his work was through. He was in a fevered state of\nmind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to cast upon his\nentire future. While he was not sure how much significance might be\nattached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if\nlong continued, would cause him no end of trouble. She was determined,\nand had worsted him in a very important contest. How would it be from\nnow on? He walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his\nroom, putting one thing and another together to no avail.\n\nMrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her advantage\nby inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow up\nher work with demands, the acknowledgment of which would make her word\nlaw in the future. He would have to pay her the money which she would\nnow regularly demand or there would be trouble. It did not matter what\nhe did. She really did not care whether he came home any more or not.\nThe household would move along much more pleasantly without him, and she\ncould do as she wished without consulting any one. Now she proposed to\nconsult a lawyer and hire a detective. She would find out at once just\nwhat advantages she could gain.\n\nHurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of his\nsituation. \"She has that property in her name,\" he kept saying to\nhimself. \"What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What a fool move that\nwas.\"\n\nHe also thought of his managerial position. \"If she raises a row now\nI'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name gets in the\npapers. My friends, too!\" He grew more angry as he thought of the talk\nany action on her part would create. How would the papers talk about it?\nEvery man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain and deny\nand make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come and confer with\nhim and there would be the devil to pay.\n\nMany little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this,\nand his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything--not a loophole\nleft.\n\nThrough all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the\napproaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, he did\nnot worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout of\ntrouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad\nto wait, if necessary. He would see how things turned out to-morrow, and\nthen he would talk to her. They were going to meet as usual. He saw only\nher pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not arranged\nso that such joy as he found with her could be steadily maintained. How\nmuch more pleasant it would be. Then he would take up his wife's threat\nagain, and the wrinkles and moisture would return.\n\nIn the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but\nthere was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For some reason he\nfelt as if something might come that way, and was relieved when all the\nenvelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. He began to\nfeel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the\noffice, and decided before going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop\nin at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. While\nthe danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with\nhim no news was good news. If he could only get plenty of time to think,\nperhaps something would turn up. Surely, surely, this thing would not\ndrift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out.\n\nHis spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and\nwaited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post for an hour\nor more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. Could something\nhave happened out there to keep her away? Could she have been reached by\nhis wife? Surely not. So little did he consider Drouet that it never\nonce occurred to him to worry about his finding out. He grew restless as\nhe ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. She had not\nbeen able to get away this morning. That was why no letter notifying him\nhad come. He would get one to-day. It would probably be on his desk when\nhe got back. He would look for it at once.\n\nAfter a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the Madison car.\nTo add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little\nfleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The wind veered to the east, and\nby the time he reached his office it was threatening to drizzle all\nafternoon.\n\nHe went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from Carrie.\nFortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. He thanked his\nstars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he\nneeded to think so much. He walked the floor again, pretending to be in\nan ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words.\n\nAt one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned a\nmessenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with a\nfeeling of doubt.\n\n\"I'm to bring an answer,\" said the boy.\n\nHurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and read\nwithout a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner and was\nsharply and coldly worded throughout.\n\n\"I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it to carry\nout my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn't matter in the\nleast. But I must have some money. So don't delay, but send it by the\nboy.\"\n\nWhen he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. The audacity\nof the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also--the deepest\nelement of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write but four words\nin reply--\"Go to the devil!\"--but he compromised by telling the boy that\nthere would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without\nseeing, contemplating the result of his work. What would she do about\nthat? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him into\nsubmission? He would go up there and have it out with her, that's what\nhe would do. She was carrying things with too high a hand. These were\nhis first thoughts.\n\nLater, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had to be\ndone. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew her well\nenough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it\nup. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once.\n\n\"Damn her!\" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, \"I'll make it hot\nfor her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone if I\nhave to use force to do it!\"\n\nHe arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. The\nlong drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers\nat the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless;\numbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of round black cloth\nroofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans were rattling in a\nnoisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they\ncould. He scarcely noticed the picture. He was forever confronting his\nwife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he\nworked her bodily harm.\n\nAt four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the money\nwas not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before\nFitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get\nit.\n\nHurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.\nYes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her--he would go up\nthere and have a talk with her, and that at once.\n\nHe put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He would have some\narrangement of this thing.\n\nHe called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North\nSide. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the\ncase. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'd got hold of\nCarrie, who knows--or--or Drouet. Perhaps she really had evidence, and\nwas prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush. She\nwas shrewd. Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good\ngrounds?\n\nHe began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other--that he\nhad sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He would go in and\nsee, anyhow. He would have no row.\n\nBy the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the\ndifficulties of his situation and wished over and over that some\nsolution would offer itself, that he could see his way out. He alighted\nand went up the steps to the front door, but it was with a nervous\npalpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and tried to insert it,\nbut another key was on the inside. He shook at the knob, but the door\nwas locked. Then he rang the bell. No answer. He rang again--this time\nharder. Still no answer. He jangled it fiercely several times in\nsuccession, but without avail. Then he went below.\n\nThere was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,\nprotected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars.\nWhen he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the\nkitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rang the bell and then\nwaited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went back\nto his cab.\n\n\"I guess they've gone out,\" he said apologetically to the individual who\nwas hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin rain-coat.\n\n\"I saw a young girl up in that winder,\" returned the cabby.\n\nHurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbed moodily\ninto the cab, relieved and distressed.\n\nSo this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well, by\nthe Lord, that did beat all!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nASHES OF TINDER: THE LOOSING OF STAYS\n\n\nWhen Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater quandary\nthan ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into? How could\nthings have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? He could hardly\nrealise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous, unnatural,\nunwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him without his\nlet or hindrance.\n\nMeanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could be the\ntrouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of any kind, and\nyet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to meet him that\nmorning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off--where? He saw\nthat in the excitement of recent events he had not formulated a plan\nupon that score. He was desperately in love, and would have taken great\nchances to win her under ordinary circumstances, but now--now what?\nSupposing she had found out something? Supposing she, too, wrote him and\ntold him that she knew all--that she would have nothing more to do with\nhim? It would be just like this to happen as things were going now.\nMeanwhile he had not sent the money.\n\nHe strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in\nhis pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was getting some vague\ncomfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill which\naffected him. Every once in a while he would clinch his fingers and tap\nhis foot--signs of the stirring mental process he was undergoing. His\nwhole nature was vigorously and powerfully shaken up, and he was finding\nwhat limits the mind has to endurance. He drank more brandy and soda\nthan he had any evening in months. He was altogether a fine example of\ngreat mental perturbation.\n\nFor all his study nothing came of the evening except this--he sent the\nmoney. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the\nmost urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an\nenvelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up.\n\nThen he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.\n\n\"You take this to this address,\" he said, handing him the envelope, \"and\ngive it to Mrs. Hurstwood.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the boy.\n\n\"If she isn't there bring it back.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"You've seen my wife?\" he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy\nturned to go.\n\n\"Oh, yes, sir. I know her.\"\n\n\"All right, now. Hurry right back.\"\n\n\"Any answer?\"\n\n\"I guess not.\"\n\nThe boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now he had\ndone it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten for\nto-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, the\nwretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting the boy\nat the door and smiling sardonically. She would take the envelope and\nknow that she had triumphed. If he only had that letter back he wouldn't\nsend it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face.\n\nFor relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who\nwere drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it\nwas not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to his home and\nsee the scene being therein enacted. All the time he was wondering what\nshe would say when the boy handed her the envelope.\n\nIn about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He had evidently\ndelivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking\nanything out of his pocket.\n\n\"Well?\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"I gave it to her.\"\n\n\"My wife?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Any answer?\"\n\n\"She said it was high time.\"\n\nHurstwood scowled fiercely.\n\nThere was no more to be done upon that score that night. He went on\nbrooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to\nthe Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and\nslept anything but soundly upon it.\n\nNext day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious and\nhopeful of its contents. No word from Carrie. Nothing from his wife,\nwhich was pleasant.\n\nThe fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it worked\nto the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done it\nreceded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. He\nfancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a week or\ntwo. Meanwhile, he would have time to think.\n\nThis process of _thinking_ began by a reversion to Carrie and the\narrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet. How about that\nnow? His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly increased as\nhe devoted himself to this subject. He decided to write her care of the\nWest Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, as well as to have\nher meet him. The thought that this letter would probably not reach her\nuntil Monday chafed him exceedingly. He must get some speedier\nmethod--but how?\n\nHe thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or a\ncab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding that\ntime was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and then began\nto think again.\n\nThe hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union he had\ncontemplated. He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie by now in the\ntask of joining her interests to his, and here it was afternoon and\nnothing done. Three o'clock came, four, five, six, and no letter. The\nhelpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the gloom of defeat.\nHe saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in, and nothing done.\nAll day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone, shut out from home,\nfrom the excitement of his resort, from Carrie, and without the ability\nto alter his condition one iota. It was the worst Sunday he had spent in\nhis life.\n\nIn Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter,\nwhich held his interest for some time. It bore the imprint of the law\noffices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal \"Dear Sir,\"\nand \"We beg to state,\" went on to inform him briefly that they had been\nretained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood to adjust certain matters which related\nto her sustenance and property rights, and would he kindly call and see\nthem about the matter at once.\n\nHe read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook his\nhead. It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning.\n\n\"Well!\" he said after a time, quite audibly, \"I don't know.\"\n\nThen he folded it up and put it in his pocket.\n\nTo add to his misery there was no word from Carrie. He was quite certain\nnow that she knew he was married and was angered at his perfidy. His\nloss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed her most. He thought\nhe would go out and insist on seeing her if she did not send him word of\nsome sort soon. He was really affected most miserably of all by this\ndesertion. He had loved her earnestly enough, but now that the\npossibility of losing her stared him in the face she seemed much more\nattractive. He really pined for a word, and looked out upon her with his\nmind's eye in the most wistful manner. He did not propose to lose her,\nwhatever she might think. Come what might, he would adjust this matter,\nand soon. He would go to her and tell her all his family complications.\nHe would explain to her just where he stood and how much he needed her.\nSurely she couldn't go back on him now? It wasn't possible. He would\nplead until her anger would melt--until she would forgive him.\n\nSuddenly he thought: \"Supposing she isn't out there--suppose she has\ngone?\"\n\nHe was forced to take his feet. It was too much to think of and sit\nstill.\n\nNevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.\n\nOn Tuesday it was the same way. He did manage to bring himself into the\nmood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place he thought he\nsaw a man watching him and went away. He did not go within a block of\nthe house.\n\nOne of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back on a\nRandolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite the\nbuilding of the concern with which his son was connected. This sent a\npang through his heart. He had called on his boy there several times.\nNow the lad had not sent him a word. His absence did not seem to be\nnoticed by either of his children. Well, well, fortune plays a man queer\ntricks. He got back to his office and joined in a conversation with\nfriends. It was as if idle chatter deadened the sense of misery.\n\nThat night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his office. In\nthe bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. He troubled over\nmany little details and talked perfunctorily to everybody. He stayed at\nhis desk long after all others had gone, and only quitted it when the\nnight watchman on his round pulled at the front door to see if it was\nsafely locked.\n\nOn Wednesday he received another polite note from McGregor, James and\nHay. It read:\n\n     \"_Dear Sir_: We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait\n     until to-morrow (Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit\n     against you, on behalf of Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and\n     alimony. If we do not hear from you before that time we shall\n     consider that you do not wish to compromise the matter in any way\n     and act accordingly.\n\n     \"Very truly yours, etc.\"\n\n\"Compromise!\" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly. \"Compromise!\"\n\nAgain he shook his head.\n\nSo here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what to\nexpect. If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly. If he\ndid, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil. He folded\nthe letter and put it with the other one. Then he put on his hat and\nwent for a turn about the block.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nTHE AMBASSADOR FALLEN: A SEARCH FOR THE GATE\n\n\nCarrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps, scarcely\nrealising what had happened. She knew that he had stormed out. It was\nsome moments before she questioned whether he would return, not now\nexactly, but ever. She looked around her upon the rooms, out of which\nthe evening light was dying, and wondered why she did not feel quite the\nsame towards them. She went over to the dresser and struck a match,\nlighting the gas. Then she went back to the rocker to think.\n\nIt was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she\ndid, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone.\nSuppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hear anything\nmore of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not last long. She\nwould have to quit them.\n\nTo her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood. She\ncould only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret. For a\ntruth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of human\ndepravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash. She\nwould have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yet she could\nnot keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Only this one deed\nseemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply with all she felt\nand knew concerning the man.\n\nBut she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. How\nabout that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to look\naround in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spoken\nabout that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deep and\nvaried thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell\ncompletely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat, thinking\nit over.\n\nShe remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard in\nthe rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts. She\nlooked at these things with certain misgivings. The contemplation of\nfood had more significance than usual.\n\nWhile she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had. It\nstruck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to look\nfor her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were seven dollars in\nbills and some change. She quailed as she thought of the insignificance\nof the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid until the end of\nthe month. She began also to think what she would have done if she had\ngone out into the street when she first started. By the side of that\nsituation, as she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable. She\nhad a little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come out\nall right, after all.\n\nDrouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. He\nonly acted as if he were huffy. He would come back--of course he would.\nThere was his cane in the corner. Here was one of his collars. He had\nleft his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She looked about and tried to\nassure herself with the sight of a dozen such details, but, alas, the\nsecondary thought arrived. Supposing he did come back. Then what?\n\nHere was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing. She\nwould have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her to admit\nthat he was right. It would be impossible for her to live with him.\n\nOn Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and the\npassing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have been\nin his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her\nexceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind she\nfelt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street dress,\nand at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion once again.\nShe must look for work.\n\nThe rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served equally\nwell to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors as it did\nto reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day.\n\nThe morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters, and\nbesides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass shining\nexceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When she went out\nthe sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses. She could not\nhelp feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that life was a\njoyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she wished over\nand over that something might interfere now to preserve for her the\ncomfortable state which she had occupied. She did not want Drouet or his\nmoney when she thought of it, nor anything more to do with Hurstwood,\nbut only the content and ease of mind she had experienced, for, after\nall, she had been happy--happier, at least, than she was now when\nconfronted by the necessity of making her way alone.\n\nWhen she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock, and\nthe business had little longer to run. She did not realise this at\nfirst, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result of\nher earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. She\nwandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to look\nfor something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was not\nnecessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult to\nencounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure that she\nwas really face to face again with the bitter problem of\nself-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knew\nthat she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed. Her\nclothes were becoming, and men--well-dressed men, some of the kind who\nbefore had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished\nrailings and imposing office partitions--now gazed into her face with a\nsoft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power and satisfaction\nof the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. She looked for nothing\nsave what might come legitimately and without the appearance of special\nfavour. She wanted something, but no man should buy her by false\nprotestations or favour. She proposed to earn her living honestly.\n\n\"This store closes at one on Saturdays,\" was a pleasing and satisfactory\nlegend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to enter and inquire\nfor work. It gave her an excuse, and after encountering quite a number\nof them, and noting that the clock registered 12.15, she decided that it\nwould be no use to seek further to-day, so she got on a car and went to\nLincoln Park. There was always something to see there--the flowers, the\nanimals, the lake--and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be\nup betimes and searching. Besides, many things might happen between now\nand Monday.\n\nSunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven knows\nwhat vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the thought\nwould come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing whip, that\naction--immediate action--was imperative. At other times she would look\nabout her and assure herself that things were not so bad--that certainly\nshe would come out safe and sound. At such times she would think of\nDrouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw some chance for\nherself in that quarter. She decided to take up that opportunity on the\nmorrow.\n\nAccordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself\ncarefully. She did not know just how such applications were made, but\nshe took it to be a matter which related more directly to the theatre\nbuildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one about the\ntheatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was anything,\nyou might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how.\n\nShe had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever, and\ndid not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe. She only\nknew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all things, she\ndid not wish to encounter that personage, on account of her intimacy\nwith his wife.\n\nThere was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera House,\nwhich was considerably in the public eye, and its manager, David A.\nHenderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one or two\nelaborate performances there and had heard of several others. She knew\nnothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but she\ninstinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and accordingly\nstrolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely enough to the\nshowy entrance way, with the polished and begilded lobby, set with\nframed pictures out of the current attraction, leading up to the quiet\nbox-office, but she could get no further. A noted comic opera comedian\nwas holding forth that week, and the air of distinction and prosperity\noverawed her. She could not imagine that there would be anything in such\na lofty sphere for her. She almost trembled at the audacity which might\nhave carried her on to a terrible rebuff. She could find heart only to\nlook at the pictures which were showy and then walk out. It seemed to\nher as if she had made a splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy\nto think of applying in that quarter again.\n\nThis little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked\naround elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of\nseveral playhouses fixed in her mind--notably the Grand Opera House and\nMcVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions--and then came\naway. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly restored\nsense of magnitude of the great interests and the insignificance of her\nclaims upon society, such as she understood them to be.\n\nThat night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and protracted\nstay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or the fortune of\nthe day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to think, and gave\nherself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet had not put in an\nappearance. She had had no word from any quarter, she had spent a dollar\nof her precious sum in procuring food and paying car fare. It was\nevident that she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered no\nresource.\n\nIn this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren\nStreet, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her\nhome at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that could\nnot be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction. Nothing but\nsorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return.\nThat he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a\ncruel thing.\n\nTuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation. She\nwas in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth\nupon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she\nconsidered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she started out to\nrevisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely enough courage\nto approach.\n\nShe did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.\n\n\"Manager of the company or the house?\" asked the smartly dressed\nindividual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed by\nCarrie's looks.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie, taken back by the question.\n\n\"You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow,\" volunteered\nthe young man. \"He's out of town.\"\n\nHe noted her puzzled look, and then added: \"What is it you wish to see\nabout?\"\n\n\"I want to see about getting a position,\" she answered.\n\n\"You'd better see the manager of the company,\" he returned, \"but he\nisn't here now.\"\n\n\"When will he be in?\" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this\ninformation.\n\n\"Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's here after\ntwo o'clock.\"\n\nCarrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed\nafter her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.\n\n\"Good-looking,\" he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of\ncondescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to himself.\n\nOne of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an\nengagement at the Grand Opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the\nmanager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of this\nindividual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been\nsent on from New York to fill it.\n\n\"His office is upstairs,\" said a man in the box-office.\n\nSeveral persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a\nwindow, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk--the\nmanager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she\nshould have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of\nwhom--the occupants of the window--were already observing her carefully.\n\n\"I can't do it,\" the manager was saying; \"it's a rule of Mr. Frohman's\nnever to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!\"\n\nCarrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one motioned\nher to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been talking\nwent away quite crestfallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at some\npapers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.\n\n\"Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,\nHarris?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the person addressed. \"What was it?\"\n\n\"Made quite a curtain address at Hooley's last night. Better look it\nup.\"\n\nHarris reached over to a table and began to look for the \"Herald.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her for\nthe first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free tickets.\n\nCarrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She\nrealised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain. Of\nthis she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had called\nfor advice.\n\n\"Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?\"\n\nIt was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She was\ninteresting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the\nsimplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as did\nthe others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to conceal\ntheir humour.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he answered, looking her brazenly over. \"Have you ever\nhad any experience upon the stage?\"\n\n\"A little,\" answered Carrie. \"I have taken part in amateur\nperformances.\"\n\nShe thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to retain his\ninterest.\n\n\"Never studied for the stage?\" he said, putting on an air intended as\nmuch to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie.\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" he answered, tipping lazily back in his chair\nwhile she stood before him. \"What makes you want to get on the stage?\"\n\nShe felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer to\nhis engaging smirk, and say:\n\n\"I need to make a living.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and feeling as\nif he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. \"That's a good reason,\nisn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what you want to do. You\nought to be in New York. There's more chance there. You could hardly\nexpect to get started out here.\"\n\nCarrie smiled genially, grateful that he should condescend to advise her\neven so much. He noticed the smile, and put a slightly different\nconstruction on it. He thought he saw an easy chance for a little\nflirtation.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk\nand dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear.\nThose two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.\n\n\"Well, I'll be going, Barney,\" said one, breaking away and so addressing\nthe manager. \"See you this afternoon.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said the manager.\n\nThe remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.\n\n\"Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?\" asked\nthe manager softly.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Carrie. \"I would take anything to begin with.\"\n\n\"I see,\" he said. \"Do you live here in the city?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nThe manager smiled most blandly.\n\n\"Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?\" he asked, assuming a\nmore confidential air.\n\nCarrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural in\nhis manner.\n\n\"No,\" she said.\n\n\"That's the way most girls begin,\" he went on, \"who go on the stage.\nIt's a good way to get experience.\"\n\nHe was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive\nmanner.\n\n\"I didn't know that,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"It's a difficult thing,\" he went on, \"but there's always a chance, you\nknow.\" Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and\nconsulted it. \"I've an appointment at two,\" he said, \"and I've got to go\nto lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with me? We can talk it\nover there.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at\nonce. \"I have an engagement myself.\"\n\n\"That's too bad,\" he said, realising that he had been a little\nbeforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. \"Come in\nlater. I may know of something.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" she answered, with some trepidation, and went out.\n\n\"She was good-looking, wasn't she?\" said the manager's companion, who\nhad not caught all the details of the game he had played.\n\n\"Yes, in a way,\" said the other, sore to think the game had been lost.\n\"She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus girl--that's\nall.\"\n\nThis little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the\nmanager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after a\ntime. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that there\nwas no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish.\n\n\"Chicago is no place to get a start,\" he said. \"You ought to be in New\nYork.\"\n\nStill she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not find\nany one. \"The Old Homestead\" was running there, but the person to whom\nshe was referred was not to be found.\n\nThese little expeditions took up her time until quite four o'clock, when\nshe was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she ought to continue\nand inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too dispiriting. She\ntook the car and arrived at Ogden Place in three-quarters of an hour,\nbut decided to ride on to the West Side branch of the Post-office, where\nshe was accustomed to receive Hurstwood's letters. There was one there\nnow, written Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled\nfeelings. There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her\nhaving failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather\npitied the man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished\nand dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the\nthing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would write\nand let him know that she knew of his married state and was justly\nincensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all over\nbetween them.\n\nAt her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time, for\nshe fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.\n\n     \"You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you,\" she\n     wrote in part. \"How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me\n     to have anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any\n     circumstances. Oh, how could you act so?\" she added in a burst of\n     feeling. \"You have caused me more misery than you can think. I hope\n     you will get over your infatuation for me. We must not meet any\n     more. Good-bye.\"\n\nShe took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it\nreluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she\nshould do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.\n\nThis was the dull season with the department stores, but she was\nlistened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young\nwomen applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was\nasked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.\n\n\"What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are you\nexperienced?\"\n\nAt The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was much the\nsame. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later, possibly\nthey would like to have her.\n\nWhen she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and\ndisheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His umbrella\nand light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other things, but\ncould not be sure. Everything had not been taken.\n\nSo his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?\nEvidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a day\nor two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together in\nher customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears\ngathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,\nvery much alone.\n\nDrouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from\nthat which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify his\nreturn by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his\nwardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.\n\nAccordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie out. He\ntrifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood and\nwould soon return. He constantly listened, expecting to hear her foot on\nthe stair.\n\nWhen he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just\ncome in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would explain his\nneed of his clothes and find out how things stood.\n\nWait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering around\namong the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival, he changed\nto looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the\nrocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow restless and lit a\ncigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he looked out of the window\nand saw clouds gathering. He remembered an appointment at three. He\nbegan to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his\numbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. It\nwould scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others.\nHe would find out how things stood.\n\nAs he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. There\nwas a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the\nlittle jacket he had first bought her--her face a little more wistful\nthan he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and looked into\nthe eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.\n\n\"You didn't do me right, Cad,\" he said, as if he were addressing her in\nthe flesh.\n\nThen he went to the door, took a good look around, and went out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nWHEN WATERS ENGULF US WE REACH FOR A STAR\n\n\nIt was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets,\nafter receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that\nHurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He\nthrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it\nopen.\n\n\"Then,\" he thought, \"she loves me or she would not have written to me at\nall.\"\n\nHe was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few\nminutes, but soon recovered. \"She wouldn't write at all if she didn't\ncare for me.\"\n\nThis was his one resource against the depression which held him. He\ncould extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he\nthought he knew.\n\nThere was really something exceedingly human--if not pathetic--in his\nbeing thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so long\nremained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for\ncomfort--and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they\nbind us all.\n\nThe colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from\nMcGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could\nget out of the whole entanglement--perhaps it would not matter. He\nwouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose\nCarrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of\na life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart.\n\nIt was not long, however, before the old worry was back for\nconsideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and\nthe suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away.\nIt was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone\nhome. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last\nfifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the\nthought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.\n\nIt is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He\nwas not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of\npersuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their\nmutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away!\n\nWhile he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some\nclean linen in the morning.\n\nThis he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the\nPalmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the\nstairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had\nchanged their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.\n\n\"Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?\" he asked of the clerk.\n\n\"I think he is,\" said the latter, consulting his private registry list.\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his\nastonishment. \"Alone?\" he added.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the clerk.\n\nHurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal\nhis feelings.\n\n\"How's that?\" he thought. \"They've had a row.\"\n\nHe hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As\nhe did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had\ngone to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call\nat once.\n\n\"I know what I'll do,\" he thought. \"I'll go to the door and ask if Mr.\nDrouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and\nwhere Carrie is.\"\n\nHe was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He\ndecided to go immediately after supper.\n\nOn coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see if\nDrouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely eat,\nhowever, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting he\nthought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to his\nhotel.\n\n\"Has Mr. Drouet gone out?\" he asked of the clerk.\n\n\"No,\" answered the latter, \"he's in his room. Do you wish to send up a\ncard?\"\n\n\"No, I'll call around later,\" answered Hurstwood, and strolled out.\n\nHe took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place, this time walking\nboldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock.\n\n\"Is Mr. Drouet in?\" said Hurstwood blandly.\n\n\"He is out of the city,\" said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this\nto Mrs. Hale.\n\n\"Is Mrs. Drouet in?\"\n\n\"No, she has gone to the theatre.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if\nburdened with something important, \"You don't know to which theatre?\"\n\nThe girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking\nHurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: \"Yes, Hooley's.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly, went\naway.\n\n\"I'll look in at Hooley's,\" thought he, but as a matter of fact he did\nnot. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought\nthe whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he\nlonged to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not\nwish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do so--in\nthe morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him.\n\nThis little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising\nspirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort\nanxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making the\nplace lively with their conversation. A group of Cook County politicians\nwere conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of\nthe room. Several young merry-makers were chattering at the bar before\nmaking a belated visit to the theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual,\nwith a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale\nalone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and\nwent into his office.\n\nAbout ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport\nand racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office\ncame to the door.\n\n\"Hello, George!\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"How are you, Frank?\" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of\nhim. \"Sit down,\" and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little\nroom.\n\n\"What's the matter, George?\" asked Taintor. \"You look a little glum.\nHaven't lost at the track, have you?\"\n\n\"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other day.\"\n\n\"Take whiskey, George,\" said Taintor. \"You ought to know that.\"\n\nHurstwood smiled.\n\nWhile they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's\nfriends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some\nactors began to drop in--among them some notabilities.\n\nThen began one of those pointless social conversations so common in\nAmerican resorts where the would-be _gilded_ attempt to rub off gilt\nfrom those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it\nwas toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged\namong them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe\nthe plane he occupied when there were those present who did not\nappreciate him, but, in situations like the present, where he could\nshine as a gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend\nand equal among men of known ability, he was most delighted. It was on\nsuch occasions, if ever, that he would \"take something.\" When the social\nflavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking\nglass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his turn to\npay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he ever approached\nintoxication--or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which\nprecedes the more sloven state--it was when individuals such as these\nwere gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting\ncelebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather\nrelieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he\nlaid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily.\n\nIt was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to crop\nup--those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of\nthe conversation among American men under such circumstances.\n\nTwelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company\ntook leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very\nroseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind, though\nclear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his\ntroubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn\nover certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the\ncashier, who soon left.\n\nIt was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone to\nsee that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule, no\nmoney except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about the\nplace, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the\nowners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless,\nHurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash drawers and the\nsafe in order to see that they were tightly closed. Then he would lock\nhis own little office and set the proper light burning near the safe,\nafter which he would take his departure.\n\nNever in his experience had he found anything out of order, but\nto-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe.\nHis way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was\nslightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as left\nfor the day, apparently unprotected. His first thought was, of course,\nto inspect the drawers and shut the door.\n\n\"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow,\" he thought.\n\nThe latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before that\nhe had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He had\nnever failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other thoughts. He\nhad been revolving the problem of a business of his own.\n\n\"I'll look in here,\" thought the manager, pulling out the money drawers.\nHe did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a\nsuperfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all.\n\nAs he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks\nissue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but\npaused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers.\nIn that were the receipts of the day.\n\n\"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way,\" his\nmind said to itself. \"They must have forgotten it.\"\n\nHe looked at the other drawer and paused again.\n\n\"Count them,\" said a voice in his ear.\n\nHe put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,\nletting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one\nhundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he counted\nten such.\n\n\"Why don't I shut the safe?\" his mind said to itself, lingering. \"What\nmakes me pause here?\"\n\nFor answer there came the strangest words:\n\n\"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?\"\n\nLo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his\nproperty had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He\nwas worth more than forty thousand, all told--but she would get that.\n\nHe puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers and\nclosed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so\neasily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he went\nto the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the door,\nwhich he had previously locked. What was this thing, making him\nsuspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to\nthe end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and\nunlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also opened\nhis desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange thoughts.\n\n\"The safe is open,\" said a voice. \"There is just the least little crack\nin it. The lock has not been sprung.\"\n\nThe manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the\nentanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a\nsolution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up\nand stood stock-still, looking at the floor.\n\n\"What about it?\" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly\nup and scratched his head.\n\nThe manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant\nproposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his\nveins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the\nsituation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him.\nHe could see great opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh,\nyes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. That letter, too, was\nwaiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not need to answer that.\nHe went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled\nthe door open and took the drawer with the money quite out.\n\nWith it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think\nabout leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with\nCarrie for years.\n\nLord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand\nhad been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a soul\nwas present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. He\ntook the box and the money and put it back in the safe. Then he partly\nclosed the door again.\n\nTo those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the\nindividual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles in\nthe balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless\ngraphically portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of\nthe ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, \"thou shalt,\"\n\"thou shalt not,\" \"thou shalt,\" \"thou shalt not,\" are in no position to\njudge. Not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental\nconflict possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by\ndesire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is\nproportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We must\nremember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of\nright is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men are\nstill led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It is\ninstinct which recalls the criminal--it is instinct (where highly\norganised reasoning is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of\ndanger, his fear of wrong.\n\nAt every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers.\nThe clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To those who\nhave never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal\non the simple ground of revelation.\n\nWhen Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and\ndaring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could tell\nwhat he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself.\n\nThe imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his\nbrow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was\nstill flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the\ntime was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always\nseeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He\nstrolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again.\nHe put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money! Surely\nno harm could come from looking at it!\n\nHe took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth,\nso compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he\nwould take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then\nhe looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel! To\nbe sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that--all of it would. No\none would think anything of it either. He went into the little office\nand took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk\nand went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill it\nout in the big room.\n\nFirst he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the day. He\nwould take it all. He put the empty drawers back and pushed the iron\ndoor almost to, then stood beside it meditating.\n\nThe wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost\ninexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not\nbring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it--to ponder\nover it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen\ndesire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs\nthat he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did\nnot know what evil might result from it to him--how soon he might come\nto grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him,\nand never would have, under any circumstances.\n\nAfter he had all the money in the hand bag, a revulsion of feeling\nseized him. He would not do it--no! Think of what a scandal it would\nmake. The police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and\nwhere? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out the\ntwo boxes and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what\nhe was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door\nto, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again.\nThere were the two boxes mixed.\n\nHe took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had\ngone. Why be afraid?\n\nWhile the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did he\ndo it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed.\nHeavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.\n\nThe moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat\nburst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him\nand decided instantly. There was no delaying now.\n\n\"Supposing I do lay it on the top,\" he said, \"and go away, they'll know\nwho took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things will\nhappen.\"\n\nAt once he became the man of action.\n\n\"I must get out of this,\" he thought.\n\nHe hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat,\nlocked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but one\nlight and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air, but\nit was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.\n\n\"I wish I hadn't done that,\" he said. \"That was a mistake.\"\n\nHe walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom he\nknew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that\nquickly.\n\n\"I wonder how the trains run?\" he thought.\n\nInstantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past\none.\n\nAt the first drug store he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone\nbooth inside. It was a famous drug store, and contained one of the first\nprivate telephone booths ever erected.\n\n\"I want to use your 'phone a minute,\" he said to the night clerk.\n\nThe latter nodded.\n\n\"Give me 1643,\" he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan\nCentral depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.\n\n\"How do the trains leave here for Detroit?\" he asked.\n\nThe man explained the hours.\n\n\"No more to-night?\"\n\n\"Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too,\" he added. \"There is a mail\ntrain out of here at three o'clock.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Hurstwood. \"What time does that get to Detroit?\"\n\nHe was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into\nCanada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He was\nrelieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.\n\n\"Mayhew won't open the safe till nine,\" he thought. \"They can't get on\nmy track before noon.\"\n\nThen he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he got\nher at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the nearest cab\nstanding by.\n\n\"To Ogden Place,\" he said sharply. \"I'll give you a dollar more if you\nmake good time.\"\n\nThe cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop, which was\nfairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do. Reaching\nthe number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking\nthe servant.\n\n\"Is Mrs. Drouet in?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the astonished girl.\n\n\"Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in the\nhospital, injured, and wants to see her.\"\n\nThe servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained and\nemphatic manner.\n\n\"What!\" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes.\n\n\"Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The cab's\ndownstairs.\"\n\nCarrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting\neverything save the necessities.\n\n\"Drouet is hurt,\" said Hurstwood quickly. \"He wants to see you. Come\nquickly.\"\n\nCarrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.\n\n\"Get in,\" said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.\n\nThe cabby began to turn the horse around.\n\n\"Michigan Central depot,\" he said, standing up and speaking so low that\nCarrie could not hear, \"as fast as you can go.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nA PILGRIM, AN OUTLAW: THE SPIRIT DETAINED\n\n\nThe cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling herself\nand thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:\n\n\"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?\"\n\n\"It isn't anything very serious,\" Hurstwood said solemnly. He was very\nmuch disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carrie with\nhim, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law. Therefore he\nwas in no mood for anything save such words as would further his plans\ndistinctly.\n\nCarrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between her\nand Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The one\nthing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"Way out on the South Side,\" said Hurstwood. \"We'll have to take the\ntrain. It's the quickest way.\"\n\nCarrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of the\ncity by night held her attention. She looked at the long receding rows\nof lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.\n\n\"How did he hurt himself?\" she asked--meaning what was the nature of his\ninjuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than necessary,\nand yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger.\n\n\"I don't know exactly,\" he said. \"They just called me up to go and get\nyou and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for alarm, but\nthat I shouldn't fail to bring you.\"\n\nThe man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,\nwondering.\n\nHurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one in so\ndelicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think of how\nneedful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie seemed\nquite tractable, and he congratulated himself.\n\nIn due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he handed\nthe man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.\n\n\"You wait here,\" he said to Carrie, when they reached the waiting-room,\n\"while I get the tickets.\"\n\n\"Have I much time to catch that train for Detroit?\" he asked of the\nagent.\n\n\"Four minutes,\" said the latter.\n\nHe paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.\n\n\"Is it far?\" said Carrie, as he hurried back.\n\n\"Not very,\" he said. \"We must get right in.\"\n\nHe pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the ticket\nman while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could not see,\nand then hurried after.\n\nThere was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two\ncommon day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up and few\npassengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen waiting.\nThey entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almost immediately, \"All\naboard,\" resounded faintly from the outside, and the train started.\n\nCarrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to a\ndepot--but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the natural\nthat she did not attach too much weight to anything she imagined.\n\n\"How have you been?\" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed easier.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not bring\na proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous to reach\nDrouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood contemplated her and\nfelt this. He was not disturbed that it should be so. He did not trouble\nbecause she was moved sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the\nqualities in her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how\nhe should explain. Even this was not the most serious thing in his mind,\nhowever. His own deed and present flight were the great shadows which\nweighed upon him.\n\n\"What a fool I was to do that,\" he said over and over. \"What a mistake!\"\n\nIn his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had been\ndone. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from justice. He\nhad often read of such things, and had thought they must be terrible,\nbut now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and looked into the\npast. The future was a thing which concerned the Canadian line. He\nwanted to reach that. As for the rest, he surveyed his actions for the\nevening, and counted them parts of a great mistake.\n\n\"Still,\" he said, \"what could I have done?\"\n\nThen he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do so by\nstarting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless, harassing\nround, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the proposition he had\nin the presence of Carrie.\n\nThe train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran rather\nslowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible without.\nThe engine gave short calls with its whistle, and frequently the bell\nrang. Several brakemen came through, bearing lanterns. They were\nlocking the vestibules and putting the cars in order for a long run.\n\nPresently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent streets\nflashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its whistle-calls\nof four parts, with which it signalled danger to important crossings.\n\n\"Is it very far?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"Not so very,\" said Hurstwood. He could hardly repress a smile at her\nsimplicity. He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but he also wanted\nto be well out of Chicago.\n\nIn the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie that it\nwas quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.\n\n\"Is it in Chicago?\" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond the\ncity limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at a\ngreat rate.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"not where we are going.\"\n\nThere was something in the way he said this which aroused her in an\ninstant.\n\nHer pretty brow began to contract.\n\n\"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?\" she asked.\n\nHe felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come now as\nlater. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle negative.\n\n\"What?\" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the errand\nbeing different from what she had thought.\n\nHe only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.\n\n\"Well, where are you taking me, then?\" she asked, her voice showing the\nquality of fright.\n\n\"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come along\nwith me to another city.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. \"Let me off. I\ndon't want to go with you.\"\n\nShe was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something which\nhad never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was to get\noff and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the terrible\ntrick would be amended.\n\nShe arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. She knew she\nhad to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her.\n\n\"Sit still, Carrie,\" he said. \"Sit still. It won't do you any good to\nget up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a\nmoment.\"\n\nShe was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one saw\nthis little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and they\nwere attempting to doze.\n\n\"I won't,\" said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her\nwill. \"Let me go,\" she said. \"How dare you?\" and large tears began to\ngather in her eyes.\n\nHurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and ceased\nto think of his own situation. He must do something with this girl, or\nshe would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion with all his\npowers aroused.\n\n\"Look here now, Carrie,\" he said, \"you mustn't act this way. I didn't\nmean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to make you feel\nbad.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" sobbed Carrie, \"oh, oh--oo--o!\"\n\n\"There, there,\" he said, \"you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me?\nListen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do this thing. I\ncouldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?\"\n\nHer sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear a word\nhe said.\n\n\"Won't you listen?\" he asked.\n\n\"No, I won't,\" said Carrie, flashing up. \"I want you to take me out of\nthis, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's a shame,\"\nand again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression.\n\nHurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had just\ncause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could straighten\nthis thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would come through for the\ntickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind. Before everything\nhe must make her quiet.\n\n\"You couldn't get out until the train stops again,\" said Hurstwood. \"It\nwon't be very long until we reach another station. You can get out then\nif you want to. I won't stop you. All I want you to do is to listen a\nmoment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?\"\n\nCarrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the window,\nwhere outside all was black. The train was speeding with steady grace\nacross the fields and through patches of wood. The long whistles came\nwith sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland crossings were\napproached.\n\nNow the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares that\nhad been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handed out the\ntickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. She did not look\nabout.\n\nWhen the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.\n\n\"You're angry at me because I deceived you,\" he said. \"I didn't mean to,\nCarrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay away\nfrom you after the first time I saw you.\"\n\nHe was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the\nboard. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a\nfactor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shut\nout of his mind.\n\n\"Don't talk to me,\" said Carrie, \"I hate you. I want you to go away from\nme. I am going to get out at the very next station.\"\n\nShe was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, \"but you'll hear me out, won't you? After all you\nhave said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't want to do you any\nharm. I'll give you the money to go back with when you go. I merely want\nto tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from loving you, whatever you may\nthink.\"\n\nHe looked at her tenderly, but received no reply.\n\n\"You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do it\nwillingly. I'm through with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me. I'll\nnever see her any more. That's why I'm here to-night. That's why I came\nand got you.\"\n\n\"You said Charlie was hurt,\" said Carrie, savagely. \"You deceived me.\nYou've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to\nrun away with you.\"\n\nShe was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He let\nher, and she took another seat. Then he followed.\n\n\"Don't run away from me, Carrie,\" he said gently. \"Let me explain. If\nyou will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my wife\nis nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or I wouldn't have\never come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just as soon as I can.\nI'll never see her again. I'm done with all that. You're the only person\nI want. If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again.\"\n\nCarrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere\nenough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in\nHurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did\nnot want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived her\nonce, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there is\nsomething in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,\nespecially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love of\nher.\n\nThe progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the\nsolution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and\ndisappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie\ncould feel that she was being borne a long distance off--that the engine\nwas making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt at times\nas if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would come to\nher aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing--so far was\nshe from any aid, no matter what she did. All the while Hurstwood was\nendeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike\nhome and bring her into sympathy with him.\n\n\"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do.\"\n\nCarrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.\n\n\"When I saw you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided to put\neverything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'm going\noff now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while, and then\nanywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if you say.\"\n\n\"I'll not have anything to do with you,\" said Carrie. \"I want to get off\nthis train. Where are we going?\"\n\n\"To Detroit,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite a\npoint seemed to increase the difficulty.\n\n\"Won't you come along with me?\" he said, as if there was great danger\nthat she would not. \"You won't need to do anything but travel with me.\nI'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New York, and\nthen if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will be better than\ntrying to go back to-night.\"\n\nThe first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It\nseemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if she\ntried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was speeding\ntoward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. She\nthought, but made no sign.\n\nHurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled his\nardour.\n\n\"Think,\" he said, \"what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago any\nmore. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't come with\nme. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?\"\n\n\"I don't want you to talk to me,\" she answered forcibly.\n\nHurstwood kept silent for a while.\n\nCarrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act if\nshe was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.\n\n\"Don't think of going, Carrie,\" he said. \"If you ever cared for me at\nall, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say. I'll\nmarry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to think it over.\nI wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. I tell you,\nCarrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!\"\n\nThere was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed\ndeeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating\nhim now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in\nthis, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and pressed\nit with all the force of an appeal.\n\nThe train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on a side\ntrack. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few sprinkles on the\nwindow began to indicate that it was raining. Carrie hung in a quandary,\nbalancing between decision and helplessness. Now the train stopped, and\nshe was listening to his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was\nstill.\n\nShe wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute slipped\nby and still she hesitated, he pleading.\n\n\"Will you let me come back if I want to?\" she asked, as if she now had\nthe upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.\n\n\"Of course,\" he answered, \"you know I will.\"\n\nCarrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She\nbegan to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.\n\nThe train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.\n\n\"Aren't you very tired?\" he said.\n\n\"No,\" she answered.\n\n\"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?\"\n\nShe shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she was\nbeginning to notice what she had always felt--his thoughtfulness.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he said, \"you will feel so much better.\"\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway,\" and he arose and arranged his\nlight coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.\n\n\"There,\" he said tenderly, \"now see if you can't rest a little.\" He\ncould have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside her\nand thought a moment.\n\n\"I believe we're in for a heavy rain,\" he said.\n\n\"So it looks,\" said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the sound\nof the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on\nfrantically through the shadow to a newer world.\n\nThe fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of\nsatisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary\nrelief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his\ntime to devote to the consideration of his own error.\n\nHis condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the\nmiserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum or\nany other could never compensate for the state which he had thus\nfoolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends, his\nname, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have her. He\nwas shut out from Chicago--from his easy, comfortable state. He had\nrobbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant\nevenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more unbearable it\nbecame. He began to think that he would try and restore himself to his\nold state. He would return the miserable thievings of the night and\nexplain. Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him\nand let him come back.\n\nBy noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel\nexceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They had\nprobably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives would\nbe watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters had\nbeen captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled somewhat. His\nhands felt as if they must have something to do. He simulated interest\nin several scenes without which he did not feel. He repeatedly beat his\nfoot upon the floor.\n\nCarrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what it\nmeant or that it was important.\n\nHe wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on through\nto Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have saved time. He\njumped up and sought the conductor.\n\n\"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, the next sleeper back does.\"\n\nHe would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to\ninquire at the depot.\n\nThe train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.\n\n\"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal,\" he said to\nCarrie. \"I'll see what the connections are when we get off.\"\n\nHe was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior.\nCarrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was drifting\nmentally, unable to say to herself what to do.\n\nThe train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily around\nhim, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that indicated\nstudied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.\n\n\"The next train for Montreal leaves when?\" he asked.\n\n\"In twenty minutes,\" said the man.\n\nHe bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to\nCarrie.\n\n\"We go right out again,\" he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie looked\ntired and weary.\n\n\"I wish I was out of all this,\" she exclaimed gloomily.\n\n\"You'll feel better when we reach Montreal,\" he said.\n\n\"I haven't an earthly thing with me,\" said Carrie; \"not even a\nhandkerchief.\"\n\n\"You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest,\" he\nexplained. \"You can call in a dressmaker.\"\n\nNow the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood breathed\na sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the river, and\nthere they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the train off the\nferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.\n\n\"It won't be so very long now,\" he said, remembering her in his relief.\n\"We get there the first thing in the morning.\"\n\nCarrie scarcely deigned to reply.\n\n\"I'll see if there is a dining-car,\" he added. \"I'm hungry.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nTHE SOLACE OF TRAVEL: THE BOATS OF THE SEA\n\n\nTo the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is\ninvariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces\nand delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind,\nwhich is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood\nof objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden\nfrom view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite\ndramatic expression--\"I am going away.\"\n\nAs Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she\nhad been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she\nwas without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot\nHurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and\ncosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting\nworld to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated\nat all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much.\nPossibly she would come out of bondage into freedom--who knows? Perhaps\nshe would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level of erring.\nShe was saved in that she was hopeful.\n\nThe following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they\nstepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering at\nthe novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood had\nbeen here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had\nstopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it\ncalled anew by a busman.\n\n\"We'll go right up and get rooms,\" he said.\n\nAt the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while the clerk\ncame forward. He was thinking what name he would put down. With the\nlatter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name he had seen\nout of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing enough. With\nan easy hand he wrote, \"G. W. Murdock and wife.\" It was the largest\nconcession to necessity he felt like making. His initials he could not\nspare.\n\nWhen they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had secured\nher a lovely chamber.\n\n\"You have a bath there,\" said he. \"Now you can clean up when you get\nready.\"\n\nCarrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked at\nhimself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk, no\nchange of linen, not even a hair-brush.\n\n\"I'll ring for soap and towels,\" he said, \"and send you up a hair-brush.\nThen you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll go for a shave and\ncome back and get you, and then we'll go out and look for some clothes\nfor you.\"\n\nHe smiled good-naturedly as he said this.\n\n\"All right,\" said Carrie.\n\nShe sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited for\nthe boy, who soon knocked.\n\n\"Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"I'll go now,\" he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding out his\nhands, but she did not move to take them.\n\n\"You're not mad at me, are you?\" he asked softly.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" she answered, rather indifferently.\n\n\"Don't you care for me at all?\"\n\nShe made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.\n\n\"Don't you think you could love me a little?\" he pleaded, taking one of\nher hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. \"You once said you did.\"\n\n\"What made you deceive me so?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"I couldn't help it,\" he said, \"I wanted you too much.\"\n\n\"You didn't have any right to want me,\" she answered, striking cleanly\nhome.\n\n\"Oh, well, Carrie,\" he answered, \"here I am. It's too late now. Won't\nyou try and care for me a little?\"\n\nHe looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.\n\nShe shook her head negatively.\n\n\"Let me start all over again. Be my wife from to-day on.\"\n\nCarrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he slipped\nhis arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held her quite\nclose. Instantly there flamed up in his body the all-compelling desire.\nHis affection took an ardent form.\n\n\"Let me go,\" said Carrie, who was folded close to him.\n\n\"Won't you love me?\" he said. \"Won't you be mine from now on?\"\n\nCarrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment before she\nhad been listening with some complacency, remembering her old affection\nfor him. He was so handsome, so daring!\n\nNow, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which rose\nfeebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she was,\nbegan to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose bosom she\nwas being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved her, and she\nwas alone. If she did not turn to him--accept of his love--where else\nmight she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong\nfeeling.\n\nShe found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What magnetism\nthere was she could never know. His many sins, however, were for the\nmoment all forgotten.\n\nHe pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further\nopposition was useless.\n\n\"Will you marry me?\" she asked, forgetting how.\n\n\"This very day,\" he said, with all delight.\n\nNow the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon her\nregretfully.\n\n\"You get ready now, will you,\" he said, \"at once?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\n\"I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour.\"\n\nCarrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.\n\nBelow stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop. For the\nmoment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie seemed to\natone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life seemed\nworth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things customary and\nattached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. The storm showed\na rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold.\n\nHe was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was\nfastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly. Instantly\nhis heart sank.\n\n\"Why, hello, George, old man!\" said the voice. \"What are you doing down\nhere?\"\n\nHurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the\nstock-broker.\n\n\"Just attending to a little private matter,\" he answered, his mind\nworking like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently did\nnot know--he had not read the papers.\n\n\"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here,\" said Mr. Kenny\ngenially. \"Stopping here?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the\nregister.\n\n\"Going to be in town long?\"\n\n\"No, only a day or so.\"\n\n\"Is that so? Had your breakfast?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hurstwood, lying blandly. \"I'm just going for a shave.\"\n\n\"Won't you come have a drink?\"\n\n\"Not until afterwards,\" said the ex-manager. \"I'll see you later. Are\nyou stopping here?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: \"How are\nthings out in Chicago?\"\n\n\"About the same as usual,\" said Hurstwood, smiling genially.\n\n\"Wife with you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for\nbreakfast. Come in when you're through.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a\ntrial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. This man\ncalled up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left.\nChicago, his wife, the elegant resort--all these were in his greeting\nand inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer\nwith him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. All at\nonce the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers would have\naccounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the\npossibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's eyes, a\nsafe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the barber shop. He\ndecided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.\n\nAccordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear, and\nhastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by the\nladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous\nplace.\n\nAcross the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. He was\nof a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with\na head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician's.\nThis individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he\nsurveyed the ex-manager keenly.\n\nHurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.\nInstinctively he felt that the man was a detective--that he was being\nwatched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind\nwas a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could these people\ndo? He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. He did not\nunderstand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie\nshould find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be\nout of it.\n\nCarrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked\nrefreshed--more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had gone\nshe had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love was not\nblazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. He\ncould not take her in his arms; he did not even try. Something about her\nforbade it. In part his opinion was the result of his own experiences\nand reflections below stairs.\n\n\"You're ready, are you?\" he said kindly.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\n\"We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal to me\nvery much.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Carrie.\n\nThey went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual was\nstanding, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing that\nhe knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in the fellow's eye was\ngalling. Still they passed, and he explained to Carrie concerning the\ncity. Another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here they\nentered.\n\n\"What a queer town this is,\" said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely\nbecause it was not like Chicago.\n\n\"It isn't as lively as Chicago,\" said Hurstwood. \"Don't you like it?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great\nWestern city.\n\n\"Well, it isn't as interesting,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"What's here?\" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this\ntown.\n\n\"Nothing much,\" returned Hurstwood. \"It's quite a resort. There's some\npretty scenery about here.\"\n\nCarrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much about her\nsituation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.\n\n\"We won't stay here long,\" said Hurstwood, who was now really glad to\nnote her dissatisfaction. \"You pick out your clothes as soon as\nbreakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll like that.\nIt's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago.\"\n\nHe was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these\ndetectives would do--what move his employers at Chicago would make--then\nhe would slip away--down to New York, where it was easy to hide. He knew\nenough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of\nmystification were infinite.\n\nThe more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became. He\nsaw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm\nwould probably employ detectives to watch him--Pinkerton men or agents\nof Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to leave\nCanada. So he might be compelled to remain here months, and in what a\nstate!\n\nBack at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the\nmorning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed\nhad spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went\nto secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious faces were\nabout, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so he sought the\nmain parlour on the floor above and, seated by a window there, looked\nthem over. Very little was given to his crime, but it was there, several\n\"sticks\" in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders,\naccidents, marriages, and other news. He wished, half sadly, that he\ncould undo it all. Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of\nsafety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake. There\ncould have been an easier way out if he had only known.\n\nHe left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep them\nout of the hands of Carrie.\n\n\"Well, how are you feeling?\" he asked of her. She was engaged in looking\nout of the window.\n\n\"Oh, all right,\" she answered.\n\nHe came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a\nknock came at their door.\n\n\"Maybe it's one of my parcels,\" said Carrie.\n\nHurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual whom he\nhad so thoroughly suspected.\n\n\"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?\" said the latter, with a volume of\naffected shrewdness and assurance.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that some\nof his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as these were\nof the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped out and closed\nthe door.\n\n\"Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?\" said the man\nconfidentially.\n\n\"I can guess,\" said Hurstwood softly.\n\n\"Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?\"\n\n\"That's my affair,\" said Hurstwood grimly.\n\n\"You can't do it, you know,\" said the detective, eyeing him coolly.\n\n\"Look here, my man,\" said Hurstwood authoritatively, \"you don't\nunderstand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.\nWhatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside. You'll\nhave to excuse me.\"\n\n\"Well, now, there's no use of your talking that way,\" said the man,\n\"when you're in the hands of the police. We can make a lot of trouble\nfor you if we want to. You're not registered right in this house, you\nhaven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't know you're\nhere yet. You might as well be reasonable.\"\n\n\"What do you want to know?\" asked Hurstwood.\n\n\"Whether you're going to send back that money or not.\"\n\nHurstwood paused and studied the floor.\n\n\"There's no use explaining to you about this,\" he said at last. \"There's\nno use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know just what you\ncan do and what you can't. You can create a lot of trouble if you want\nto. I know that all right, but it won't help you to get the money. Now,\nI've made up my mind what to do. I've already written Fitzgerald and\nMoy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait until you hear more from\nthem.\"\n\nAll the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door,\ndown the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now near the\nend where the corridor opened into the large general parlour.\n\n\"You won't give it up?\" said the man.\n\nThe words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his brain.\nMany thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn't want the\nmoney. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy, maybe it would be\nall right again.\n\n\"See here,\" he said, \"there's no use my talking about this at all. I\nrespect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people who\nknow.\"\n\n\"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it,\" said the man.\n\n\"I don't want to get out,\" said Hurstwood. \"When I get ready there'll be\nnothing to stop me for.\"\n\nHe turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an\nintolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.\n\n\"Who was it?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"A friend of mine from Chicago.\"\n\nThe whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did\nafter all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a deep\ngloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him most was the fact\nthat he was being pursued as a thief. He began to see the nature of that\nsocial injustice which sees but one side--often but a single point in a\nlong tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one thing, his taking the\nmoney. How and wherefore were but indifferently dealt with. All the\ncomplications which led up to it were unknown. He was accused without\nbeing understood.\n\nSitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the\nmoney back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then\nsend it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would ask\nhim back. He would make good the false statement he had made about\nwriting them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.\n\nFor an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. He\nwanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He finally narrowed it\ndown to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining friends,\nhad found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the money\nout, had accidentally closed it. This act he regretted very much. He was\nsorry he had put them to so much trouble. He would undo what he could by\nsending the money back--the major portion of it. The remainder he would\npay up as soon as he could. Was there any possibility of his being\nrestored? This he only hinted at.\n\nThe troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very\nconstruction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful\nthing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him. He\nforgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and that\nif he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the jagged line\nof separation and reunion would always show. He was always forgetting\nsomething--his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present situation, or\nsomething--and so did not reason clearly. Nevertheless, he sent the\nletter, waiting a reply before sending the money.\n\nMeanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting what\njoy out of it he could.\n\nOut came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open\nwindows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song in the\nair. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She seemed the one\nray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would only love him\nwholly--only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which\nhe had seen her in the little park in Chicago--how happy he would be! It\nwould repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. He would\nnot care.\n\n\"Carrie,\" he said, getting up once and coming over to her, \"are you\ngoing to stay with me from now on?\"\n\nShe looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of\nthe look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now, keen and\nstrong--love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could not help\nsmiling.\n\n\"Let me be everything to you from now on,\" he said. \"Don't make me worry\nany more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a nice flat.\nI'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't you be mine?\"\n\nCarrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her, but\nthe drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance of\naffection. She felt rather sorry for him--a sorrow born of what had only\nrecently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt for him.\nShe would have known as much if she could have analysed her feelings,\nbut this thing which she now felt aroused by his great feeling broke\ndown the barriers between them.\n\n\"You'll stay with me, won't you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, nodding her head.\n\nHe gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks.\n\n\"You must marry me, though,\" she said.\n\n\"I'll get a license to-day,\" he answered.\n\n\"How?\" she asked.\n\n\"Under a new name,\" he answered. \"I'll take a new name and live a new\nlife. From now on I'm Murdock.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't take that name,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Why not?\" he said.\n\n\"I don't like it.\"\n\n\"Well, what shall I take?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, anything, only don't take that.\"\n\nHe thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:\n\n\"How would Wheeler do?\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, then, Wheeler,\" he said. \"I'll get the license this afternoon.\"\n\nThey were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found\nconvenient.\n\nAt last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He was\nastonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had come\nabout as it had. If the money were returned, they would not trouble to\nprosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As for his\nreturning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had not\nquite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think it over\nand correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and so on.\n\nThe sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted\nthe money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his doom. He\ndecided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they would send,\nkeeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his acquiescence,\nexplained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day,\ntook a certificate of payment, and told Carrie to pack her trunk. He was\nslightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to make\nit, but eventually restored himself. He feared that even yet he might be\nseized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements, but it was\nscarcely possible. He ordered Carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he\nhad it sent by express to New York. No one seemed to be observing him,\nbut he left at night. He was greatly agitated lest at the first station\nacross the border or at the depot in New York there should be waiting\nfor him an officer of the law.\n\nCarrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into the\nlatter city in the morning. The round green hills sentinelling the\nbroad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her attention by their beauty\nas the train followed the line of the stream. She had heard of the\nHudson River, the great city of New York, and now she looked out,\nfilling her mind with the wonder of it.\n\nAs the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east bank of\nthe Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention to the fact\nthat they were on the edge of the city. After her experience with\nChicago, she expected long lines of cars--a great highway of tracks--and\nnoted the difference. The sight of a few boats in the Harlem and more in\nthe East River tickled her young heart. It was the first sign of the\ngreat sea. Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and\nthen the train plunged into the tunnel.\n\n\"Grand Central Station!\" called the trainman, as, after a few minutes of\ndarkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and gathered up\nhis small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension. With Carrie he\nwaited at the door and then dismounted. No one approached him, but he\nglanced furtively to and fro as he made for the street entrance. So\nexcited was he that he forgot all about Carrie, who fell behind,\nwondering at his self-absorption. As he passed through the depot proper\nthe strain reached its climax and began to wane. All at once he was on\nthe sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. He heaved a great breath\nand turned, remembering Carrie.\n\n\"I thought you were going to run off and leave me,\" she said.\n\n\"I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey,\" he\nanswered.\n\nCarrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.\n\n\"How large is New York?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh, a million or more,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nHe looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.\n\nFor the first time in years the thought that he must count these little\nexpenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.\n\nHe decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a flat.\nAccordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.\n\n\"We'll look to-day, if you want to,\" she said.\n\nSuddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more important\nhotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew. He stood up\nand spoke to the driver.\n\n\"Take me to the Belford,\" he said, knowing it to be less frequented by\nthose whom he knew. Then he sat down.\n\n\"Where is the residence part?\" asked Carrie, who did not take the tall\nfive-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.\n\n\"Everywhere,\" said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. \"There are\nno lawns in New York. All these are houses.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I don't like it,\" said Carrie, who was coming to have a few\nopinions of her own.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nTHE KINGDOM OF GREATNESS: THE PILGRIM ADREAM\n\n\nWhatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very evident\nthat he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like New York. In\nChicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000, millionaires were\nnot numerous. The rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to drown\nall moderate incomes in obscurity. The attention of the inhabitants was\nnot so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic,\nsocial, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man from\nview. In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics and trade.\nIn New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and each had been\ndiligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous. The\nsea was already full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear\nwholly from view--remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.\n\nThere is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which, though\nnot always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the world. The\ngreat create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the small. This\natmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the magnificent\nresidences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops, restaurants,\nresorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the wines; drink of\nthe laughter springing from the soul of luxurious content, of the\nglances which gleam like light from defiant spears; feel the quality of\nthe smiles which cut like glistening swords and of strides born of\nplace, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of the high and\nmighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the kingdom of\ngreatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and the human\nheart views this as the one desirable realm which it must attain, so\nlong, to that heart, will this remain the realm of greatness. So long,\nalso, will the atmosphere of this realm work its desperate results in\nthe soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent. One day of it, like one\ndrop of the other, will so affect and discolour the views, the aims, the\ndesire of the mind, that it will thereafter remain forever dyed. A day\nof it to the untried mind is like opium to the untried body. A craving\nis set up which, if gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and\ndeath. Aye! dreams unfulfilled--gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which\nbeckon and lead, beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve\ntheir power and restore us blind to nature's heart.\n\nA man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the illusions\nand burning desires of youth, but neither has he the strength of hope\nwhich gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth. Such an atmosphere\ncould not incite in him the cravings of a boy of eighteen, but in so far\nas they were excited, the lack of hope made them proportionately bitter.\nHe could not fail to notice the signs of affluence and luxury on every\nhand. He had been to New York before and knew the resources of its\nfolly. In part it was an awesome place to him, for here gathered all\nthat he most respected on this earth--wealth, place, and fame. The\nmajority of the celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day\nas manager hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most\ninviting stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and\nindividuals here. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was\nbrushing elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or five\nhundred thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than\ncomfortably in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample\nsums, so that the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quite\nsharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled of\nhis modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the battle\nfor place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but he was not so\ndull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of a sudden, then, this\nshow of fine clothes, place, and power took on peculiar significance. It\nwas emphasised by contrast with his own distressing state.\n\nAnd it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of arrest\nwas not the _sine qua non_ of his existence. That danger dissolved, the\nnext necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry sum of thirteen\nhundred and some odd dollars set against the need of rent, clothing,\nfood, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle little calculated\nto induce peace of mind in one who had been accustomed to spend five\ntimes that sum in the course of a year. He thought upon the subject\nrather actively the first few days he was in New York, and decided that\nhe must act quickly. As a consequence, he consulted the business\nopportunities advertised in the morning papers and began investigations\non his own account.\n\nThat was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he went\nlooking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in Seventy-eighth Street\nnear Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story building, and their flat was\non the third floor. Owing to the fact that the street was not yet built\nup solidly, it was possible to see east to the green tops of the trees\nin Central Park and west to the broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse of\nwhich was to be had out of the west windows. For the privilege of six\nrooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they were compelled to pay\nthirty-five dollars a month--an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a\nhome at the time. Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the\nrooms here and in Chicago and mentioned it.\n\n\"You'll not find anything better, dear,\" said Hurstwood, \"unless you go\ninto one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any of\nthese conveniences.\"\n\nCarrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright\nwood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat,\nwhich was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water,\ndumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her\nvery much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take great\nsatisfaction in these things.\n\nHurstwood made arrangement with one of the instalment houses whereby\nthey furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and ten\ndollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G. W.\nWheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It sounded\nexceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the janitor, but\nin time she became used to it and looked upon the name as her own.\n\nThese house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the advertised\nopportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing down-town bar.\nAfter the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not stomach the\ncommonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a number of days\nlooking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did, however, gain\nconsiderable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence of\nTammany Hall and the value of standing in with the police. The most\nprofitable and flourishing places he found to be those which conducted\nanything but a legitimate business, such as that controlled by\nFitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and private drinking booths on\nthe second floor were usually adjuncts of very profitable places. He saw\nby portly keepers, whose shirt fronts shone with large diamonds, and\nwhose clothes were properly cut, that the liquor business here, as\nelsewhere, yielded the same golden profit.\n\nAt last he found an individual who had a resort in Warren Street, which\nseemed an excellent venture. It was fairly well-appearing and\nsusceptible of improvement. The owner claimed the business to be\nexcellent, and it certainly looked so.\n\n\"We deal with a very good class of people,\" he told Hurstwood.\n\"Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. No\nbums. We don't allow 'em in the place.\"\n\nHurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the trade for\na while.\n\n\"It's profitable enough for two, is it?\" he asked.\n\n\"You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor trade,\" said\nthe owner. \"This is only one of the two places I have. The other is down\nin Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone. If I had some one who\nknew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mind sharing with him in this\none and letting him manage it.\"\n\n\"I've had experience enough,\" said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt a\nlittle diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy.\n\n\"Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler,\" said the proprietor.\n\nHe only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and good-will,\nand this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial ability on the\npart of the one who should come in. There was no property involved,\nbecause the owner of the saloon merely rented from an estate.\n\nThe offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwood\nwhether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one\nhundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in\norder to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. It was\nnot the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted, to\nhesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month now.\nBy judicious management and improvement, it might be made to pay more.\nAccordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made over his\nthousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day.\n\nHis first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie that\nhe thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however,\nintroduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be very\ndisagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him\nsurly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to in business.\nBesides, the business varied. It was nothing like the class of patronage\nwhich he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that it would take a long time\nto make friends. These people hurried in and out without seeking the\npleasures of friendship. It was no gathering or lounging place. Whole\ndays and weeks passed without one such hearty greeting as he had been\nwont to enjoy every day in Chicago.\n\nFor another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities--those well-dressed,\n_élite_ individuals who lend grace to the average bars and bring news\nfrom far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one such in a month.\nEvenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally read in the\nevening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he knew--whom he\nhad drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit a bar like\nFitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House, uptown, but he\nknew that he would never see them down here.\n\nAgain, the business did not pay as well as he thought. It increased a\nlittle, but he found he would have to watch his household expenses,\nwhich was humiliating.\n\nIn the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night, as he\ndid, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinner with her\nbetween six and seven, and to remain home until nine o'clock in the\nmorning, but the novelty of this waned after a time, and he began to\nfeel the drag of his duties.\n\nThe first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very natural\nway: \"I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress.\"\n\n\"What kind?\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"Oh, something for street wear.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that it\nwould be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothing was said\nabout it the next day, but the following morning he asked:\n\n\"Have you done anything about your dress?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Carrie.\n\nHe paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:\n\n\"Would you mind putting it off a few days?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks. She\nhad never thought of him in connection with money troubles before.\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you,\" said Hurstwood. \"This investment of mine is\ntaking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly, but\njust at present I am running close.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" answered Carrie. \"Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell me\nbefore?\"\n\n\"It wasn't necessary,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nFor all her acquiescence, there was something about the way Hurstwood\nspoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal which he was\nalways about to put through. It was only the thought of a second, but it\nwas a beginning. It was something new in her thinking of Hurstwood.\n\nOther things followed from time to time, little things of the same sort,\nwhich in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full\nrevelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannot long\ndwell together without coming to an understanding of one another. The\nmental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether he\nvoluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air and\ncontributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed as nicely\nas usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada. Carrie\nnoticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was\nanything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggest many\namusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about his\nbusiness. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago--not the liberal,\nopulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obvious to escape\ndetection.\n\nIn time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she\nwas not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his own\ncounsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things.\nThis is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seem\nreasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where great\nlove is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is\nreached.\n\nAs for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the difficulties\nof a changed condition. He was too shrewd not to realise the tremendous\nmistake he had made, and appreciate that he had done well in getting\nwhere he was, and yet he could not help contrasting his present state\nwith his former, hour after hour, and day after day.\n\nBesides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends, ever\nsince one such encounter which he made shortly after his arrival in the\ncity. It was in Broadway that he saw a man approaching him whom he knew.\nThere was no time for simulating non-recognition. The exchange of\nglances had been too sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent. So\nthe friend, a buyer for one of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt,\nperforce, the necessity of stopping.\n\n\"How are you?\" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture of\nfeeling and a lack of plausible interest.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. \"How is it with you?\"\n\n\"All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you located here\nnow?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hurstwood, \"I have a place down in Warren Street.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" said the friend. \"Glad to hear it. I'll come down and see\nyou.\"\n\n\"Do,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"So long,\" said the other, smiling affably and going on.\n\n\"He never asked for my number,\" thought Hurstwood; \"he wouldn't think of\ncoming.\" He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and hoped\nsincerely he would meet no one else.\n\nThese things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hope was\nthat things would change for the better in a money way. He had Carrie.\nHis furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining his position. As\nfor Carrie, the amusements he could give her would have to do for the\npresent. He could probably keep up his pretensions sufficiently long\nwithout exposure to make good, and then all would be well. He failed\ntherein to take account of the frailties of human nature--the\ndifficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. With him and with\nher varying mental states were common. At any moment the extremes of\nfeeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table. This often happens\nin the best regulated families. Little things brought out on such\noccasions need great love to obliterate them afterward. Where that is\nnot, both parties count two and two and make a problem after a while.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nA PET OF GOOD FORTUNE: BROADWAY FLAUNTS ITS JOYS\n\n\nThe effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was paralleled\nin the case of Carrie, who accepted the things which fortune provided\nwith the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her first expression\nof disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Its clear atmosphere,\nmore populous thoroughfares, and peculiar indifference struck her\nforcibly. She had never seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon\nenlisted her affection. The new furniture made an excellent showing, the\nsideboard which Hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly. The\nfurniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called parlour,\nor front room, was installed a piano, because Carrie said she would like\nto learn to play. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household\ntactics and information. For the first time in her life she felt\nsettled, and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived\nof it. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long while she\nconcerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and wondered\nat ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and\nindifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the whistles of the\nhundreds of vessels in the harbour--the long, low cries of the Sound\nsteamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The mere fact that these\nthings spoke from the sea made them wonderful. She looked much at what\nshe could see of the Hudson from her west windows and of the great city\nbuilding up rapidly on either hand. It was much to ponder over, and\nsufficed to entertain her for more than a year without becoming stale.\n\nFor another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his\naffection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his difficulties\nto her. He carried himself with the same self-important air, took his\nnew state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in Carrie's proclivities\nand successes. Each evening he arrived promptly to dinner, and found the\nlittle dining-room a most inviting spectacle. In a way, the smallness of\nthe room added to its luxury. It looked full and replete. The\nwhite-covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a\nfour-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red shade.\nBetween Carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out all right, and\ncanned goods did the rest for a while. Carrie studied the art of making\nbiscuit, and soon reached the stage where she could show a plate of\nlight, palatable morsels for her labour.\n\nIn this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Winter came,\nand with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the attending of\ntheatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made great efforts to meet\nall expenditures without a show of feeling one way or the other. He\npretended that he was reinvesting his money in strengthening the\nbusiness for greater ends in the future. He contented himself with a\nvery moderate allowance of personal apparel, and rarely suggested\nanything for Carrie. Thus the first winter passed.\n\nIn the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did increase\nsomewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month which he had\nanticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reached certain\nconclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances.\n\nBeing of a passive and receptive rather than an active and aggressive\nnature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemed satisfactory\nenough. Once in a while they would go to a theatre together,\noccasionally in season to the beaches and different points about the\ncity, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwood naturally abandoned\nhis show of fine manners with her and modified his attitude to one of\neasy familiarity. There were no misunderstandings, no apparent\ndifferences of opinion. In fact, without money or visiting friends, he\nled a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie\nrather sympathised with his efforts and thought nothing upon her lack of\nentertainment such as she had enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a\ncorporate entity and her flat temporarily seemed sufficient.\n\nHowever, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began to pick\nup acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes. He\nconvinced himself that his home life was very precious to him, but\nallowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. The first time\nhe did this he sent a message saying that he would be detained. Carrie\nate alone, and wished that it might not happen again. The second time,\nalso, he sent word, but at the last moment. The third time he forgot\nentirely and explained afterwards. These events were months apart, each.\n\n\"Where were you, George?\" asked Carrie, after the first absence.\n\n\"Tied up at the office,\" he said genially. \"There were some accounts I\nhad to straighten.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry you couldn't get home,\" she said kindly. \"I was fixing to\nhave such a nice dinner.\"\n\nThe second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the feeling\nabout it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the ordinary.\n\n\"I couldn't get home,\" he said, when he came in later in the evening, \"I\nwas so busy.\"\n\n\"Couldn't you have sent me word?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"I meant to,\" he said, \"but you know I forgot it until it was too late\nto do any good.\"\n\n\"And I had such a good dinner!\" said Carrie.\n\nNow, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began to\nimagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. He really\nthought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was finding its\nnatural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding the fact that he\nhad observed her act in Chicago, and that during the past year he had\nonly seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him by conditions\nwhich he made, and that she had not gained any friends or associates, he\ndrew this peculiar conclusion. With it came a feeling of satisfaction in\nhaving a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction worked\nits natural result. That is, since he imagined he saw her satisfied, he\nfelt called upon to give only that which contributed to such\nsatisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the decorations, the food, and\nthe necessary clothing. Thoughts of entertaining her, leading her out\ninto the shine and show of life, grew less and less. He felt attracted\nto the outer world, but did not think she would care to go along. Once\nhe went to the theatre alone. Another time he joined a couple of his new\nfriends at an evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were\nbeginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about. All this, however,\nin a much less imposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He\navoided the gay places where he would be apt to meet those who had known\nhim.\n\nNow, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was not the\nkind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving him greatly,\nshe could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact, she was not\njealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid manner, when he\nshould have duly considered it. When he did not come home it did not\nseem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave him credit for\nhaving the usual allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop,\nfriends to consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy\nhimself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. Her\nstate still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did observe was\nthat Hurstwood was somewhat different.\n\nSome time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth Street\nthe flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it moved a\nvery handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom Carrie\nafterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely by the\narrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by\nthe dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the\nlike were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down,\nwas used by both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened\ninto it from each flat.\n\nIf the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor at\nthe same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the\ndumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to remove her paper,\nthe newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age,\nwas there for a like purpose. She was in a night-robe and\ndressing-gown, with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty\nand good-natured that Carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. The\nnewcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient.\nCarrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling\nstirred in the mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face.\n\n\"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door,\" said Carrie to\nHurstwood at the breakfast table.\n\n\"Who are they?\" asked Hurstwood.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie. \"The name on the bell is Vance. Some one\nover there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she.\"\n\n\"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next to in\nthis town, can you?\" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary New York\nopinion about neighbours.\n\n\"Just think,\" said Carrie, \"I have been in this house with nine other\nfamilies for over a year and I don't know a soul. These people have been\nhere over a month and I haven't seen any one before this morning.\"\n\n\"It's just as well,\" said Hurstwood. \"You never know who you're going to\nget in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company.\"\n\n\"I expect so,\" said Carrie, agreeably.\n\nThe conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no more upon\nthe subject until a day or two later, when, going out to market, she\nencountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised her and nodded,\nfor which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the probability of\nacquaintanceship. If there had been no faint recognition on this\noccasion, there would have been no future association.\n\nCarrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard her\nplay through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the flats,\nand was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the brilliance of\ntheir rendition. She could play only moderately herself, and such\nvariety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, upon the verge of\ngreat art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far--the merest scraps\nand shadows--indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and\nin comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was ready for any extension of\nthe friendship which might follow.\n\nOne day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the kitchen,\npressed the button which caused the front door of the general entrance\non the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carrie waited at\nher own door on the third floor to see who it might be coming up to call\non her, Mrs. Vance appeared.\n\n\"I hope you'll excuse me,\" she said. \"I went out a while ago and forgot\nmy outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell.\"\n\nThis was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever\nthey had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise for it,\nhowever.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Carrie. \"I'm glad you did. I do the same thing\nsometimes.\"\n\n\"Isn't it just delightful weather?\" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for a\nmoment.\n\nThus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was\nwell launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeable\ncompanion.\n\nOn several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both flats were\ngood to look upon, though that of the Vances tended somewhat more to the\nluxurious.\n\n\"I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband,\" said Mrs.\nVance, not long after their intimacy began. \"He wants to meet you. You\nplay cards, don't you?\"\n\n\"A little,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home bring him\nover.\"\n\n\"He's not coming to dinner to-night,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, when he does come we'll call him in.\"\n\nCarrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an individual\na few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his seemingly\ncomfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to his good\nlooks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance and laid himself\nout to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and talking to her\nabout New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance played some upon the piano,\nand at last Hurstwood came.\n\n\"I am very glad to meet you,\" he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie\nintroduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated\nCarrie.\n\n\"Did you think your wife had run away?\" said Mr. Vance, extending his\nhand upon introduction.\n\n\"I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband,\" said\nHurstwood.\n\nHe now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie saw\nagain what she for some time had sub-consciously missed in\nHurstwood--the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. She also\nsaw that she was not well dressed--not nearly as well dressed--as Mrs.\nVance. These were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation was cleared\nup for her. She felt that her life was becoming stale, and therein she\nfelt cause for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholy was restored.\nThe desirous Carrie was whispered to concerning her possibilities.\n\nThere were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had\nlittle power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable\nof getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily\nborne along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of the\nmarked contrasts which Carrie had observed. He did not even detect the\nshade of melancholy which settled in her eyes. Worst of all, she now\nbegan to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company of Mrs.\nVance, who liked her exceedingly.\n\n\"Let's go to the matinée this afternoon,\" said Mrs. Vance, who had\nstepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft\npink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and\nVance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before.\n\n\"All right,\" said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and\nwell-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked as\nthough she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. \"What shall we\nsee?\"\n\n\"Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin,\" said Mrs. Vance. \"I do think he is\nthe jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play.\"\n\n\"What time will we have to start?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"Let's go at one and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth Street,\" said\nMrs. Vance. \"It's such an interesting walk. He's at the Madison Square.\"\n\n\"I'll be glad to go,\" said Carrie. \"How much will we have to pay for\nseats?\"\n\n\"Not more than a dollar,\" said Mrs. Vance.\n\nThe latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly arrayed\nin a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match. Carrie had\ngotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman pained her by\ncontrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little things which Carrie\nhad not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegant green leather purse\nset with her initials, a fancy handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design,\nand the like. Carrie felt that she needed more and better clothes to\ncompare with this woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick\nMrs. Vance for her raiment alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust\nthought, for Carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure, and\nhad grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of\nher colour of beauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the\ntwo, both of quality and age, but this difference was not especially\nnoticeable. It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with\nher state.\n\nThe walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable features\nof the city. There gathered, before the matinée and afterwards, not only\nall the pretty women who love a showy parade, but the men who love to\ngaze upon and admire them. It was a very imposing procession of pretty\nfaces and fine clothes. Women appeared in their very best hats, shoes,\nand gloves, and walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or\ntheatres strung along from Fourteenth to Thirty-fourth streets. Equally\nthe men paraded with the very latest they could afford. A tailor might\nhave secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and\ncolours, a hatter on hats. It was literally true that if a lover of fine\nclothes secured a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on\nBroadway. So true and well understood was this fact, that several years\nlater a popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the\nafternoon parade on matinée days, and entitled \"What Right Has He on\nBroadway?\" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-halls of\nthe city.\n\nIn all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy\nparade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. On the\nother hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not only knew of\nit as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely to see and be\nseen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any tendency to fall\nshort in dressiness by contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion\nof the town.\n\nCarrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car at\nThirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely company\nwhich swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She noticed suddenly\nthat Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under the gaze of handsome\nmen and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances were not modified by any\nrules of propriety. To stare seemed the proper and natural thing. Carrie\nfound herself stared at and ogled. Men in flawless top-coats, high hats,\nand silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often into\nconscious eyes. Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding\naffected smiles and perfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling of\ngoodness and the heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered\ncheeks and lips, the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous eye,\nwere common enough. With a start she awoke to find that she was in\nfashion's crowd, on parade in a show place--and such a show place!\nJewellers' windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency.\nFlorist shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners--all followed in\nrapid succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen in\nimmense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of\nexpensive salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue\njackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were\nshopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show,\nand Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life of\nher, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in her\nbeauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must be\nevident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two. It\ncut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here\nagain until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the\ndelight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nTHE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR: A SEER TO TRANSLATE\n\n\nSuch feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in an\nexceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the play.\nThe actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his popularity by\npresenting a mellow type of comedy, in which sufficient sorrow was\nintroduced to lend contrast and relief to humour. For Carrie, as we well\nknow, the stage had a great attraction. She had never forgotten her one\nhistrionic achievement in Chicago. It dwelt in her mind and occupied her\nconsciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-chair and\nher latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her state. Never\ncould she witness a play without having her own ability vividly brought\nto consciousness. Some scenes made her long to be a part of them--to\ngive expression to the feelings which she, in the place of the character\nrepresented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vivid\nimaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. She\nlived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her\ndaily life.\n\nIt was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's core\nby actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singing in her\nheart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen. Oh, these\nwomen who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong, who were\nthey? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the astonishingly coloured\nbuttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold? Where were these lovely\ncreatures housed? Amid what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated\nwalls, elaborate tapestries did they move? Where were their rich\napartments, loaded with all that money could provide? In what stables\nchamped these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages?\nWhere lounged the richly groomed footmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights,\nthe perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! New York must be filled\nwith such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures\ncould not be. Some hot-houses held them. It ached her to know that she\nwas not one of them--that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not\ncome true. She wondered at her own solitude these two years past--her\nindifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had\nexpected.\n\nThe play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which charmingly\noverdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love and jealousy\namid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticing to those who\nhave all their days longed for such material surroundings and have never\nhad them gratified. They have the charm of showing suffering under ideal\nconditions. Who would not grieve upon a gilded chair? Who would not\nsuffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried\nservants? Grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing.\nCarrie longed to be of it. She wanted to take her sufferings, whatever\nthey were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate them\nunder such charming conditions upon the stage. So affected was her mind\nby what she had seen, that the play now seemed an extraordinarily\nbeautiful thing. She was soon lost in the world it represented, and\nwished that she might never return. Between the acts she studied the\ngalaxy of matinée attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a\nnew idea of the possibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen\nit all--that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight.\n\nGoing out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The scene she\nhad witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its height. Such a\ncrush of finery and folly she had never seen. It clinched her\nconvictions concerning her state. She had not lived, could not lay claim\nto having lived, until something of this had come into her own life.\nWomen were spending money like water; she could see that in every\nelegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal\nthings in which the elegant dames were interested. And she--she had\nscarcely enough pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times\na month.\n\nThat night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It was not\nwhat the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servant working at\ndinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were running scenes of the\nplay. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress--the sweetheart\nwho had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman had won Carrie's\nheart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest, her sufferings\nhad been so real. The anguish which she had portrayed Carrie could feel.\nIt was done as she was sure she could do it. There were places in which\nshe could even do better. Hence she repeated the lines to herself. Oh,\nif she could only have such a part, how broad would be her life! She,\ntoo, could act appealingly.\n\nWhen Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking and\nthinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations broken in\nupon; so she said little or nothing.\n\n\"What's the matter, Carrie?\" said Hurstwood after a time, noticing her\nquiet, almost moody state.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Carrie. \"I don't feel very well to-night.\"\n\n\"Not sick, are you?\" he asked, approaching very close.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she said, almost pettishly, \"I just don't feel very good.\"\n\n\"That's too bad,\" he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest after\nhis slight bending over. \"I was thinking we might go to a show\nto-night.\"\n\n\"I don't want to go,\" said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions should\nhave thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. \"I've been to the\nmatinée this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Oh, you have?\" said Hurstwood. \"What was it?\"\n\n\"A Gold Mine.\"\n\n\"How was it?\"\n\n\"Pretty good,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"And you don't want to go again to-night?\"\n\n\"I don't think I do,\" she said.\n\nNevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the dinner\ntable, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach does wonders.\nShe went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered her equanimity.\nThe great awakening blow had, however, been delivered. As often as she\nmight recover from these discontented thoughts now, they would occur\nagain. Time and repetition--ah, the wonder of it! The dropping water and\nthe solid stone--how utterly it yields at last!\n\nNot long after this matinée experience--perhaps a month--Mrs. Vance\ninvited Carrie to an evening at the theatre with them. She heard Carrie\nsay that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.\n\n\"Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We're going\ndown to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Come along with\nus.\"\n\n\"I think I will,\" answered Carrie.\n\nShe began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past five\nfor the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's for\nposition in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence of her\nassociation with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly had her\nattention called by the latter to novelties in everything which pertains\nto a woman's apparel.\n\n\"Are you going to get such and such a hat?\" or, \"Have you seen the new\ngloves with the oval pearl buttons?\" were but sample phrases out of a\nlarge selection.\n\n\"The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie,\" said Mrs. Vance, \"get\nbutton, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all the rage\nthis fall.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They have some\nof the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know would look\nstunning on you. I said so when I saw it.\"\n\nCarrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they\nwere suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common between\npretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-nature so well that\nshe really took pleasure in suggesting to her the latest things.\n\n\"Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're\nselling at Lord & Taylor's?\" she said one day. \"They're the circular\nstyle, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one would\nlook so nice on you.\"\n\nCarrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up between her\nand Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest one thing and another,\nwhich Hurstwood agreed to without any expression of opinion. He noticed\nthe new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally, hearing much of Mrs.\nVance and her delightful ways, suspected whence the change came. He was\nnot inclined to offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that\nCarrie's wants were expanding. This did not appeal to him exactly, but\nhe cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood. Still, there\nwas something in the details of the transactions which caused Carrie to\nfeel that her requests were not a delight to him. He did not enthuse\nover the purchases. This led her to believe that neglect was creeping\nin, and so another small wedge was entered.\n\nNevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was the\nfact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her own\nsatisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in the thought\nthat if she must confine herself to a _best_, it was neat and fitting.\nShe looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs. Vance praised\nher, which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a noticeable\nbrightness into her large eyes. It was threatening rain, and Mr. Vance,\nat his wife's request, had called a coach.\n\n\"Your husband isn't coming?\" suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carrie in\nhis little parlour.\n\n\"No; he said he wouldn't be home for dinner.\"\n\n\"Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. He might\nturn up.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.\n\n\"Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows, though, I\nguess.\"\n\nCarrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note,\ngloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat.\n\n\"Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine,\" said Mrs.\nVance. \"He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?\"\n\n\"I'm very glad to meet you,\" said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie.\n\nThe latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart figure.\nShe also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking, and young, but\nnothing more.\n\n\"Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days,\" put in Vance, \"and\nwe're trying to show him around a little.\"\n\n\"Oh, are you?\" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer.\n\n\"Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so,\" said young\nAmes, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while Mrs. Vance\ncompleted the last touches of her toilet.\n\n\"I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?\" said\nCarrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.\n\n\"It is rather large to get around in a week,\" answered Ames, pleasantly.\n\nHe was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free of\naffectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcoming the last\ntraces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt at conversation,\nbut he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly courageous. Carrie\nfelt as if it were not going to be hard to talk to him.\n\n\"Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside.\"\n\n\"Come on, people,\" said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. \"Bob, you'll have\nto look after Mrs. Wheeler.\"\n\n\"I'll try to,\" said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. \"You won't\nneed much watching, will you?\" he volunteered, in a sort of ingratiating\nand help-me-out kind of way.\n\n\"Not very, I hope,\" said Carrie.\n\nThey descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and climbed\ninto the open coach.\n\n\"All right,\" said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance\nrolled away.\n\n\"What is it we're going to see?\" asked Ames.\n\n\"Sothern,\" said Vance, \"in 'Lord Chumley.'\"\n\n\"Oh, he is so good!\" said Mrs. Vance. \"He's just the funniest man.\"\n\n\"I notice the papers praise it,\" said Ames.\n\n\"I haven't any doubt,\" put in Vance, \"but we'll all enjoy it very much.\"\n\nAmes had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it his\nbounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to find her so\nyoung a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a respectful interest.\nThere was nothing of the dashing lady's man about him. He had respect\nfor the married state, and thought only of some pretty marriageable\ngirls in Indianapolis.\n\n\"Are you a born New Yorker?\" asked Ames of Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, no; I've only been here for two years.\"\n\n\"Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow.\"\n\n\"I don't seem to have,\" answered Carrie. \"It's about as strange to me as\nwhen I first came here.\"\n\n\"You're not from the West, are you?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'm from Wisconsin,\" she answered.\n\n\"Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here so\nvery long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who are here.\"\n\n\"What is your line?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"I'm connected with an electrical company,\" said the youth.\n\nCarrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional\ninterruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general and\npartially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached.\n\nCarrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking in the\nstreets which they were following. Coaches were numerous, pedestrians\nmany, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were crowded. At\nFifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights from several new\nhotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestion of sumptuous\nhotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, was noticeably\ncrowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress. At Sherry's an\nimposing doorman opened the coach door and helped them out. Young Ames\nheld Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps. They entered the\nlobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting\nthemselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room.\n\nIn all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. In the\nwhole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state had not\npermitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almost\nindescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that this\nwas the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter of expense\nlimited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class. Carrie had\nread of it often in the \"Morning\" and \"Evening World.\" She had seen\nnotices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at Sherry's. The Misses\nSo-and-so would give a party on Wednesday evening at Sherry's. Young Mr.\nSo-and-so would entertain a party of friends at a private luncheon on\nthe sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of conventional, perfunctory\nnotices of the doings of society, which she could scarcely refrain from\nscanning each day, had given her a distinct idea of the gorgeousness and\nluxury of this wonderful temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was\nreally in it. She had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large\nand portly doorman. She had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and\nportly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care\nof canes, overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber,\nall decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was\nMrs. Vance; young, beautiful, and well off--at least, sufficiently so to\ncome here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.\n\nVance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were seated\nparties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance and\ndignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the novitiate.\nIncandescent lights, the reflection of their glow in polished glasses,\nand the shine of gilt upon the walls, combined into one tone of light\nwhich it requires minutes of complacent observation to separate and take\nparticular note of. The white shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright\ncostumes of the ladies, diamonds, jewels, fine feathers--all were\nexceedingly noticeable.\n\nCarrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and accepted the\nseat which the head waiter provided for her. She was keenly aware of all\nthe little things that were done--the little genuflections and\nattentions of the waiters and head waiter which Americans pay for. The\nair with which the latter pulled out each chair, and the wave of the\nhand with which he motioned them to be seated, were worth several\ndollars in themselves.\n\nOnce seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and\nunwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the\nwonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over. The\nlarge bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an army,\nsidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure a ridiculous\nimpossibility--an order of soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen\nkinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the\nhalf-dozen; entrées, fish, and meats at prices which would house one\nover night in an average hotel. One dollar fifty and two dollars seemed\nto be the most common figures upon this most tastefully printed bill of\nfare.\n\nCarrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring chicken\ncarried her back to that other bill of fare and far different occasion\nwhen, for the first time, she sat with Drouet in a good restaurant in\nChicago. It was only momentary--a sad note as out of an old song--and\nthen it was gone. But in that flash was seen the other Carrie--poor,\nhungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed\nworld, from which she only wandered because she could not find work.\n\nOn the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg blue,\nset in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate mouldings of\nfruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic comfort. On the\nceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt, leading to a centre\nwhere spread a cluster of lights--incandescent globes mingled with\nglittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. The floor was of a\nreddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every direction were\nmirrors--tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors--reflecting and\nre-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred times.\n\nThe tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint of\nSherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware, the\nname of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the small,\nred-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on garments\nand faces, made them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an air of\nexclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed, scraped,\ntouched, and trifled with things. The exclusively personal attention\nwhich he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to one side,\nelbows akimbo, saying: \"Soup--green turtle, yes. One portion, yes.\nOysters--certainly--half-dozen--yes. Asparagus. Olives--yes.\"\n\nIt would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order for all,\ninviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the company with open\neyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so that the rich spent\ntheir days and evenings. Her poor little mind could not rise above\napplying each scene to all society. Every fine lady must be in the crowd\non Broadway in the afternoon, in the theatre at the matinée, in the\ncoaches and dining-halls at night. It must be glow and shine everywhere,\nwith coaches waiting, and footmen attending, and she was out of it all.\nIn two long years she had never even been in such a place as this.\n\nVance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in former\ndays. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side dishes,\nand had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down beside the\ntable in a wicker basket.\n\nAmes was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an\ninteresting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose rather\nlarge and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a good, wide,\nwell-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted slightly on one\nside. He seemed to have the least touch of boyishness to Carrie, and yet\nhe was a man full grown.\n\n\"Do you know,\" he said, turning back to Carrie, after his reflection, \"I\nsometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so much money this\nway.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at his\nseriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which she had\nnever pondered.\n\n\"Do you?\" she answered, interestedly.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"they pay so much more than these things are worth. They\nput on so much show.\"\n\n\"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it,\" said Mrs.\nVance.\n\n\"It doesn't do any harm,\" said Vance, who was still studying the bill of\nfare, though he had ordered.\n\nAmes was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his\nforehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As he\nstudied the crowd his eye was mild.\n\n\"Look at that woman's dress over there,\" he said, again turning to\nCarrie, and nodding in a direction.\n\n\"Where?\" said Carrie, following his eyes.\n\n\"Over there in the corner--way over. Do you see that brooch?\"\n\n\"Isn't it large?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen,\" said Ames.\n\n\"It is, isn't it?\" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to be\nagreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps\npreceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was better\neducated than she was--that his mind was better. He seemed to look it,\nand the saving grace in Carrie was that she could understand that people\ncould be wiser. She had seen a number of people in her life who reminded\nher of what she had vaguely come to think of as scholars. This strong\nyoung man beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold\nof things which she did not quite understand, but approved of. It was\nfine to be so, as a man, she thought.\n\nThe conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the\ntime--\"Moulding a Maiden,\" by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it. Vance\nhad seen it discussed in some of the papers.\n\n\"A man can make quite a strike writing a book,\" said Vance. \"I notice\nthis fellow Ross is very much talked about.\" He was looking at Carrie as\nhe spoke.\n\n\"I hadn't heard of him,\" said Carrie, honestly.\n\n\"Oh, I have,\" said Mrs. Vance. \"He's written lots of things. This last\nstory is pretty good.\"\n\n\"He doesn't amount to much,\" said Ames.\n\nCarrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.\n\n\"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'\" concluded Ames.\n\nCarrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read \"Dora Thorne,\" or had a\ngreat deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed\nthat people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed\nyouth, who looked something like a student to her, made fun of it. It\nwas poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, and for the first\ntime felt the pain of not understanding.\n\nYet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke.\nHe had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just kindly\nthought of a high order--the right thing to think, and wondered what\nelse was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that she listened\nand rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talked mostly to\nher.\n\nAs the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they\nwere hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little\nattentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation upon\nthe diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of\nIndianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a very bright mind,\nwhich was finding its chief development in electrical knowledge. His\nsympathies for other forms of information, however, and for types of\npeople, were quick and warm. The red glow on his head gave it a sandy\ntinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrie noticed all these things\nas he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young. This man was far\nahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, saner and brighter than\nDrouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she thought that he was\nexceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his interest in her was a\nfar-off one. She was not in his life, nor any of the things that touched\nhis life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things, they appealed to\nher.\n\n\"I shouldn't care to be rich,\" he told her, as the dinner proceeded and\nthe supply of food warmed up his sympathies; \"not rich enough to spend\nmy money this way.\"\n\n\"Oh, wouldn't you?\" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing\nitself distinctly upon her for the first time.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"What good would it do? A man doesn't need this sort of\nthing to be happy.\"\n\nCarrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight\nwith her.\n\n\"He probably could be happy,\" she thought to herself, \"all alone. He's\nso strong.\"\n\nMr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these\nimpressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were sufficient,\nhowever, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself\nupon Carrie without words. There was something in him, or the world he\nmoved in, which appealed to her. He reminded her of scenes she had seen\non the stage--the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she knew\nnot what. He had taken away some of the bitterness of the contrast\nbetween this life and her life, and all by a certain calm indifference\nwhich concerned only him.\n\nAs they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and\nthen they were off again, and so to the show.\n\nDuring the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very attentively.\nHe mentioned things in the play which she most approved of--things which\nswayed her deeply.\n\n\"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?\" she asked once.\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" he said, \"to be a good one. I think the theatre a great\nthing.\"\n\nJust this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she could\nonly be an actress--a good one! This man was wise--he knew--and he\napproved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he would\napprove of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had, although\nit did not concern her at all. She did not know why she felt this way.\n\nAt the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going\nback with them.\n\n\"Oh, aren't you?\" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" he said; \"I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third\nStreet.\"\n\nCarrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development shocked\nher. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening, but she had\nthought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours, the minutes of\nthe world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into them!\n\nShe said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it make?\nStill, the coach seemed lorn.\n\nWhen she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did not\nknow whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference could\nit make--what difference could it make?\n\nHurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were\nscattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then\nretreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think.\nIt was disagreeable to her.\n\nBack in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her little\nhands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of longing and\nconflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye legions of hope and\npity--of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, and beginning to see.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nWITHOUT THE WALLED CITY: THE SLOPE OF THE YEARS\n\n\nThe immediate result of this was nothing. Results from such things are\nusually long in growing. Morning brings a change of feeling. The\nexistent condition invariably pleads for itself. It is only at odd\nmoments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. The heart\nunderstands when it is confronted with contrasts. Take them away and the\nache subsides.\n\nCarrie went on, leading much this same life for six months thereafter or\nmore. She did not see Ames any more. He called once upon the Vances, but\nshe only heard about it through the young wife. Then he went West, and\nthere was a gradual subsidence of whatever personal attraction had\nexisted. The mental effect of the thing had not gone, however, and never\nwould entirely. She had an ideal to contrast men by--particularly men\nclose to her.\n\nDuring all this time--a period rapidly approaching three\nyears--Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. There was no\napparent slope downward, and distinctly none upward, so far as the\ncasual observer might have seen. But psychologically there was a change,\nwhich was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctly indeed.\nThis was in the mere matter of the halt his career had received when he\ndeparted from Chicago. A man's fortune or material progress is very much\nthe same as his bodily growth. Either he is growing stronger, healthier,\nwiser, as the youth approaching manhood, or he is growing weaker,\nolder, less incisive mentally, as the man approaching old age. There are\nno other states. Frequently there is a period between the cessation of\nyouthful accretion and the setting in, in the case of the middle-aged\nman, of the tendency toward decay when the two processes are almost\nperfectly balanced and there is little doing in either direction. Given\ntime enough, however, the balance becomes a sagging to the grave side.\nSlowly at first, then with a modest momentum, and at last the graveward\nprocess is in the full swing. So it is frequently with man's fortune. If\nits process of accretion is never halted, if the balancing stage is\nnever reached, there will be no toppling. Rich men are, frequently, in\nthese days, saved from this dissolution of their fortune by their\nability to hire younger brains. These younger brains look upon the\ninterests of the fortune as their own, and so steady and direct its\nprogress. If each individual were left absolutely to the care of his own\ninterests, and were given time enough in which to grow exceedingly old,\nhis fortune would pass as his strength and will. He and his would be\nutterly dissolved and scattered unto the four winds of the heavens.\n\nBut now see wherein the parallel changes. A fortune, like a man, is an\norganism which draws to itself other minds and other strength than that\ninherent in the founder. Beside the young minds drawn to it by salaries,\nit becomes allied with young forces, which make for its existence even\nwhen the strength and wisdom of the founder are fading. It may be\nconserved by the growth of a community or of a state. It may be involved\nin providing something for which there is a growing demand. This removes\nit at once beyond the special care of the founder. It needs not so much\nforesight now as direction. The man wanes, the need continues or grows,\nand the fortune, fallen into whose hands it may, continues. Hence, some\nmen never recognise the turning in the tide of their abilities. It is\nonly in chance cases, where a fortune or a state of success is wrested\nfrom them, that the lack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes\napparent. Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to\nsee that he was no longer young. If he did not, it was due wholly to the\nfact that his state was so well balanced that an absolute change for the\nworse did not show.\n\nNot trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analyse the\nchange that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body, but he\nfelt the depression of it. Constant comparison between his old state and\nhis new showed a balance for the worse, which produced a constant state\nof gloom or, at least, depression. Now, it has been shown experimentally\nthat a constantly subdued frame of mind produces certain poisons in the\nblood, called katastates, just as virtuous feelings of pleasure and\ndelight produce helpful chemicals called anastates. The poisons\ngenerated by remorse inveigh against the system, and eventually produce\nmarked physical deterioration. To these Hurstwood was subject.\n\nIn the course of time it told upon his temper. His eye no longer\npossessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterised it\nin Adams Street. His step was not as sharp and firm. He was given to\nthinking, thinking, thinking. The new friends he made were not\ncelebrities. They were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual and cruder,\ngrade. He could not possibly take the pleasure in this company that he\nhad in that of those fine frequenters of the Chicago resort. He was left\nto brood.\n\nSlowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, and make at\nhome these people who visited the Warren Street place passed from him.\nMore and more slowly the significance of the realm he had left began to\nbe clear. It did not seem so wonderful to be in it when he was in it. It\nhad seemed very easy for any one to get up there and have ample raiment\nand money to spend, but now that he was out of it, how far off it\nbecame. He began to see as one sees a city with a wall about it. Men\nwere posted at the gates. You could not get in. Those inside did not\ncare to come out to see who you were. They were so merry inside there\nthat all those outside were forgotten, and he was on the outside.\n\nEach day he could read in the evening papers of the doings within this\nwalled city. In the notices of passengers for Europe he read the names\nof eminent frequenters of his old resort. In the theatrical column\nappeared, from time to time, announcements of the latest successes of\nmen he had known. He knew that they were at their old gayeties. Pullmans\nwere hauling them to and fro about the land, papers were greeting them\nwith interesting mentions, the elegant lobbies of hotels and the glow of\npolished dining-rooms were keeping them close within the walled city.\nMen whom he had known, men whom he had tipped glasses with--rich men,\nand he was forgotten! Who was Mr. Wheeler? What was the Warren Street\nresort? Bah!\n\nIf one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a type of\nmind--that such feelings require a higher mental development--I would\nurge for their consideration the fact that it is the higher mental\ndevelopment that does away with such thoughts. It is the higher mental\ndevelopment which induces philosophy and that fortitude which refuses to\ndwell upon such things--refuses to be made to suffer by their\nconsideration. The common type of mind is exceedingly keen on all\nmatters which relate to its physical welfare--exceedingly keen. It is\nthe unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of a hundred\ndollars. It is the Epictetus who smiles when the last vestige of\nphysical welfare is removed.\n\nThe time came, in the third year, when this thinking began to produce\nresults in the Warren Street place. The tide of patronage dropped a\nlittle below what it had been at its best since he had been there. This\nirritated and worried him.\n\nThere came a night when he confessed to Carrie that the business was not\ndoing as well this month as it had the month before. This was in lieu of\ncertain suggestions she had made concerning little things she wanted to\nbuy. She had not failed to notice that he did not seem to consult her\nabout buying clothes for himself. For the first time, it struck her as a\nruse, or that he said it so that she would not think of asking for\nthings. Her reply was mild enough, but her thoughts were rebellious. He\nwas not looking after her at all. She was depending for her enjoyment\nupon the Vances.\n\nAnd now the latter announced that they were going away. It was\napproaching spring, and they were going North.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Mrs. Vance to Carrie, \"we think we might as well give up\nthe flat and store our things. We'll be gone for the summer, and it\nwould be a useless expense. I think we'll settle a little farther down\ntown when we come back.\"\n\nCarrie heard this with genuine sorrow. She had enjoyed Mrs. Vance's\ncompanionship so much. There was no one else in the house whom she knew.\nAgain she would be all alone.\n\nHurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and the departure\nof the Vances came together. So Carrie had loneliness and this mood of\nher husband to enjoy at the same time. It was a grievous thing. She\nbecame restless and dissatisfied, not exactly, as she thought, with\nHurstwood, but with life. What was it? A very dull round indeed. What\ndid she have? Nothing but this narrow, little flat. The Vances could\ntravel, they could do the things worth doing, and here she was. For what\nwas she made, anyhow? More thought followed, and then tears--tears\nseemed justified, and the only relief in the world.\n\nFor another period this state continued, the twain leading a rather\nmonotonous life, and then there was a slight change for the worse. One\nevening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modify Carrie's desire\nfor clothes and the general strain upon his ability to provide, said:\n\n\"I don't think I'll ever be able to do much with Shaughnessy.\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! He won't agree to anything to improve\nthe place, and it won't ever pay without it.\"\n\n\"Can't you make him?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"No; I've tried. The only thing I can see, if I want to improve, is to\nget hold of a place of my own.\"\n\n\"Why don't you?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, all I have is tied up in there just now. If I had a chance to\nsave a while I think I could open a place that would give us plenty of\nmoney.\"\n\n\"Can't we save?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"We might try it,\" he suggested. \"I've been thinking that if we'd take a\nsmaller flat down town and live economically for a year, I would have\nenough, with what I have invested, to open a good place. Then we could\narrange to live as you want to.\"\n\n\"It would suit me all right,\" said Carrie, who, nevertheless, felt badly\nto think it had come to this. Talk of a smaller flat sounded like\npoverty.\n\n\"There are lots of nice little flats down around Sixth Avenue, below\nFourteenth Street. We might get one down there.\"\n\n\"I'll look at them if you say so,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"I think I could break away from this fellow inside of a year,\" said\nHurstwood. \"Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's going on\nnow.\"\n\n\"I'll look around,\" said Carrie, observing that the proposed change\nseemed to be a serious thing with him.\n\nThe upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected; not\nwithout great gloom on the part of Carrie. It really affected her more\nseriously than anything that had yet happened. She began to look upon\nHurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband. She felt\nthoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot was cast with his,\nwhatever it might be; but she began to see that he was gloomy and\ntaciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man. He looked a little bit\nold to her about the eyes and mouth now, and there were other things\nwhich placed him in his true rank, so far as her estimation was\nconcerned. She began to feel that she had made a mistake. Incidentally,\nshe also began to recall the fact that he had practically forced her to\nflee with him.\n\nThe new flat was located in Thirteenth Street, a half block west of\nSixth Avenue, and contained only four rooms. The new neighbourhood did\nnot appeal to Carrie as much. There were no trees here, no west view of\nthe river. The street was solidly built up. There were twelve families\nhere, respectable enough, but nothing like the Vances. Richer people\nrequired more space.\n\nBeing left alone in this little place, Carrie did without a girl. She\nmade it charming enough, but could not make it delight her. Hurstwood\nwas not inwardly pleased to think that they should have to modify their\nstate, but he argued that he could do nothing. He must put the best face\non it, and let it go at that.\n\nHe tried to show Carrie that there was no cause for financial alarm, but\nonly congratulation over the chance he would have at the end of the year\nby taking her rather more frequently to the theatre and by providing a\nliberal table. This was for the time only. He was getting in the frame\nof mind where he wanted principally to be alone and to be allowed to\nthink. The disease of brooding was beginning to claim him as a victim.\nOnly the newspapers and his own thoughts were worth while. The delight\nof love had again slipped away. It was a case of live, now, making the\nbest you can out of a very commonplace station in life.\n\nThe road downward has but few landings and level places. The very state\nof his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach to widen\nbetween him and his partner. At last that individual began to wish that\nHurstwood was out of it. It so happened, however, that a real estate\ndeal on the part of the owner of the land arranged things even more\neffectually than ill-will could have schemed.\n\n\"Did you see that?\" said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood, pointing\nto the real estate column in a copy of the \"Herald,\" which he held.\n\n\"No, what is it?\" said Hurstwood, looking down the items of news.\n\n\"The man who owns this ground has sold it.\"\n\n\"You don't say so?\" said Hurstwood.\n\nHe looked, and there was the notice. Mr. August Viele had yesterday\nregistered the transfer of the lot, 25 × 75 feet, at the corner of\nWarren and Hudson streets, to J. F. Slawson for the sum of $57,000.\n\n\"Our lease expires when?\" asked Hurstwood, thinking. \"Next February,\nisn't it?\"\n\n\"That's right,\" said Shaughnessy.\n\n\"It doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it,\" remarked\nHurstwood, looking back to the paper.\n\n\"We'll hear, I guess, soon enough,\" said Shaughnessy.\n\nSure enough, it did develop. Mr. Slawson owned the property adjoining,\nand was going to put up a modern office building. The present one was to\nbe torn down. It would take probably a year and a half to complete the\nother one.\n\nAll these things developed by degrees, and Hurstwood began to ponder\nover what would become of the saloon. One day he spoke about it to his\npartner.\n\n\"Do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else in the\nneighbourhood?\"\n\n\"What would be the use?\" said Shaughnessy. \"We couldn't get another\ncorner around here.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't try it,\" said the other.\n\nThe approaching change now took on a most serious aspect to Hurstwood.\nDissolution meant the loss of his thousand dollars, and he could not\nsave another thousand in the time. He understood that Shaughnessy was\nmerely tired of the arrangement, and would probably lease the new\ncorner, when completed, alone. He began to worry about the necessity of\na new connection and to see impending serious financial straits unless\nsomething turned up. This left him in no mood to enjoy his flat or\nCarrie, and consequently the depression invaded that quarter.\n\nMeanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, but\nopportunities were not numerous. More, he had not the same impressive\npersonality which he had when he first came to New York. Bad thoughts\nhad put a shade into his eyes which did not impress others favourably.\nNeither had he thirteen hundred dollars in hand to talk with. About a\nmonth later, finding that he had not made any progress, Shaughnessy\nreported definitely that Slawson would not extend the lease.\n\n\"I guess this thing's got to come to an end,\" he said, affecting an air\nof concern.\n\n\"Well, if it has, it has,\" answered Hurstwood, grimly. He would not give\nthe other a key to his opinions, whatever they were. He should not have\nthe satisfaction.\n\nA day or two later he saw that he must say something to Carrie.\n\n\"You know,\" he said, \"I think I'm going to get the worst of my deal down\nthere.\"\n\n\"How is that?\" asked Carrie in astonishment.\n\n\"Well, the man who owns the ground has sold it, and the new owner won't\nre-lease it to us. The business may come to an end.\"\n\n\"Can't you start somewhere else?\"\n\n\"There doesn't seem to be any place. Shaughnessy doesn't want to.\"\n\n\"Do you lose what you put in?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hurstwood, whose face was a study.\n\n\"Oh, isn't that too bad?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"It's a trick,\" said Hurstwood. \"That's all. They'll start another place\nthere all right.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour what it\nmeant. It was serious, very serious.\n\n\"Do you think you can get something else?\" she ventured, timidly.\n\nHurstwood thought a while. It was all up with the bluff about money and\ninvestment. She could see now that he was \"broke.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said solemnly; \"I can try.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nTHE GRIND OF THE MILLSTONES: A SAMPLE OF CHAFF\n\n\nCarrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood, once\nshe got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several days for her to\nfully realise that the approach of the dissolution of her husband's\nbusiness meant commonplace struggle and privation. Her mind went back to\nher early venture in Chicago, the Hansons and their flat, and her heart\nrevolted. That was terrible! Everything about poverty was terrible. She\nwished she knew a way out. Her recent experiences with the Vances had\nwholly unfitted her to view her own state with complacence. The glamour\nof the high life of the city had, in the few experiences afforded her by\nthe former, seized her completely. She had been taught how to dress and\nwhere to go without having ample means to do either. Now, these\nthings--ever-present realities as they were--filled her eyes and mind.\nThe more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed this\nother. And now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to remove\nthis other world far upward like a heaven to which any Lazarus might\nextend, appealingly, his hands.\n\nSo, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He had gone,\nbut here was his word that riches were not everything; that there was a\ngreat deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage was good, and\nthe literature she read poor. He was a strong man and clean--how much\nstronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she only half formulated\nto herself, but the difference was painful. It was something to which\nshe voluntarily closed her eyes.\n\nDuring the last three months of the Warren Street connection, Hurstwood\ntook parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business advertisements.\nIt was a more or less depressing business, wholly because of the thought\nthat he must soon get something or he would begin to live on the few\nhundred dollars he was saving, and then he would have nothing to\ninvest--he would have to hire out as a clerk.\n\nEverything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity, was\neither too expensive or too wretched for him. Besides, winter was\ncoming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a general\nfeeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so. In his\nworry, other people's worries became apparent. No item about a firm\nfailing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedly\nof starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morning papers.\nOnce the \"World\" came out with a flaring announcement about \"80,000\npeople out of employment in New York this winter,\" which struck as a\nknife at his heart.\n\n\"Eighty thousand!\" he thought. \"What an awful thing that is.\"\n\nThis was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the world had\nseemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to see similar\nthings in the \"Daily News,\" in Chicago, but they did not hold his\nattention. Now, these things were like grey clouds hovering along the\nhorizon of a clear day. They threatened to cover and obscure his life\nwith chilly greyness. He tried to shake them off, to forget and brace\nup. Sometimes he said to himself, mentally:\n\n\"What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeks more. Even\nif worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on for six months.\"\n\nCuriously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionally\nreverted to his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts for the\nfirst three years as much as possible. He hated her, and he could get\nalong without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now, however,\nwhen he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what she was\ndoing, how his children were getting along. He could see them living as\nnicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and using his property.\n\n\"By George! it's a shame they should have it all,\" he vaguely thought to\nhimself on several occasions. \"I didn't do anything.\"\n\nAs he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to his\ntaking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had he\ndone--what in the world--that should bar him out this way and heap such\ndifficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since he was\ncomfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him.\n\n\"She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn't do so\nmuch, if everybody could just know.\"\n\nThere was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It was only\na mental justification he was seeking from himself--something that would\nenable him to bear his state as a righteous man.\n\nOne afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed up, he\nleft the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised in the\n\"Herald.\" One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, but did not\nenter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could not\nabide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew contained many showy\nresorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely\nfitted up. He talked around about investments for fully three-quarters\nof an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor,\nand that was the reason he wished a partner.\n\n\"Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest\nhere?\" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit.\n\n\"Three thousand,\" said the man.\n\nHurstwood's jaw fell.\n\n\"Cash?\" he said.\n\n\"Cash.\"\n\nHe tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really buy;\nbut his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would think it over,\nand came away. The man he had been talking to sensed his condition in a\nvague way.\n\n\"I don't think he wants to buy,\" he said to himself. \"He doesn't talk\nright.\"\n\nThe afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a\ndisagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east side,\nnear Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growing dim, when\nhe reached there. A portly German kept this place.\n\n\"How about this ad. of yours?\" asked Hurstwood, who rather objected to\nthe looks of the place.\n\n\"Oh, dat iss all over,\" said the German. \"I vill not sell now.\"\n\n\"Oh, is that so?\"\n\n\"Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Hurstwood, turning around.\n\nThe German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.\n\n\"The crazy ass!\" he said to himself. \"What does he want to advertise\nfor?\"\n\nWholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had only a\nlight in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a match and,\nlighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without even greeting her.\nShe came to the door and looked in.\n\n\"It's you, is it?\" she said, and went back.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he had\nbought.\n\nCarrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome when\ngloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally dark\nof skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite a\ndisagreeable figure.\n\nCarrie set the table and brought in the meal.\n\n\"Dinner's ready,\" she said, passing him for something.\n\nHe did not answer, reading on.\n\nShe came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched.\n\n\"Won't you eat now?\" she asked.\n\nHe folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, except\nfor the \"Pass me's.\"\n\n\"It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?\" ventured Carrie, after a time.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\nHe only picked at his food.\n\n\"Are you still sure to close up?\" said Carrie, venturing to take up the\nsubject which they had discussed often enough.\n\n\"Of course we are,\" he said, with the slightest modification of\nsharpness.\n\nThis retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself.\n\n\"You needn't talk like that,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh!\" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more, but\nletting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie left her\nseat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she was hurt.\n\n\"Don't go 'way,\" he said, as she started back into the kitchen. \"Eat\nyour dinner.\"\n\nShe passed, not answering.\n\nHe looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on his\ncoat.\n\n\"I'm going down town, Carrie,\" he said, coming out. \"I'm out of sorts\nto-night.\"\n\nShe did not answer.\n\n\"Don't be angry,\" he said. \"It will be all right to-morrow.\"\n\nHe looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at her\ndishes.\n\n\"Good-bye!\" he said finally, and went out.\n\nThis was the first strong result of the situation between them, but with\nthe nearing of the last day of the business the gloom became almost a\npermanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings about the\nmatter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was drifting. It got\nso that they talked even less than usual, and yet it was not Hurstwood\nwho felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him.\nThis he noticed. It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to\nhim. He made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant\ntask, and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by her\nmanner and made it more impossible.\n\nAt last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who had\ngot his mind into such a state where a thunder-clap and raging storm\nwould have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to find that\nit was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature was\npleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it wasn't so\nterrible, after all.\n\n\"Well,\" he said to Carrie, \"to-day's my last day on earth.\"\n\nCarrie smiled in answer to his humour.\n\nHurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have lost a\nload.\n\n\"I'll go down for a little while,\" he said after breakfast, \"and then\nI'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day looking about. I\nthink I can get something, now this thing's off my hands.\"\n\nHe went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there. They\nhad made all arrangements to share according to their interests. When,\nhowever, he had been there several hours, gone out three more, and\nreturned, his elation had departed. As much as he had objected to the\nplace, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt sorry. He wished that\nthings were different.\n\nShaughnessy was coolly business-like.\n\n\"Well,\" he said at five o'clock, \"we might as well count the change and\ndivide.\"\n\nThey did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided.\n\n\"Good-night,\" said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort to be\ngenial.\n\n\"So long,\" said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice.\n\nThus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded.\n\nCarrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride up,\nHurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood.\n\n\"Well?\" said Carrie, inquisitively.\n\n\"I'm out of that,\" he answered, taking off his coat.\n\nAs she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now.\nThey ate and talked a little.\n\n\"Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"I'll have to get something else and save up.\"\n\n\"It would be nice if you could get some place,\" said Carrie, prompted by\nanxiety and hope.\n\n\"I guess I will,\" he said reflectively.\n\nFor some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the morning\nand sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himself with the\nthought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could still make\nsome advantageous arrangement. He thought about going to some brewery,\nwhich, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which they leased, and\nget them to help him. Then he remembered that he would have to pay out\nseveral hundred any way for fixtures and that he would have nothing left\nfor his monthly expenses. It was costing him nearly eighty dollars a\nmonth to live.\n\n\"No,\" he said, in his sanest moments, \"I can't do it. I'll get something\nelse and save up.\"\n\nThis getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment he\nbegan to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place? Where\nshould he get such a position? The papers contained no requests for\nmanagers. Such positions, he knew well enough, were either secured by\nlong years of service or were bought with a half or third interest. Into\na place important enough to need such a manager he had not money enough\nto buy.\n\nNevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and his\nappearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding.\nPeople, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age, stout\nand well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortable owner of\nsomething, a man from whom the common run of mortals could well expect\ngratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, and comfortably built,\nwalking was not easy. He had not been used to exercise for many years.\nHis legs tired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at the\nclose of the day, even when he took street cars in almost every\ndirection. The mere getting up and down, if long continued, produced\nthis result.\n\nThe fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he well\nunderstood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded his\nsearch. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he was\nashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So he hesitated,\nwondering what to do.\n\nHe thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had had no\nexperience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no acquaintances or\nfriends in that line to whom he could go. He did know some hotel owners\nin several cities, including New York, but they knew of his dealings\nwith Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them. He thought of other\nlines suggested by large buildings or businesses which he knew\nof--wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns, and the like--but\nhe had had no experience.\n\nHow to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he have to\ngo personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then,\ndistinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking for\nsomething to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he could not\ndo that.\n\nHe really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being cold,\nstepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know that any\ndecent looking individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby. This was\nin the Broadway Central, which was then one of the most important hotels\nin the city. Taking a chair here was a painful thing to him. To think he\nshould come to this! He had heard loungers about hotels called\nchair-warmers. He had called them that himself in his day. But here he\nwas, despite the possibility of meeting some one who knew him, shielding\nhimself from cold and the weariness of the streets in a hotel lobby.\n\n\"I can't do this way,\" he said to himself. \"There's no use of my\nstarting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'll\nthink of some places and then look them up.\"\n\nIt occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes open,\nbut he put this out of his mind. Bartender--he, the ex-manager!\n\nIt grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he went\nhome. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was a\nfeeble imitation. The rocking-chair in the dining-room was comfortable.\nHe sank into it gladly, with several papers he had bought, and began to\nread.\n\nAs she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner, Carrie\nsaid:\n\n\"The man was here for the rent to-day.\"\n\n\"Oh, was he?\" said Hurstwood.\n\nThe least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this was\nFebruary 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in his\npocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when nothing\nis coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man looks at\nthe one possible saving cure. Then he counted off twenty-eight dollars.\n\n\"Here you are,\" he said to Carrie, when she came through again.\n\nHe buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it--the relief\nfrom walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were these floods of\ntelegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part. Here was a\nyoung, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper drawing, suing\na rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn for divorce. Here was\nanother item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in ice and snow off\nPrince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, bright column told of the doings\nin the theatrical world--the plays produced, the actors appearing, the\nmanagers making announcements. Fannie Davenport was just opening at the\nFifth Avenue. Daly was producing \"King Lear.\" He read of the early\ndeparture for the season of a party composed of the Vanderbilts and\ntheir friends for Florida. An interesting shooting affray was on in the\nmountains of Kentucky. So he read, read, read, rocking in the warm room\nnear the radiator and waiting for dinner to be served.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nTHE PASSING OF EFFORT: THE VISAGE OF CARE\n\n\nThe next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a long list\nof advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to the\nmale-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day was\nbefore him--a long day in which to discover something--and this was how\nhe must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, which mostly\nconcerned bakers, bushelmen, cooks, compositors, drivers, and the like,\nfinding two things only which arrested his eye. One was a cashier wanted\nin a wholesale furniture house, and the other a salesman for a whiskey\nhouse. He had never thought of the latter. At once he decided to look\nthat up.\n\nThe firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers.\n\nHe was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance.\n\n\"Good-morning, sir,\" said the latter, thinking at first that he was\nencountering one of his out-of-town customers.\n\n\"Good-morning,\" said Hurstwood. \"You advertised, I believe, for a\nsalesman?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come to\nhim. \"Yes. Yes, I did.\"\n\n\"I thought I'd drop in,\" said Hurstwood, with dignity. \"I've had some\nexperience in that line myself.\"\n\n\"Oh, have you?\" said the man. \"What experience have you had?\"\n\n\"Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently I owned a\nthird-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said the man.\n\nHurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion.\n\n\"We did want a salesman,\" said the man. \"I don't know as it's anything\nyou'd care to take hold of, though.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Hurstwood. \"Well, I'm in no position to choose, just at\npresent. If it were open, I should be glad to get it.\"\n\nThe man did not take kindly at all to his \"No position to choose.\" He\nwanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something better.\nEspecially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active, and glad to\nwork actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not please him at all.\nHe had more of an air than his employers.\n\n\"Well,\" he said in answer, \"we'd be glad to consider your application.\nWe shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you send us your\nreferences.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nHe nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at the\nfurniture company's address, and saw that it was in West Twenty-third\nStreet. Accordingly, he went up there. The place was not large enough,\nhowever. It looked moderate, the men in it idle and small salaried. He\nwalked by, glancing in, and then decided not to go in there.\n\n\"They want a girl, probably, at ten a week,\" he said.\n\nAt one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in Madison\nSquare. There he pondered over places which he might look up. He was\ntired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way, through Madison\nSquare Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon a busy scene. He\ndecided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a while. It was warm in\nthere and bright. He had seen no one he knew at the Broadway Central. In\nall likelihood he would encounter no one here. Finding a seat on one of\nthe red plush divans close to the great windows which look out on\nBroadway's busy rout, he sat musing. His state did not seem so bad in\nhere. Sitting still and looking out, he could take some slight\nconsolation in the few hundred dollars he had in his purse. He could\nforget, in a measure, the weariness of the street and his tiresome\nsearches. Still, it was only escape from a severe to a less severe\nstate. He was still gloomy and disheartened. There, minutes seemed to go\nvery slowly. An hour was a long, long time in passing. It was filled for\nhim with observations and mental comments concerning the actual guests\nof the hotel, who passed in and out, and those more prosperous\npedestrians whose good fortune showed in their clothes and spirits as\nthey passed along Broadway, outside. It was nearly the first time since\nhe had arrived in the city that his leisure afforded him ample\nopportunity to contemplate this spectacle. Now, being, perforce, idle\nhimself, he wondered at the activity of others. How gay were the youths\nhe saw, how pretty the women. Such fine clothes they all wore. They were\nso intent upon getting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast by\nmagnificent girls. Ah, the money it required to train with such--how\nwell he knew! How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to\ndo so!\n\nThe clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but he thought\nhe would go back to the flat.\n\nThis going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carrie\nwould think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. He\nhoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Over\nthere he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chair and\nread. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. He could\nread his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie was reading, quite\nalone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it was.\n\n\"You'll hurt your eyes,\" he said when he saw her.\n\nAfter taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make some\nlittle report of his day.\n\n\"I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company,\" he said. \"I may go\nout on the road.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't that be nice!\" said Carrie.\n\n\"It wouldn't be such a bad thing,\" he answered.\n\nAlways from the man at the corner now he bought two papers--the \"Evening\nWorld\" and \"Evening Sun.\" So now he merely picked his papers up, as he\ncame by, without stopping.\n\nHe drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Then it was\nas the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the items he so well\nloved to read.\n\nThe next day was even worse than the one before, because now he could\nnot think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers he studied--till\nten o'clock--appealed to him. He felt that he ought to go out, and yet\nhe sickened at the thought. Where to, where to?\n\n\"You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week,\" said Carrie,\nquietly.\n\nThey had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week in her\nhands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a little sigh as\nshe said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dread of the\nthing. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming in.\n\n\"Lord!\" he said, in his own thoughts, \"this can't go on.\"\n\nTo Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that her request\ndisturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressing thing.\n\n\"Yet, what have I got to do with it?\" she thought. \"Oh, why should I be\nmade to worry?\"\n\nHurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up some\nplace. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-first\nStreet. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twenty\nblocks' walk.\n\n\"I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave,\" he thought.\n\nThus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his tonsorial\ntreatment.\n\nAgain, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and this\ncontinued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining him, and\neach day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into lobby\nidleness.\n\nAt last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not go\nout at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon. It was a regular\nflurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it was still coming\ndown with a high wind, and the papers announced a blizzard. From out the\nfront windows one could see a deep, soft bedding.\n\n\"I guess I'll not try to go out to-day,\" he said to Carrie at breakfast.\n\"It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say.\"\n\n\"The man hasn't brought my coal, either,\" said Carrie, who ordered by\nthe bushel.\n\n\"I'll go over and see about it,\" said Hurstwood. This was the first time\nhe had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the wish to sit\nabout the house prompted it as a sort of compensation for the privilege.\n\nAll day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from a\ngeneral blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to the details of\nthe storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress of the poor in\nlarge type.\n\nHurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try to\nthink about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and tying up\nall things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly comfortable\nand toasted his feet.\n\nCarrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of the\nstorm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation too\nphilosophically.\n\nHurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention to\nCarrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to disturb\nhim.\n\nThe next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold. Hurstwood\ntook the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he volunteered to do a\nfew other little things. One was to go to the butcher, another to the\ngrocery. He really thought nothing of these little services in\nconnection with their true significance. He felt as if he were not\nwholly useless--indeed, in such a stress of weather, quite worth while\nabout the house.\n\nOn the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm was\nover. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets would be.\n\nIt was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way.\nOwing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He went\nacross Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on\nBroadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down in\nPearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he changed\nhis mind.\n\n\"What's the use?\" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. \"I\ncouldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. I\nguess I'll get off,\" and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat and\nwaited again, wondering what he could do.\n\nWhile he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well-dressed man\npassed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of his\nmemory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognised Cargill, the owner of\nthe large stables in Chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen at\nAvery Hall, the night Carrie appeared there. The remembrance of how this\nindividual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was also\non the instant clear.\n\nHurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty he\nfelt.\n\n\"Why, it's Hurstwood!\" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that he\nhad not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoided\nthis meeting.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hurstwood. \"How are you?\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about.\n\"Stopping here?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Hurstwood, \"just keeping an appointment.\"\n\n\"I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of you.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm here now,\" answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away.\n\n\"Doing well, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Excellent.\"\n\n\"Glad to hear it.\"\n\nThey looked at one another, rather embarrassed.\n\n\"Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave you. So\nlong.\"\n\nHurstwood nodded his head.\n\n\"Damn it all,\" he murmured, turning toward the door. \"I knew that would\nhappen.\"\n\nHe walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered 1.30.\nHe tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The day was so\nbad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began to feel wet and\ncold, and he boarded a car. This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which\nwas as good as anywhere else. Landed here, he turned to walk back along\nSeventh Avenue, but the slush was too much. The misery of lounging about\nwith nowhere to go became intolerable. He felt as if he were catching\ncold.\n\nStopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no day\nto be out; he would go home.\n\nCarrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.\n\n\"It's a miserable day out,\" was all he said. Then he took off his coat\nand changed his shoes.\n\nThat night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was feverish\nuntil morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him. He\nwas a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a\ndull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard about\nthe eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal to\nher. She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something about\nthe man held her aloof.\n\nToward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggested\nhe go to bed.\n\n\"You'd better sleep alone,\" she said, \"you'll feel better. I'll open\nyour bed for you now.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he said.\n\nAs she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state.\n\n\"What a life! What a life!\" was her one thought.\n\nOnce during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and\nreading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In the\nfront room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and cried.\nThis was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in a small\nflat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent to her.\nShe was merely a servant to him now, nothing more.\n\nThis crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she\nlighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed the\nfact.\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" he asked, looking into her face. His voice\nwas hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome quality.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Carrie, weakly.\n\n\"You've been crying,\" he said.\n\n\"I haven't, either,\" she answered.\n\nIt was not for love of him, that he knew.\n\n\"You needn't cry,\" he said, getting into bed. \"Things will come out all\nright.\"\n\nIn a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayed\nin. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers, and these\nhe read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out, but meeting\nanother of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy sitting about\nhotel corridors.\n\nEvery day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of going\nanywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything.\n\nNaturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did things.\nShe was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and her\nlittle deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not, however,\nbefore her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous thing.\nSitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very quickly. Every\nTuesday Carrie asked for her money.\n\n\"Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?\" he asked one Tuesday\nmorning.\n\n\"I do the best I can,\" said Carrie.\n\nNothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said:\n\n\"Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?\"\n\n\"I didn't know there was such a market,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"They say you can get things lots cheaper there.\"\n\nCarrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things which\nshe did not like at all.\n\n\"How much do you pay for a pound of meat?\" he asked one day.\n\n\"Oh, there are different prices,\" said Carrie. \"Sirloin steak is\ntwenty-two cents.\"\n\n\"That's steep, isn't it?\" he answered.\n\nSo he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing days, it\nseemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices and remembered\nthem.\n\nHis errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a small way, of\ncourse. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was stopped by him.\n\n\"Where are you going, Carrie?\" he asked.\n\n\"Over to the baker's,\" she answered.\n\n\"I'd just as leave go for you,\" he said.\n\nShe acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the corner\nfor the papers.\n\n\"Is there anything you want?\" he would say.\n\nBy degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost the\nweekly payment of twelve dollars.\n\n\"You want to pay me to-day,\" she said one Tuesday, about this time.\n\n\"How much?\" he asked.\n\nShe understood well enough what it meant.\n\n\"Well, about five dollars,\" she answered. \"I owe the coal man.\"\n\nThe same day he said:\n\n\"I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty-five\ncents a bushel. I'll trade with him.\"\n\nCarrie heard this with indifference.\n\n\"All right,\" she said.\n\nThen it came to be:\n\n\"George, I must have some coal to-day,\" or, \"You must get some meat of\nsome kind for dinner.\"\n\nHe would find out what she needed and order.\n\nAccompanying this plan came skimpiness.\n\n\"I only got a half-pound of steak,\" he said, coming in one afternoon\nwith his papers. \"We never seem to eat very much.\"\n\nThese miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They blackened her\ndays and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed! All day and all\nday, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed to have no\nattraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine weather, it might\nbe four or five hours, between eleven and four. She could do nothing but\nview him with gnawing contempt.\n\nIt was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see his\nway out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only five\nhundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he could\nstave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting around\nthe house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This came first\nwith the bad days. Only once he apologised in the very beginning:\n\n\"It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around.\"\n\nEventually these became the permanent thing.\n\nAlso, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip of\nten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then to\nnothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding that the\nshave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, he put off\nshaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on, until once a\nweek became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see.\n\nOf course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him in\nCarrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He had\nsome money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking when\ndressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in Chicago,\nbut she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. He never\ntried. He did not even consult the ads. in the papers any more.\n\nFinally, a distinct impression escaped from her.\n\n\"What makes you put so much butter on the steak?\" he asked her one\nevening, standing around in the kitchen.\n\n\"To make it good, of course,\" she answered.\n\n\"Butter is awful dear these days,\" he suggested.\n\n\"You wouldn't mind it if you were working,\" she answered.\n\nHe shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled\nin his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her.\n\nThat same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room to\nbed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as\nusual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie's absence.\n\n\"That's funny,\" he said; \"maybe she's sitting up.\"\n\nHe gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she was\nnot beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment.\n\nNight approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling\nprevailing, Carrie said:\n\n\"I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nThe third night she went to her front bed without apologies.\n\nThis was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it.\n\n\"All right,\" he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, \"let her\nsleep alone.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nA GRIM RETROGRESSION: THE PHANTOM OF CHANCE\n\n\nThe Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas, had not\nforgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never called on\nher, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent her address.\nTrue to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as long as she\nstill lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was compelled to move\ninto Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an indication\nof reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding the\nnecessity of giving her address. Not finding any convenient method, she\nsorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her friend entirely.\nThe latter wondered at this strange silence, thought Carrie must have\nleft the city, and in the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly\nsurprised to encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone\nshopping. Carrie was there for the same purpose.\n\n\"Why, Mrs. Wheeler,\" said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a glance,\n\"where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I've been\nwondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I----\"\n\n\"I'm so glad to see you,\" said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed. Of\nall times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. \"Why, I'm living\ndown town here. I've been intending to come and see you. Where are you\nliving now?\"\n\n\"In Fifty-eighth Street,\" said Mrs. Vance, \"just off Seventh\nAvenue--218. Why don't you come and see me?\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Carrie. \"Really, I've been wanting to come. I know I\nought to. It's a shame. But you know----\"\n\n\"What's your number?\" said Mrs. Vance.\n\n\"Thirteenth Street,\" said Carrie, reluctantly. \"112 West.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mrs. Vance, \"that's right near here, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie. \"You must come down and see me some time.\"\n\n\"Well, you're a fine one,\" said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while noting\nthat Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. \"The address, too,\" she\nadded to herself. \"They must be hard up.\"\n\nStill she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow.\n\n\"Come with me in here a minute,\" she exclaimed, turning into a store.\n\nWhen Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He\nseemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard was\nat least four days old.\n\n\"Oh,\" thought Carrie, \"if she were to come here and see him?\"\n\nShe shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation was\nbecoming unbearable.\n\nDriven to desperation, she asked at dinner:\n\n\"Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said. \"They don't want an inexperienced man.\"\n\nCarrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more.\n\n\"I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon,\" she said, after a time.\n\n\"Did, eh?\" he answered.\n\n\"They're back in New York now,\" Carrie went on. \"She did look so nice.\"\n\n\"Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it,\" returned\nHurstwood. \"He's got a soft job.\"\n\nHurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of\ninfinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him.\n\n\"She said she thought she'd call here some day.\"\n\n\"She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?\" said Hurstwood, with\na kind of sarcasm.\n\nThe woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude. \"Perhaps\nI didn't want her to come.\"\n\n\"She's too gay,\" said Hurstwood, significantly. \"No one can keep up with\nher pace unless they've got a lot of money.\"\n\n\"Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard.\"\n\n\"He may not now,\" answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding the\ninference; \"but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll happen.\nHe may get down like anybody else.\"\n\nThere was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eye seemed\nto be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat.\nHis own state seemed a thing apart--not considered.\n\nThis thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and\nindependence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other\npeople, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him.\nForgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search,\nhe would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said:\n\n\"I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of things coming to\nme if I want to go after them.\"\n\nIt was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave,\nand, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not with any\ndefinite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt just right for\nbeing outside and doing something.\n\nOn such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker rooms\ndown town. A few acquaintances he had in down-town resorts and about the\nCity Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few friendly\ncommonplaces.\n\nHe had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker. Many a\nfriendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time when\nthat sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game--not the all in all.\nNow, he thought of playing.\n\n\"I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice.\"\n\nIt is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several\ntimes before he acted upon it.\n\nThe poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street,\nnear one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several games were\ngoing. These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite\nlarge for the ante involved.\n\n\"Deal me a hand,\" he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He pulled\nup a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet study of\nhim which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching.\n\nPoor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection\nwithout progression or pairs. The pot was opened.\n\n\"I pass,\" he said.\n\nOn the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The deals did\nfairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few\ndollars to the good.\n\nThe next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. This\ntime he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a better hand\nacross the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a political\nhanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located. Hurstwood\nwas surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came\nwith a _sang-froid_ which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood\nbegan to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool\ndemeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students\nof the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than\nexterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down the cowardly\nthought that this man had something better and would stay to the end,\ndrawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far.\nStill, he hoped to win much--his hand was excellent. Why not raise it\nfive more?\n\n\"I raise you three,\" said the youth.\n\n\"Make it five,\" said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips.\n\n\"Come again,\" said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds.\n\n\"Let me have some more chips,\" said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge,\ntaking out a bill.\n\nA cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the chips\nwere laid out, Hurstwood met the raise.\n\n\"Five again,\" said the youth.\n\nHurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now--very deep for him. Sixty\ndollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward, but the\nthought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He would\nnot trust to this fine hand any longer.\n\n\"I call,\" he said.\n\n\"A full house!\" said the youth, spreading out his cards.\n\nHurstwood's hand dropped.\n\n\"I thought I had you,\" he said, weakly.\n\nThe youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without first\nstopping to count his remaining cash on the stair.\n\n\"Three hundred and forty dollars,\" he said.\n\nWith this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone.\n\nBack in the flat, he decided he would play no more.\n\nRemembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mild\nprotest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day, coming\nhome, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in.\n\n\"What makes you always put on those old clothes?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"What's the use wearing my good ones around here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Well, I should think you'd feel better.\" Then she added: \"Some one\nmight call.\"\n\n\"Who?\" he said.\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Vance,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"She needn't see me,\" he answered, sullenly.\n\nThis lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him.\n\n\"Oh,\" she thought, \"there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I should think\nhe would be ashamed of himself.\"\n\nThe real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call. It\nwas on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the commonplace\nhall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent and agonising\ndistress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking that\nthe knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken honestly aback. The lost\nvoice of youth and pride spoke in him.\n\n\"Why,\" he said, actually stammering, \"how do you do?\"\n\n\"How do you do?\" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes.\nHis great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know whether to\ninvite her in or not.\n\n\"Is your wife at home?\" she inquired.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll be back\nshortly.\"\n\n\"No-o,\" said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. \"I'm really\nvery much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but I\ncouldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief at\nher going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, as he sat\nin the chair afterwards, and thought.\n\nCarrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vance\ngoing away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure.\n\n\"Was anybody here just now?\" she asked of Hurstwood.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said guiltily; \"Mrs. Vance.\"\n\n\"Did she see you?\" she asked, expressing her full despair.\n\nThis cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen.\n\n\"If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer nervousness.\n\"What did she have to say?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" he answered. \"She couldn't stay.\"\n\n\"And you looking like that!\" said Carrie, throwing aside a long reserve.\n\n\"What of it?\" he said, angering. \"I didn't know she was coming, did I?\"\n\n\"You knew she might,\" said Carrie. \"I told you she said she was coming.\nI've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I think\nthis is just terrible.\"\n\n\"Oh, let up,\" he answered. \"What difference does it make? You couldn't\nassociate with her, anyway. They've got too much money.\"\n\n\"Who said I wanted to?\" said Carrie, fiercely.\n\n\"Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'd\ncommitted----\"\n\nCarrie interrupted:\n\n\"It's true,\" she said. \"I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault is\nit? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate with.\nWhy don't you get out and look for work?\"\n\nThis was a thunderbolt in camp.\n\n\"What's it to you?\" he said, rising, almost fiercely. \"I pay the rent,\ndon't I? I furnish the----\"\n\n\"Yes, you pay the rent,\" said Carrie. \"You talk as if there was nothing\nelse in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven't done a thing\nfor three months except sit around and interfere here. I'd like to know\nwhat you married me for?\"\n\n\"I didn't marry you,\" he said, in a snarling tone.\n\n\"I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?\" she answered.\n\n\"Well, I didn't marry you,\" he answered. \"You can get that out of your\nhead. You talk as though you didn't know.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed it\nwas all legal and binding enough.\n\n\"What did you lie to me for, then?\" she asked, fiercely. \"What did you\nforce me to run away with you for?\"\n\nHer voice became almost a sob.\n\n\"Force!\" he said, with curled lip. \"A lot of forcing I did.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. \"Oh, oh!\" and\nshe hurried into the front room.\n\nHurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up for him,\nboth mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and then\nwent for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie; she\nceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first, with\nthe faintest alarm, of being left without money--not of losing him,\nthough he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the top of\nthe wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door closed, and\nshe knew he had gone.\n\nAfter a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked out\nthe window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the flat,\ntoward Sixth Avenue.\n\nThe latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth Street\nto Union Square.\n\n\"Look for work!\" he said to himself. \"Look for work! She tells me to get\nout and look for work.\"\n\nHe tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which told\nhim that she was right.\n\n\"What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow,\" he thought.\n\"Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was thinking.\"\n\nHe remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eighth Street.\nShe was always a swell-looker; and he had tried to put on the air of\nbeing worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to think she had\ncaught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in his distress.\n\n\"The devil!\" he said a dozen times in an hour.\n\nIt was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was in tears.\nThere would be no dinner that night.\n\n\"What the deuce,\" he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame\nfrom himself. \"I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet.\"\n\nHe looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels,\ndecided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and make\nhimself comfortable there.\n\nHe ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of the\nbest New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It did not\ntrouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not allow of such\nextravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming addicted to his\nease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to satisfy his craving\nfor comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the morrow--he could not\nstand to think of it any more than he could of any other calamity. Like\nthe certainty of death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being\nwithout a dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doing\nit.\n\nWell-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried him\nback to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house, playing a\npiano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading.\n\nHis dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, and then,\nseeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers thickening\noutside, wondered where he should go. Not home. Carrie would be up. No,\nhe would not go back there this evening. He would stay out and knock\naround as a man who was independent--not broke--well might. He bought a\ncigar, and went outside on the corner where other individuals were\nlounging--brokers, racing people, thespians--his own flesh and blood. As\nhe stood there, he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how he\nused to dispose of them. Many's the game he had had. This took him to\npoker.\n\n\"I didn't do that thing right the other day,\" he thought, referring to\nhis loss of sixty dollars. \"I shouldn't have weakened. I could have\nbluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's what ailed me.\"\n\nThen he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, and\nbegan to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffing\na little harder.\n\n\"I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll try my hand\nto-night.\"\n\nVisions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a couple\nof hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made their\nliving at this game, and a good living, too.\n\n\"They always had as much as I had,\" he thought.\n\nSo off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as he\nhad in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first\nby the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with\ncocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he\nwould ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood--only a man arguing\nwith a divided conscience and lured by a phantom.\n\nThis poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in\na better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing an\ninteresting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a while, he\nwinning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing more\ninterested and determined on that account. At last the fascinating game\ntook a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a\ntrifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake. To his\nself-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it.\n\nIn the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him.\nNo one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and again\nhe tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who were\nalmost reading his heart, so close was their observation.\n\n\"I have three of a kind,\" said one of the players to himself. \"I'll just\nstay with that fellow to the finish.\"\n\nThe result was that bidding began.\n\n\"I raise you ten.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Ten more.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Ten again.\"\n\n\"Right you are.\"\n\nIt got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other man\nreally became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) really did\nhave a stiff hand.\n\n\"I call,\" he said.\n\nHurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he had lost\nseventy-five dollars made him desperate.\n\n\"Let's have another pot,\" he said, grimly.\n\n\"All right,\" said the man.\n\nSome of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their\nplaces. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held on,\nneither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a last hand\nlost twenty more. He was sick at heart.\n\nAt a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place. The\nchill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked slowly\nwest, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the stairs and\nwent into his room as if there had been no trouble. It was his loss that\noccupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he counted his money.\nThere was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change. He put\nit up and began to undress.\n\n\"I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?\" he said.\n\nIn the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go out\nagain. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up. Now\ndesperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he lived\nlike a gentleman--or what he conceived to be a gentleman--which took\nmoney. For his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to say\nnothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process. Then he came\ndown to cold, bitter sense again.\n\n\"The rent man comes to-day,\" said Carrie, greeting him thus\nindifferently three mornings later.\n\n\"He does?\"\n\n\"Yes; this is the second,\" answered Carrie.\n\nHurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse.\n\n\"It seems an awful lot to pay for rent,\" he said.\n\nHe was nearing his last hundred dollars.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nTHE SPIRIT AWAKENS: NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATE\n\n\nIt would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty dollars\nwas in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling, had only\ncarried them into June. Before the final hundred mark was reached he\nbegan to indicate that a calamity was approaching.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for meat\nas a text, \"it seems to take an awful lot for us to live.\"\n\n\"It doesn't seem to me,\" said Carrie, \"that we spend very much.\"\n\n\"My money is nearly gone,\" he said, \"and I hardly know where it's gone\nto.\"\n\n\"All that seven hundred dollars?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"All but a hundred.\"\n\nHe looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see that she\nherself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time.\n\n\"Well, George,\" she exclaimed, \"why don't you get out and look for\nsomething? You could find something.\"\n\n\"I have looked,\" he said. \"You can't make people give you a place.\"\n\nShe gazed weakly at him and said: \"Well, what do you think you will do?\nA hundred dollars won't last long.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said. \"I can't do any more than look.\"\n\nCarrie became frightened over this announcement. She thought desperately\nupon the subject. Frequently she had considered the stage as a door\nthrough which she might enter that gilded state which she had so much\ncraved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a last resource in distress.\nSomething must be done if he did not get work soon. Perhaps she would\nhave to go out and battle again alone.\n\nShe began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her\nexperience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way. There\nmust be people who would listen to and try you--men who would give you\nan opportunity.\n\nThey were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later, when\nshe brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that Sarah\nBernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it, too.\n\n\"How do people get on the stage, George?\" she finally asked, innocently.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said. \"There must be dramatic agents.\"\n\nCarrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up.\n\n\"Regular people who get you a place?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so,\" he answered.\n\nSuddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention.\n\n\"You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?\" he asked.\n\n\"No,\" she answered, \"I was just wondering.\"\n\nWithout being clear, there was something in the thought which he\nobjected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of\nobservation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line. She\nseemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that it\ninvolved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stage she\nwould fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like the rest\nof them. He had a good idea of what he meant by _them_. Carrie was\npretty. She would get along all right, but where would he be?\n\n\"I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot more\ndifficult than you think.\"\n\nCarrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her ability.\n\n\"You said I did real well in Chicago,\" she rejoined.\n\n\"You did,\" he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, \"but\nChicago isn't New York, by a big jump.\"\n\nCarrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her.\n\n\"The stage,\" he went on, \"is all right if you can be one of the big\nguns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long while to\nget up.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Carrie, slightly aroused.\n\nIn a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now, when\nthe worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on the stage\nin some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had not conceived well\nof her mental ability. That was because he did not understand the nature\nof emotional greatness. He had never learned that a person might be\nemotionally--instead of intellectually--great. Avery Hall was too far\naway for him to look back and sharply remember. He had lived with this\nwoman too long.\n\n\"Well, I do,\" he answered. \"If I were you I wouldn't think of it. It's\nnot much of a profession for a woman.\"\n\n\"It's better than going hungry,\" said Carrie. \"If you don't want me to\ndo that, why don't you get work yourself?\"\n\nThere was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the suggestion.\n\n\"Oh, let up,\" he answered.\n\nThe result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It didn't\nmatter about him. She was not going to be dragged into poverty and\nsomething worse to suit him. She could act. She could get something and\nthen work up. What would he say then? She pictured herself already\nappearing in some fine performance on Broadway; of going every evening\nto her dressing-room and making up. Then she would come out at eleven\no'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting for the people. It\ndid not matter whether she was the star or not. If she were only once\nin, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she liked,\nhaving the money to do with, going here and there as she pleased, how\ndelightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this picture all the day\nlong. Hurstwood's dreary state made its beauty become more and more\nvivid.\n\nCuriously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sum\nsuggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assist him\na little until he could get something?\n\nHe came in one day with something of this idea in his mind.\n\n\"I met John B. Drake to-day,\" he said. \"He's going to open a hotel here\nin the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that.\"\n\n\"That would be good, wouldn't it?\" she said, sympathetically.\n\n\"If I can only get over this summer,\" he added, \"I think I'll be all\nright. I'm hearing from some of my friends again.\"\n\nCarrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She sincerely\nwished he could get through the summer. He looked so hopeless.\n\n\"How much money have you left?\"\n\n\"Only fifty dollars.\"\n\n\"Oh, mercy,\" she exclaimed, \"what will we do? It's only twenty days\nuntil the rent will be due again.\"\n\nHurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the floor.\n\n\"Maybe you could get something in the stage line?\" he blandly suggested.\n\n\"Maybe I could,\" said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the idea.\n\n\"I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get,\" he said, now that he saw her\nbrighten up. \"I can get something.\"\n\nShe cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed as\nneatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She did not\nknow that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderful\nconglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres were\nthere--these agencies must be somewhere about.\n\nShe decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how to find\nthe theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way. Accordingly, when\nshe reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at the box office.\n\n\"Eh?\" he said, looking out. \"Dramatic agents? I don't know. You'll find\nthem in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in that.\"\n\n\"Is that a paper?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common fact.\n\"You can get it at the news-stands,\" he added politely, seeing how\npretty the inquirer was.\n\nCarrie proceeded to get the \"Clipper,\" and tried to find the agents by\nlooking over it as she stood beside the stand. This could not be done so\neasily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off, but she went back,\ncarrying the precious paper and regretting the waste of time.\n\nHurstwood was already there, sitting in his place.\n\n\"Where were you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I've been trying to find some dramatic agents.\"\n\nHe felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success. The\npaper she began to scan attracted his attention.\n\n\"What have you got there?\" he asked.\n\n\"The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here.\"\n\n\"Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I could\nhave told you.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you?\" she asked, without looking up.\n\n\"You never asked me,\" he returned.\n\nShe went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind was\ndistracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the situation\nshe was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiseration\nbrewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did not fall.\nHurstwood noticed something.\n\n\"Let me look.\"\n\nTo recover herself she went into the front room while he searched.\nPresently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon an\nenvelope.\n\n\"Here 're three,\" he said.\n\nCarrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another Marcus\nJenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and then moved\ntoward the door.\n\n\"I might as well go right away,\" she said, without looking back.\n\nHurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which were\nthe expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat a while,\nand then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat.\n\n\"I guess I'll go out,\" he said to himself, and went, strolling nowhere\nin particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.\n\nCarrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was quite the\nnearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into offices. Mrs.\nBermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been a back chamber\nand a hall bedroom, marked \"Private.\"\n\nAs Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about--men, who\nsaid nothing and did nothing.\n\nWhile she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom opened\nand from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly dressed,\nand wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portly lady of\nabout forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently good-natured.\nAt least she was smiling.\n\n\"Now, don't forget about that,\" said one of the mannish women.\n\n\"I won't,\" said the portly woman. \"Let's see,\" she added, \"where are you\nthe first week in February?\"\n\n\"Pittsburg,\" said the woman.\n\n\"I'll write you there.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said the other, and the two passed out.\n\nInstantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and shrewd.\nShe turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"young woman, what can I do for you?\"\n\n\"Are you Mrs. Bermudez?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, \"do you get places for\npersons upon the stage?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Could you get me one?\"\n\n\"Have you ever had any experience?\"\n\n\"A very little,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Whom did you play with?\"\n\n\"Oh, with no one,\" said Carrie. \"It was just a show gotten----\"\n\n\"Oh, I see,\" said the woman, interrupting her. \"No, I don't know of\nanything now.\"\n\nCarrie's countenance fell.\n\n\"You want to get some New York experience,\" concluded the affable Mrs.\nBermudez. \"We'll take your name, though.\"\n\nCarrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office.\n\n\"What is your address?\" inquired a young lady behind the counter, taking\nup the curtailed conversation.\n\n\"Mrs. George Wheeler,\" said Carrie, moving over to where she was\nwriting. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her to\ndepart at her leisure.\n\nShe encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr. Jenks,\nonly he varied it by saying at the close: \"If you could play at some\nlocal house, or had a programme with your name on it, I might do\nsomething.\"\n\nIn the third place the individual asked:\n\n\"What sort of work do you want to do?\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville stage or in\nthe chorus?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well,\" said the man, \"it'll cost you something to do that.\"\n\n\"How much?\" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not thought\nof this before.\n\n\"Well, that's for you to say,\" he answered shrewdly.\n\nCarrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue the\ninquiry.\n\n\"Could you get me a part if I paid?\"\n\n\"If we didn't you'd get your money back.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said.\n\nThe agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and continued\naccordingly.\n\n\"You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, any way. No agent would trouble\nabout you for less than that.\"\n\nCarrie saw a light.\n\n\"Thank you,\" she said. \"I'll think about it.\"\n\nShe started to go, and then bethought herself.\n\n\"How soon would I get a place?\" she asked.\n\n\"Well, that's hard to say,\" said the man. \"You might get one in a week,\nor it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that we thought you\ncould do.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she walked\nout.\n\nThe agent studied a moment, and then said to himself:\n\n\"It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage.\"\n\nCarrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar proposition.\n\"Maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything,\" she thought. She\nhad some jewelry--a diamond ring and pin and several other pieces. She\ncould get fifty dollars for those if she went to a pawnbroker.\n\nHurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be so long\nseeking.\n\n\"Well?\" he said, not venturing to ask what news.\n\n\"I didn't find out anything to-day,\" said Carrie, taking off her gloves.\n\"They all want money to get you a place.\"\n\n\"How much?\" asked Hurstwood.\n\n\"Fifty dollars.\"\n\n\"They don't want anything, do they?\"\n\n\"Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd ever get\nyou anything after you did pay them.\"\n\n\"Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis,\" said Hurstwood, as if he\nwere deciding, money in hand.\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Carrie. \"I think I'll try some of the managers.\"\n\nHurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a little to\nand fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very natural in such\nextreme states. He would do better later on.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nIN ELF LAND DISPORTING: THE GRIM WORLD WITHOUT\n\n\nWhen Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to the\nCasino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields,\nemployment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand in a line and\nlook pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. She found\nthere was no discrimination between one and the other of applicants,\nsave as regards a conventional standard of prettiness and form. Their\nown opinion or knowledge of their ability went for nothing.\n\n\"Where shall I find Mr. Gray?\" she asked of a sulky doorman at the stage\nentrance of the Casino.\n\n\"You can't see him now; he's busy.\"\n\n\"Do you know when I can see him?\"\n\n\"Got an appointment with him?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, you'll have to call at his office.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" exclaimed Carrie. \"Where is his office?\"\n\nHe gave her the number.\n\nShe knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be in.\nNothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search.\n\nThe dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. Mr. Daly\nsaw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour in a dingy office,\nquite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of the placid,\nindifferent Mr. Dorney.\n\n\"You will have to write and ask him to see you.\"\n\nSo she went away.\n\nAt the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and\nindifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered, everything\ncarefully finished, everything remarkably reserved.\n\nAt the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway closets,\nberugged and bepanneled, which causes one to feel the greatness of all\npositions of authority. Here was reserve itself done into a box-office\nclerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying in their fine positions.\n\n\"Ah, be very humble now--very humble indeed. Tell us what it is you\nrequire. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige of\nself-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we can\ndo.\"\n\nThis was the atmosphere of the Lyceum--the attitude, for that matter, of\nevery managerial office in the city. These little proprietors of\nbusinesses are lords indeed on their own ground.\n\nCarrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains.\n\nHurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search that\nevening.\n\n\"I didn't get to see any one,\" said Carrie. \"I just walked, and walked,\nand waited around.\"\n\nHurstwood only looked at her.\n\n\"I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in,\" she\nadded, disconsolately.\n\nHurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not seem so\nterrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she could rest.\nViewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did not seem to\napproach so rapidly. To-morrow was another day.\n\nTo-morrow came, and the next, and the next.\n\nCarrie saw the manager at the Casino once.\n\n\"Come around,\" he said, \"the first of next week. I may make some changes\nthen.\"\n\nHe was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothes and\ngood eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh. Carrie was\npretty and graceful. She might be put in even if she did not have any\nexperience. One of the proprietors had suggested that the chorus was a\nlittle weak on looks.\n\nThe first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the month was\ndrawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never worried before.\n\n\"Do you really look for anything when you go out?\" she asked Hurstwood\none morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own.\n\n\"Of course I do,\" he said pettishly, troubling only a little over the\ndisgrace of the insinuation.\n\n\"I'd take anything,\" she said, \"for the present. It will soon be the\nfirst of the month again.\"\n\nShe looked the picture of despair.\n\nHurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes.\n\n\"He would look for something,\" he thought. \"He would go and see if some\nbrewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would take a position as\nbartender, if he could get it.\"\n\nIt was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or two slight\nrebuffs, and the bravado disappeared.\n\n\"No use,\" he thought. \"I might as well go on back home.\"\n\nNow that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes and feel\nthat even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace. This was a\nbitter thought.\n\nCarrie came in after he did.\n\n\"I went to see some of the variety managers,\" she said, aimlessly. \"You\nhave to have an act. They don't want anybody that hasn't.\"\n\n\"I saw some of the brewery people to-day,\" said Hurstwood. \"One man told\nme he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks.\"\n\nIn the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make some\nshowing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology to\nenergy.\n\nMonday Carrie went again to the Casino.\n\n\"Did I tell you to come around to-day?\" said the manager, looking her\nover as she stood before him.\n\n\"You said the first of the week,\" said Carrie, greatly abashed.\n\n\"Ever had any experience?\" he asked again, almost severely.\n\nCarrie owned to ignorance.\n\nHe looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He was\nsecretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman. \"Come\naround to the theatre to-morrow morning.\"\n\nCarrie's heart bounded to her throat.\n\n\"I will,\" she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her, and\nturned to go.\n\n\"Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it be?\"\n\nAlready the hard rumble of the city through the open windows became\npleasant.\n\nA sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all\nimmediate fears on that score.\n\n\"Be sure you're there promptly,\" the manager said roughly. \"You'll be\ndropped if you're not.\"\n\nCarrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's idleness.\nShe had a place--she had a place! This sang in her ears.\n\nIn her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as she\nwalked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became larger,\nshe began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in several weeks\nand his lounging in idleness for a number of months.\n\n\"Why don't he get something?\" she openly said to herself. \"If I can he\nsurely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me.\"\n\nShe forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she did not, in\nher enthusiasm, perceive.\n\nThus, ever, the voice of success.\n\nStill, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm and\nindifferent, but it was a palpable sham.\n\n\"Well?\" he said, seeing her relieved face.\n\n\"I have a place.\"\n\n\"You have?\" he said, breathing a better breath.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What sort of a place is it?\" he asked, feeling in his veins as if now\nhe might get something good also.\n\n\"In the chorus,\" she answered.\n\n\"Is it the Casino show you told me about?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered. \"I begin rehearsing to-morrow.\"\n\nThere was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was happy.\nAt last Hurstwood said:\n\n\"Do you know how much you'll get?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't want to ask,\" said Carrie. \"I guess they pay twelve or\nfourteen dollars a week.\"\n\n\"About that, I guess,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nThere was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the mere\nlifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a shave, and\nreturned with a fair-sized sirloin steak.\n\n\"Now, to-morrow,\" he thought, \"I'll look around myself,\" and with\nrenewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground.\n\nOn the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in the\nline. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent of the\nperfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich, oriental\nappearance. The wonder of it awed and delighted her. Blessed be its\nwondrous reality. How hard she would try to be worthy of it. It was\nabove the common mass, above idleness, above want, above insignificance.\nPeople came to it in finery and carriages to see. It was ever a centre\nof light and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, if she could only\nremain, how happy would be her days!\n\n\"What is your name?\" said the manager, who was conducting the drill.\n\n\"Madenda,\" she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had\nselected in Chicago. \"Carrie Madenda.\"\n\n\"Well, now, Miss Madenda,\" he said, very affably, as Carrie thought,\n\"you go over there.\"\n\nThen he called to a young woman who was already of the company:\n\n\"Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda.\"\n\nThis young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go, and the\nrehearsal began.\n\nCarrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight resemblance\nto the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the attitude of the\nmanager was much more pronounced. She had marvelled at the insistence\nand superior airs of Mr. Millice, but the individual conducting here had\nthe same insistence, coupled with almost brutal roughness. As the\ndrilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedingly wroth over trifles, and\nto increase his lung power in proportion. It was very evident that he\nhad a great contempt for any assumption of dignity or innocence on the\npart of these young women.\n\n\"Clark,\" he would call--meaning, of course, Miss Clark--\"why don't you\ncatch step there?\"\n\n\"By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on to\nyourself! Right!\" and in saying this he would lift the last sounds into\na vehement roar.\n\n\"Maitland! Maitland!\" he called once.\n\nA nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. Carrie trembled for\nher out of the fulness of her own sympathies and fear.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Miss Maitland.\n\n\"Is there anything the matter with your ears?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you know what 'column left' means?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break up the\nline?\"\n\n\"I was just----\"\n\n\"Never mind what you were just. Keep your ears open.\"\n\nCarrie pitied, and trembled for her turn.\n\nYet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke.\n\n\"Hold on a minute,\" cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as if in\ndespair. His demeanour was fierce.\n\n\"Elvers,\" he shouted, \"what have you got in your mouth?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood nervously by.\n\n\"Well, are you talking?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again.\"\n\nAt last Carrie's turn came. It was because of her extreme anxiety to do\nall that was required that brought on the trouble.\n\nShe heard some one called.\n\n\"Mason,\" said the voice. \"Miss Mason.\"\n\nShe looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved her a\nlittle, but she did not understand.\n\n\"You, you!\" said the manager. \"Can't you hear?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely.\n\n\"Isn't your name Mason?\" asked the manager.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Carrie, \"it's Madenda.\"\n\n\"Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Carrie, who had long since learned this art.\n\n\"Why don't you do it then? Don't go shuffling along as if you were dead.\nI've got to have people with life in them.\"\n\nCarrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled a little.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" she said.\n\nIt was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy, for\nthree long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in body, but too excited\nin mind to notice it. She meant to go home and practise her evolutions\nas prescribed. She would not err in any way, if she could help it.\n\nWhen she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder he was\nout looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a mouthful to eat\nand then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom from financial\ndistress--\"The sound of glory ringing in her ears.\"\n\nWhen Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away, and\nnow she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. Here was an early\nirritation. She would have her work and this. Was she going to act and\nkeep house?\n\n\"I'll not do it,\" she said, \"after I get started. He can take his meals\nout.\"\n\nEach day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such a\nwonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that her\nsalary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she had her\nfirst sight of those high and mighties--the leading ladies and\ngentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and deferred to. She was\nnothing--absolutely nothing at all.\n\nAt home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He seemed to\nget nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she was getting\nalong. The regularity with which he did this smacked of some one who was\nwaiting to live upon her labour. Now that she had a visible means of\nsupport, this irritated her. He seemed to be depending upon her little\ntwelve dollars.\n\n\"How are you getting along?\" he would blandly inquire.\n\n\"Oh, all right,\" she would reply.\n\n\"Find it easy?\"\n\n\"It will be all right when I get used to it.\"\n\nHis paper would then engross his thoughts.\n\n\"I got some lard,\" he would add, as an afterthought. \"I thought maybe\nyou might want to make some biscuit.\"\n\nThe calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especially in\nthe light of recent developments. Her dawning independence gave her more\ncourage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to say things. Still\nshe could not talk to him as she had to Drouet. There was something in\nthe man's manner of which she had always stood in awe. He seemed to\nhave some invisible strength in reserve.\n\nOne day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came openly\nto the surface.\n\n\"We'll have to be rather saving,\" he said, laying down some meat he had\npurchased. \"You won't get any money for a week or so yet.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove.\n\n\"I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more,\" he added.\n\n\"That's it,\" she said to herself. \"I'm to use my money now.\"\n\nInstantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things for\nherself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice.\n\n\"What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?\" she thought.\n\"I can't do it. Why doesn't he get something to do?\"\n\nThe important night of the first real performance came. She did not\nsuggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think of going. It\nwould only be money wasted. She had such a small part.\n\nThe advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon the\nbill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited. Carrie was\nnothing.\n\nAs in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first\nentrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. The apparent\nand painful insignificance of the part took fear away from her. She felt\nthat she was so obscure it did not matter. Fortunately, she did not have\nto wear tights. A group of twelve were assigned pretty golden-hued\nskirts which came only to a line about an inch above the knee. Carrie\nhappened to be one of the twelve.\n\nIn standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up her\nvoice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the audience\nand to see the inauguration of a great hit. There was plenty of\napplause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of the women of\nalleged ability did.\n\n\"I could do better than that,\" Carrie ventured to herself, in several\ninstances. To do her justice, she was right.\n\nAfter it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had scolded\nsome others and passed her, she imagined she must have proved\nsatisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she knew but few,\nand the stars were gossiping. Outside were carriages and some correct\nyouths in attractive clothing, waiting. Carrie saw that she was scanned\nclosely. The flutter of an eyelash would have brought her a companion.\nThat she did not give.\n\nOne experienced youth volunteered, anyhow.\n\n\"Not going home alone, are you?\" he said.\n\nCarrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car. Her head\nwas so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing else.\n\n\"Did you hear any more from the brewery?\" she asked at the end of the\nweek, hoping by the question to stir him on to action.\n\n\"No,\" he answered, \"they're not quite ready yet. I think something will\ncome of that, though.\"\n\nShe said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money, and\nyet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood felt the\ncrisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He had long since\nrealised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand. There was\nsome little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but he justified\nhimself with the thought that he really would get something. Rent day\ngave him his opportunity.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, as he counted it out, \"that's about the last of my\nmoney. I'll have to get something pretty soon.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal.\n\n\"If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could get something.\nDrake is sure to open a hotel here in September.\"\n\n\"Is he?\" said Carrie, thinking of the short month that still remained\nuntil that time.\n\n\"Would you mind helping me out until then?\" he said appealingly. \"I\nthink I'll be all right after that time.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate.\n\n\"We can get along if we economise. I'll pay you back all right.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'll help you,\" said Carrie, feeling quite hard-hearted at thus\nforcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit of her\nearnings wrung a faint protest from her.\n\n\"Why don't you take anything, George, temporarily?\" she said. \"What\ndifference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you'll get something\nbetter.\"\n\n\"I will take anything,\" he said, relieved, and wincing under reproof.\n\"I'd just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here.\"\n\n\"Oh, you needn't do that,\" said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. \"But\nthere must be other things.\"\n\n\"I'll get something!\" he said, assuming determination.\n\nThen he went back to his paper.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nOF LIGHTS AND OF SHADOWS: THE PARTING OF WORLDS\n\n\nWhat Hurstwood got as the result of this determination was more\nself-assurance that each particular day was not the day. At the same\ntime, Carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress.\n\nHer need of clothes--to say nothing of her desire for ornaments--grew\nrapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was not to have\nthem. The sympathy she felt for Hurstwood, at the time he asked her to\ntide him over, vanished with these newer urgings of decency. He was not\nalways renewing his request, but this love of good appearance was. It\ninsisted, and Carrie wished to satisfy it, wished more and more that\nHurstwood was not in the way.\n\nHurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he had\nbetter keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent for\ncar-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum was still in his hand\nhe announced himself as penniless.\n\n\"I'm clear out,\" he said to Carrie one afternoon. \"I paid for some coal\nthis morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents.\"\n\n\"I've got some money there in my purse.\"\n\nHurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carrie\nscarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He took\nout fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it was dribs\nand drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenly remembered\nthat she would not be back until close to dinner time.\n\n\"We're all out of flour,\" she said; \"you'd better get some this\nafternoon. We haven't any meat, either. How would it do if we had liver\nand bacon?\"\n\n\"Suits me,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that.\"\n\n\"Half'll be enough,\" volunteered Hurstwood.\n\nShe opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended not to\nnotice it.\n\nHurstwood bought the flour--which all grocers sold in 3-1/2-pound\npackages--for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-pound of\nliver and bacon. He left the packages, together with the balance of\nthirty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where Carrie found it. It did\nnot escape her that the change was accurate. There was something sad in\nrealising that, after all, all that he wanted of her was something to\neat. She felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. Maybe he would get\nsomething yet. He had no vices.\n\nThat very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the chorus\ngirls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweed suit, which\ntook Carrie's eye. The young woman wore a fine bunch of violets and\nseemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carrie good-naturedly as she\npassed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carrie smiled back.\n\n\"She can afford to dress well,\" thought Carrie, \"and so could I, if I\ncould only keep my money. I haven't a decent tie of any kind to wear.\"\n\nShe put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively.\n\n\"I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don't care what happens.\"\n\nOne of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in the\ncompany made friends with her because in Carrie she found nothing to\nfrighten her away. She was a gay little Manon, unwitting of society's\nfierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good to her neighbour\nand charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus in the matter of\nconversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in.\n\n\"It's warm to-night, isn't it?\" said this girl, arrayed in pink\nfleshings and an imitation golden helmet. She also carried a shining\nshield.\n\n\"Yes; it is,\" said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her.\n\n\"I'm almost roasting,\" said the girl.\n\nCarrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and saw\nlittle beads of moisture.\n\n\"There's more marching in this opera than ever I did before,\" added the\ngirl.\n\n\"Have you been in others?\" asked Carrie, surprised at her experience.\n\n\"Lots of them,\" said the girl; \"haven't you?\"\n\n\"This is my first experience.\"\n\n\"Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran 'The Queen's Mate'\nhere.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie, shaking her head; \"not me.\"\n\nThis conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestra and the\nsputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line was called to\nform for a new entrance. No further opportunity for conversation\noccurred, but the next evening, when they were getting ready for the\nstage, this girl appeared anew at her side.\n\n\"They say this show is going on the road next month.\"\n\n\"Is it?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Yes; do you think you'll go?\"\n\n\"I don't know; I guess so, if they'll take me.\"\n\n\"Oh, they'll take you. I wouldn't go. They won't give you any more, and\nit will cost you everything you make to live. I never leave New York.\nThere are too many shows going on here.\"\n\n\"Can you always get in another show?\"\n\n\"I always have. There's one going on up at the Broadway this month. I'm\ngoing to try and get in that if this one really goes.\"\n\nCarrie heard this with aroused intelligence. Evidently it wasn't so very\ndifficult to get on. Maybe she also could get a place if this show went\naway.\n\n\"Do they all pay about the same?\" she asked.\n\n\"Yes. Sometimes you get a little more. This show doesn't pay very much.\"\n\n\"I get twelve,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Do you?\" said the girl. \"They pay me fifteen, and you do more work than\nI do. I wouldn't stand it if I were you. They're just giving you less\nbecause they think you don't know. You ought to be making fifteen.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm not,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it,\" went on the\ngirl, who admired Carrie very much. \"You do fine, and the manager knows\nit.\"\n\nTo say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about with an air\npleasing and somewhat distinctive. It was due wholly to her natural\nmanner and total lack of self-consciousness.\n\n\"Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway?\"\n\n\"Of course you can,\" answered the girl. \"You come with me when I go.\nI'll do the talking.\"\n\nCarrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness. She liked this little\ngaslight soldier. She seemed so experienced and self-reliant in her\ntinsel helmet and military accoutrements.\n\n\"My future must be assured if I can always get work this way,\" thought\nCarrie.\n\nStill, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe upon her\nand Hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fate seemed\ndismal and unrelieved. It did not take so very much to feed them under\nHurstwood's close-measured buying, and there would possibly be enough\nfor rent, but it left nothing else. Carrie bought the shoes and some\nother things, which complicated the rent problem very seriously.\nSuddenly, a week from the fatal day, Carrie realised that they were\ngoing to run short.\n\n\"I don't believe,\" she exclaimed, looking into her purse at breakfast,\n\"that I'll have enough to pay the rent.\"\n\n\"How much have you?\" inquired Hurstwood.\n\n\"Well, I've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to be paid\nfor this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay this, there\nwon't be any left for next week. Do you think your hotel man will open\nhis hotel this month?\"\n\n\"I think so,\" returned Hurstwood. \"He said he would.\"\n\nAfter a while, Hurstwood said:\n\n\"Don't worry about it. Maybe the grocer will wait. He can do that. We've\ntraded there long enough to make him trust us for a week or two.\"\n\n\"Do you think he will?\" she asked.\n\n\"I think so.\"\n\nOn this account, Hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oeslogge\nclearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said:\n\n\"Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?\"\n\n\"No, no, Mr. Wheeler,\" said Mr. Oeslogge. \"Dat iss all right.\"\n\nHurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this. It seemed\nan easy thing. He looked out of the door, and then gathered up his\ncoffee when ready and came away. The game of a desperate man had begun.\n\nRent was paid, and now came the grocer. Hurstwood managed by paying out\nof his own ten and collecting from Carrie at the end of the week. Then\nhe delayed a day next time settling with the grocer, and so soon had his\nten back, with Oeslogge getting his pay on this Thursday or Friday for\nlast Saturday's bill.\n\nThis entanglement made Carrie anxious for a change of some sort.\nHurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to anything. He\nschemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed not to\ntrouble over adding anything himself.\n\n\"He talks about worrying,\" thought Carrie. \"If he worried enough he\ncouldn't sit there and wait for me. He'd get something to do. No man\ncould go seven months without finding something if he tried.\"\n\nThe sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy\nappearance drove Carrie to seek relief in other places. Twice a week\nthere were matinées, and then Hurstwood ate a cold snack, which he\nprepared himself. Two other days there were rehearsals beginning at ten\nin the morning and lasting usually until one. Now, to this Carrie added\na few visits to one or two chorus girls, including the blue-eyed soldier\nof the golden helmet. She did it because it was pleasant and a relief\nfrom dulness of the home over which her husband brooded.\n\nThe blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne--Lola Osborne. Her room was in\nNineteenth Street near Fourth Avenue, a block now given up wholly to\noffice buildings. Here she had a comfortable back room, looking over a\ncollection of back yards in which grew a number of shade trees pleasant\nto see.\n\n\"Isn't your home in New York?\" she asked of Lola one day.\n\n\"Yes; but I can't get along with my people. They always want me to do\nwhat they want. Do you live here?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"With your family?\"\n\nCarrie was ashamed to say that she was married. She had talked so much\nabout getting more salary and confessed to so much anxiety about her\nfuture, that now, when the direct question of fact was waiting, she\ncould not tell this girl.\n\n\"With some relatives,\" she answered.\n\nMiss Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Carrie's time was\nher own. She invariably asked her to stay, proposing little outings and\nother things of that sort until Carrie began neglecting her dinner\nhours. Hurstwood noticed it, but felt in no position to quarrel with\nher. Several times she came so late as scarcely to have an hour in which\nto patch up a meal and start for the theatre.\n\n\"Do you rehearse in the afternoons?\" Hurstwood once asked, concealing\nalmost completely the cynical protest and regret which prompted it.\n\n\"No; I was looking around for another place,\" said Carrie.\n\nAs a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished the\nleast straw of an excuse. Miss Osborne and she had gone to the office of\nthe manager who was to produce the new opera at the Broadway and\nreturned straight to the former's room, where they had been since three\no'clock.\n\nCarrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty. She did\nnot take into account how much liberty she was securing. Only the latest\nstep, the newest freedom, must not be questioned.\n\nHurstwood saw it all clearly enough. He was shrewd after his kind, and\nyet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making any\neffectual protest. In his almost inexplicable apathy he was content to\ndroop supinely while Carrie drifted out of his life, just as he was\nwilling supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. He could\nnot help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, and ineffectual\nway, however--a way that simply widened the breach by slow degrees.\n\nA further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the manager,\nlooking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stage where the\nchorus was going through some of its glittering evolutions, said to the\nmaster of the ballet:\n\n\"Who is that fourth girl there on the right--the one coming round at the\nend now?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the ballet-master, \"that's Miss Madenda.\"\n\n\"She's good looking. Why don't you let her head that line?\"\n\n\"I will,\" said the man.\n\n\"Just do that. She'll look better there than the woman you've got.\"\n\n\"All right. I will do that,\" said the master.\n\nThe next evening Carrie was called out, much as if for an error.\n\n\"You lead your company to-night,\" said the master.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Put snap into it,\" he added. \"We must have snap.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" replied Carrie.\n\nAstonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leader must\nbe ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct expression of\nsomething unfavourable in her eye, she began to think that perhaps it\nwas merit.\n\nShe had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holding her arms\nas if for action--not listlessly. In front of the line this showed up\neven more effectually.\n\n\"That girl knows how to carry herself,\" said the manager, another\nevening. He began to think that he should like to talk with her. If he\nhadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the\nchorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly.\n\n\"Put that girl at the head of the white column,\" he suggested to the man\nin charge of the ballet.\n\nThis white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in snow-white\nflannel trimmed with silver and blue. Its leader was most stunningly\narrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, with epaulets and a\nbelt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one side. Carrie was\nfitted for this costume, and a few days later appeared, proud of her new\nlaurels. She was especially gratified to find that her salary was now\neighteen instead of twelve.\n\nHurstwood heard nothing about this.\n\n\"I'll not give him the rest of my money,\" said Carrie. \"I do enough. I\nam going to get me something to wear.\"\n\nAs a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying for\nherself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the consequences.\nThere were impending more complications rent day, and more extension of\nthe credit system in the neighbourhood. Now, however, she proposed to do\nbetter by herself.\n\nHer first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she found\nhow little her money would buy--how much, if she could only use all. She\nforgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for a room and\nboard, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could be spent for\nclothes and things that she liked.\n\nAt last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her\nsurplus above twelve, but invaded that sum. She knew she was going too\nfar, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. The next day Hurstwood\nsaid:\n\n\"We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week.\"\n\n\"Do we?\" said Carrie, frowning a little.\n\nShe looked in her purse to leave it.\n\n\"I've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether.\"\n\n\"We owe the milkman sixty cents,\" added Hurstwood.\n\n\"Yes, and there's the coal man,\" said Carrie.\n\nHurstwood said nothing. He had seen the new things she was buying; the\nway she was neglecting household duties; the readiness with which she\nwas slipping out afternoons and staying. He felt that something was\ngoing to happen. All at once she spoke:\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said; \"I can't do it all. I don't earn enough.\"\n\nThis was a direct challenge. Hurstwood had to take it up. He tried to be\ncalm.\n\n\"I don't want you to do it all,\" he said. \"I only want a little help\nuntil I can get something to do.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" answered Carrie. \"That's always the way. It takes more than\nI can earn to pay for things. I don't see what I'm going to do.\"\n\n\"Well, I've tried to get something,\" he exclaimed. \"What do you want me\nto do?\"\n\n\"You couldn't have tried so very hard,\" said Carrie. \"I got something.\"\n\n\"Well, I did,\" he said, angered almost to harsh words. \"You needn't\nthrow up your success to me. All I asked was a little help until I could\nget something. I'm not down yet. I'll come up all right.\"\n\nHe tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little.\n\nCarrie's anger melted on the instant. She felt ashamed.\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"here's the money,\" and emptied it out on the table.\n\"I haven't got quite enough to pay it all. If they can wait until\nSaturday, though, I'll have some more.\"\n\n\"You keep it,\" said Hurstwood, sadly. \"I only want enough to pay the\ngrocer.\"\n\nShe put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time. Her\nlittle bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends.\n\nIn a little while their old thoughts returned to both.\n\n\"She's making more than she says,\" thought Hurstwood. \"She says she's\nmaking twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things. I don't care. Let\nher keep her money. I'll get something again one of these days. Then she\ncan go to the deuce.\"\n\nHe only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible course of\naction and attitude well enough.\n\n\"I don't care,\" thought Carrie. \"He ought to be told to get out and do\nsomething. It isn't right that I should support him.\"\n\nIn these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of Miss\nOsborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and festive.\nThey called once to get Miss Osborne for an afternoon drive. Carrie was\nwith her at the time.\n\n\"Come and go along,\" said Lola.\n\n\"No, I can't,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, yes, come and go. What have you got to do?\"\n\n\"I have to be home by five,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Oh, dinner.\"\n\n\"They'll take us to dinner,\" said Lola.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Carrie. \"I won't go. I can't.\"\n\n\"Oh, do come. They're awful nice boys. We'll get you back in time. We're\nonly going for a drive in Central Park.\"\n\nCarrie thought a while, and at last yielded.\n\n\"Now, I must be back by half-past four,\" she said.\n\nThe information went in one ear of Lola and out the other.\n\nAfter Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in her\nattitude toward young men--especially of the gay and frivolous sort. She\nfelt a little older than they. Some of their pretty compliments seemed\nsilly. Still, she was young in heart and body and youth appealed to her.\n\n\"Oh, we'll be right back, Miss Madenda,\" said one of the chaps, bowing.\n\"You wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would you?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" said Carrie, smiling.\n\nThey were off for a drive--she, looking about and noticing fine\nclothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips\nwhich pass for humour in coy circles. Carrie saw the great park parade\nof carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance and winding\npast the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and Tenth Street and\nSeventh Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth--the\nelaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and, above all,\nthe beauty. Once more the plague of poverty galled her, but now she\nforgot in a measure her own troubles so far as to forget Hurstwood. He\nwaited until four, five, and even six. It was getting dark when he got\nup out of his chair.\n\n\"I guess she isn't coming home,\" he said, grimly.\n\n\"That's the way,\" he thought. \"She's getting a start now. I'm out of\nit.\"\n\nCarrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter after\nfive, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue, near the\nHarlem River.\n\n\"What time is it?\" she inquired. \"I must be getting back.\"\n\n\"A quarter after five,\" said her companion, consulting an elegant,\nopen-faced watch.\n\n\"Oh, dear me!\" exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with a sigh.\n\"There's no use crying over spilt milk,\" she said. \"It's too late.\"\n\n\"Of course it is,\" said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now,\nand such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show.\nHe was greatly taken with Carrie. \"We'll drive down to Delmonico's now\nand have something there, won't we, Orrin?\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" replied Orrin, gaily.\n\nCarrie thought of Hurstwood. Never before had she neglected dinner\nwithout an excuse.\n\nThey drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine. It was the Sherry\nincident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to\nCarrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after\nHurstwood's reception, and Ames.\n\nAt this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clean vision. He liked\nbetter books than she read, better people than she associated with. His\nideals burned in her heart.\n\n\"It's fine to be a good actress,\" came distinctly back.\n\nWhat sort of an actress was she?\n\n\"What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?\" inquired her merry\ncompanion. \"Come, now, let's see if I can guess.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Carrie. \"Don't try.\"\n\nShe shook it off and ate. She forgot, in part, and was merry. When it\ncame to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head.\n\n\"No,\" she said, \"I can't. I have a previous engagement.\"\n\n\"Oh, now, Miss Madenda,\" pleaded the youth.\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie, \"I can't. You've been so kind, but you'll have to\nexcuse me.\"\n\nThe youth looked exceedingly crestfallen.\n\n\"Cheer up, old man,\" whispered his companion. \"We'll go around, anyhow.\nShe may change her mind.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nA PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL\n\n\nThere was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was\nconcerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence.\nHurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her\nown bed.\n\n\"Is that you?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered.\n\nThe next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.\n\n\"I couldn't get home last evening,\" she said.\n\n\"Ah, Carrie,\" he answered, \"what's the use saying that? I don't care.\nYou needn't tell me that, though.\"\n\n\"I couldn't,\" said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he\nlooked as if he said \"I know,\" she exclaimed: \"Oh, all right. I don't\ncare.\"\n\nFrom now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed\nno common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let\nherself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do\nit. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery\nbill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple\narticles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for\nsome time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the\nbutcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly\nfrom him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and\nfarther into a situation which could have but one ending.\n\nIn this fashion, September went by.\n\n\"Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?\" Carrie asked several times.\n\n\"Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now.\"\n\nCarrie became disgusted. \"Such a man,\" she said to herself frequently.\nMore and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes,\nwhich, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she\nwas with announced its departure within four weeks. \"Last two weeks of\nthe Great Comic Opera success--The ----,\" etc., was upon all bill-boards\nand in the newspapers, before she acted.\n\n\"I'm not going out on the road,\" said Miss Osborne.\n\nCarrie went with her to apply to another manager.\n\n\"Ever had any experience?\" was one of his questions.\n\n\"I'm with the company at the Casino now.\"\n\n\"Oh, you are?\" he said.\n\nThe end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.\n\nCarrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the\nworld. People recognised ability.\n\nSo changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It\nwas all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a\nload to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept\nthere, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a\nsitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read,\nenveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November.\nIt was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat.\n\nCarrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now,\neven fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself\nher rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite.\nHis clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk about getting\nsomething had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. So he\nfolded his hands and waited--for what, he could not anticipate.\n\nAt last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding of creditors,\nthe indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of\nwinter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected by the arrival\nof Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there.\n\n\"I call about my bill,\" said Mr. Oeslogge.\n\nCarrie was only faintly surprised.\n\n\"How much is it?\" she asked.\n\n\"Sixteen dollars,\" he replied.\n\n\"Oh, that much?\" said Carrie. \"Is this right?\" she asked, turning to\nHurstwood.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\n\"Well, I never heard anything about it.\"\n\nShe looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless\nexpense.\n\n\"Well, we had it all right,\" he answered. Then he went to the door. \"I\ncan't pay you anything on that to-day,\" he said, mildly.\n\n\"Well, when can you?\" said the grocer.\n\n\"Not before Saturday, anyhow,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"Huh!\" returned the grocer. \"This is fine. I must have that. I need the\nmoney.\"\n\nCarrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. She was\ngreatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood was annoyed\nalso.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there's no use talking about it now. If you'll come in\nSaturday, I'll pay you something on it.\"\n\nThe grocery man went away.\n\n\"How are we going to pay it?\" asked Carrie, astonished by the bill. \"I\ncan't do it.\"\n\n\"Well, you don't have to,\" he said. \"He can't get what he can't get.\nHe'll have to wait.\"\n\n\"I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, we ate it,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"It's funny,\" she replied, still doubting.\n\n\"What's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?\" he\nasked. \"Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'd taken\nsomething.\"\n\n\"Well, it's too much, anyhow,\" said Carrie. \"I oughtn't to be made to\npay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now.\"\n\n\"All right,\" replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sick of\nthe grind of this thing.\n\nCarrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something.\n\nThere had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and\nnotices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn. There\nwas general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the\nwages paid. As usual--and for some inexplicable reason--the men chose\nthe winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the\nsettlement of their difficulties.\n\nHurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the\nhuge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this trouble with\nCarrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it\nthreatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called\nout on all the lines.\n\nBeing so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions\nwhich had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and\nthe panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood read this with\ninterest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors,\nwho said that they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times\npast, but that for a year or more \"trippers\" had been introduced, which\ncut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours\nof servitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. These \"trippers\"\nwere men put on during the busy and _rush_ hours, to take a car out for\none trip. The compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five\ncents. When the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. Worst\nof all, no man might know when he was going to get a car. He must come\nto the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather\nuntil such time as he was needed. Two trips were an average reward for\nso much waiting--a little over three hours' work for fifty cents. The\nwork of waiting was not counted.\n\nThe men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was\nnot far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would have regular\ntwo-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system be\nabolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring\nunavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptance\nof these terms, which the various trolley companies refused.\n\nHurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men--indeed, it\nis a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end,\nbelie him as his actions might. Reading nearly all the news, he was\nattracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in\nthe \"World.\" He read it fully--the names of the seven companies\ninvolved, the number of men.\n\n\"They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather,\" he thought to\nhimself. \"Let 'em win if they can, though.\"\n\nThe next day there was even a larger notice of it. \"Brooklynites Walk,\"\nsaid the \"World.\" \"Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley Lines Across the\nBridge.\" \"About Seven Thousand Men Out.\"\n\nHurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would\nbe the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength of corporations.\n\n\"They can't win,\" he said, concerning the men. \"They haven't any money.\nThe police will protect the companies. They've got to. The public has to\nhave its cars.\"\n\nHe didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them.\nSo was property and public utility.\n\n\"Those fellows can't win,\" he thought.\n\nAmong other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the\ncompanies, which read:\n\n\n     \"ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD.\n\n     \"SPECIAL NOTICE.\n\n     \"The motormen and conductors and other employees of this company\n     having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to\n     all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated,\n     providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon\n     on Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (with\n     guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are\n     received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly.\n     Otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy\n     will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured.\n\n     \"(Signed)\n\n     \"BENJAMIN NORTON,\n\n     \"_President_.\"\n\n\n\nHe also noted among the want ads. one which read:\n\n     \"WANTED.--50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system,\n     to run U. S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protection\n     guaranteed.\"\n\nHe noted particularly in each the \"protection guaranteed.\" It signified\nto him the unassailable power of the companies.\n\n\"They've got the militia on their side,\" he thought. \"There isn't\nanything those men can do.\"\n\nWhile this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge and Carrie\noccurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed\nmuch the worst. Never before had she accused him of stealing--or very\nnear that. She doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. And he had\nworked so hard to make expenses seem light. He had been \"doing\" butcher\nand baker in order not to call on her. He had eaten very little--almost\nnothing.\n\n\"Damn it all!\" he said. \"I can get something. I'm not down yet.\"\n\nHe thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap to sit\naround after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little, he would\nbe standing anything.\n\nHe got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. It came\ngradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn.\n\n\"Why not?\" his mind said. \"Any one can get work over there. You'll get\ntwo a day.\"\n\n\"How about accidents?\" said a voice. \"You might get hurt.\"\n\n\"Oh, there won't be much of that,\" he answered. \"They've called out the\npolice. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right.\"\n\n\"You don't know how to run a car,\" rejoined the voice.\n\n\"I won't apply as a motorman,\" he answered. \"I can ring up fares all\nright.\"\n\n\"They'll want motormen mostly.\"\n\n\"They'll take anybody; that I know.\"\n\nFor several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,\nfeeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit.\n\nIn the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and\nbegan stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a\nnewspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" she asked.\n\n\"Over to Brooklyn,\" he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive, he\nadded: \"I think I can get on over there.\"\n\n\"On the trolley lines?\" said Carrie, astonished.\n\n\"Yes,\" he rejoined.\n\n\"Aren't you afraid?\" she asked.\n\n\"What of?\" he answered. \"The police are protecting them.\"\n\n\"The paper said four men were hurt yesterday.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he returned; \"but you can't go by what the papers say. They'll\nrun the cars all right.\"\n\nHe looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and Carrie\nfelt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here--the least\nshadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside, it was\ncloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow.\n\n\"What a day to go over there,\" thought Carrie.\n\nNow he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped\neastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where he took the car.\nHe had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of\nthe Brooklyn City Railroad building and were being received. He made his\nway there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in\nquestion. It was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was\ncold; but he trudged along grimly. Once in Brooklyn, he could clearly\nsee and feel that a strike was on. People showed it in their manner.\nAlong the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. About certain\ncorners and near-by saloons small groups of men were lounging. Several\nspring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and\nlabelled \"Flatbush\" or \"Prospect Park. Fare, Ten Cents.\" He noticed cold\nand even gloomy faces. Labour was having its little war.\n\nWhen he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing\nabout, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men--whom he\ntook to be strikers--watching. All the houses were small and wooden, the\nstreets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn looked actually poor and\nhard-up.\n\nHe made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and\nthe men already there. One of the officers addressed him.\n\n\"What are you looking for?\"\n\n\"I want to see if I can get a place.\"\n\n\"The offices are up those steps,\" said the bluecoat. His face was a very\nneutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, he sympathised\nwith the strikers and hated this \"scab.\" In his heart of hearts, also,\nhe felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order.\nOf its true social significance, he never once dreamed. His was not the\nmind for that. The two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another\nand him. He would have fought for this man as determinedly as for\nhimself, and yet only so far as commanded. Strip him of his uniform,\nand he would have soon picked his side.\n\nHurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small,\ndust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several\nclerks.\n\n\"Well, sir?\" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long\ndesk.\n\n\"Do you want to hire any men?\" inquired Hurstwood.\n\n\"What are you--a motorman?\"\n\n\"No; I'm not anything,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nHe was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these people needed\nmen. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could take him or\nleave him, just as he chose.\n\n\"Well, we prefer experienced men, of course,\" said the man. He paused,\nwhile Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: \"Still, I guess you\ncan learn. What is your name?\"\n\n\"Wheeler,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nThe man wrote an order on a small card. \"Take that to our barns,\" he\nsaid, \"and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do.\"\n\nHurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in the direction\nindicated, while the policemen looked after.\n\n\"There's another wants to try it,\" said Officer Kiely to Officer Macey.\n\n\"I have my mind he'll get his fill,\" returned the latter, quietly.\n\nThey had been in strikes before.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nTHE STRIKE\n\n\nThe barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and\nwas being operated practically by three men as directors. There were a\nlot of green hands around--queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if\nwant had driven them to desperate means. They tried to be lively and\nwilling, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place.\n\nHurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed\nlot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars were\nthere, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. More\npupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn.\n\nIn silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companions took\nhis eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the\ncars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. One or two were\nvery thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Several others were\nrawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of\nrough weather.\n\n\"Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?\"\nHurstwood heard one of them remark.\n\n\"Oh, they'll do that,\" returned the other. \"They always do.\"\n\n\"Think we're liable to have much trouble?\" said another, whom Hurstwood\ndid not see.\n\n\"Not very.\"\n\n\"That Scotchman that went out on the last car,\" put in a voice, \"told me\nthat they hit him in the ear with a cinder.\"\n\nA small, nervous laugh accompanied this.\n\n\"One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had a hell of a\ntime, according to the papers,\" drawled another. \"They broke his car\nwindows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police could stop\n'em.\"\n\n\"Yes; but there are more police around to-day,\" was added by another.\n\nHurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkers seemed\nscared to him. Their gabbling was feverish--things said to quiet their\nown minds. He looked out into the yard and waited.\n\nTwo of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. They were\nrather social, and he listened to what they said.\n\n\"Are you a railroad man?\" said one.\n\n\"Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory.\"\n\n\"I had a job in Newark until last October,\" returned the other, with\nreciprocal feeling.\n\nThere were some words which passed too low to hear. Then the\nconversation became strong again.\n\n\"I don't blame these fellers for striking,\" said one. \"They've got the\nright of it, all right, but I had to get something to do.\"\n\n\"Same here,\" said the other. \"If I had any job in Newark I wouldn't be\nover here takin' chances like these.\"\n\n\"It's hell these days, ain't it?\" said the man. \"A poor man ain't\nnowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and there ain't\nmost no one would help you.\"\n\n\"Right you are,\" said the other. \"The job I had I lost 'cause they shut\ndown. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down.\"\n\nHurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt a little\nsuperior to these two--a little better off. To him these were ignorant\nand commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand.\n\n\"Poor devils,\" he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of\na bygone period of success.\n\n\"Next,\" said one of the instructors.\n\n\"You're next,\" said a neighbour, touching him.\n\nHe went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took it for\ngranted that no preliminaries were needed.\n\n\"You see this handle,\" he said, reaching up to an electric cut-off,\nwhich was fastened to the roof. \"This throws the current off or on. If\nyou want to reverse the car you turn it over here. If you want to send\nit forward, you put it over here. If you want to cut off the power, you\nkeep it in the middle.\"\n\nHurstwood smiled at the simple information.\n\n\"Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here,\" he said, pointing\nwith his finger, \"gives you about four miles an hour. This is eight.\nWhen it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour.\"\n\nHurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. He knew\njust about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well, with a\nvery little practice.\n\nThe instructor explained a few more details, and then said:\n\n\"Now, we'll back her up.\"\n\nHurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard.\n\n\"One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start easy.\nGive one degree time to act before you start another. The one fault of\nmost men is that they always want to throw her wide open. That's bad.\nIt's dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't want to do that.\"\n\n\"I see,\" said Hurstwood.\n\nHe waited and waited, while the man talked on.\n\n\"Now you take it,\" he said, finally.\n\nThe ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he\nthought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the\nresult that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against\nthe door. He straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped\nthe car with the brake.\n\n\"You want to be careful about that,\" was all he said.\n\nHurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed\nwere not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice he\nwould have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the\nhand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient with him,\nbut he never smiled.\n\n\"You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once,\" he said. \"It\ntakes a little practice.\"\n\nOne o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began\nto feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grew weary\nof running to and fro on the short track.\n\nThey ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went into the\nbarn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his\npocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it.\nThere was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed and looked about,\ncontemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. It was\ndisagreeable--miserably disagreeable--in all its phases. Not because it\nwas bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard to any one, he\nthought.\n\nAfter eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came.\n\nThe intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater\npart of the time was spent in waiting about.\n\nAt last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to\nhow he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He must soon eat.\nIf he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold\nwalking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report at seven the next\nmorning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and\ndisagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents\nof Carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' coal\nbill before the present idea struck him.\n\n\"They must have some place around here,\" he thought. \"Where does that\nfellow from Newark stay?\"\n\nFinally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing near one of\nthe doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boy in\nyears--twenty-one about--but with a body lank and long, because of\nprivation. A little good living would have made this youth plump and\nswaggering.\n\n\"How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?\" inquired\nHurstwood, discreetly.\n\nThe fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer.\n\n\"You mean eat?\" he replied.\n\n\"Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York to-night.\"\n\n\"The foreman 'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me.\"\n\n\"That so?\"\n\n\"Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't go home. I\nlive way over in Hoboken.\"\n\nHurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment.\n\n\"They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't know what sort\nof a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a meal ticket this\nnoon. I know that wasn't much.\"\n\nHurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed.\n\n\"It ain't no fun, is it?\" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery\nreply.\n\n\"Not much,\" answered Hurstwood.\n\n\"I'd tackle him now,\" volunteered the youth. \"He may go 'way.\"\n\nHurstwood did so.\n\n\"Isn't there some place I can stay around here to-night?\" he inquired.\n\"If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't----\"\n\n\"There're some cots upstairs,\" interrupted the man, \"if you want one of\nthem.\"\n\n\"That'll do,\" he assented.\n\nHe meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never\ncame, and he decided to pay himself that night.\n\n\"I'll ask him in the morning.\"\n\nHe ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and\nlonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The company was\nnot attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised by the\npolice.\n\nThe room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. There\nwere some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap\nbox, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing.\nEarly as he was, another man was there before him. The latter was\nsitting beside the stove warming his hands.\n\nHurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He was sick\nof the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture,\nbut was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could for a while.\n\n\"Cold, isn't it?\" said the early guest.\n\n\"Rather.\"\n\nA long silence.\n\n\"Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?\" said the man.\n\n\"Better than nothing,\" replied Hurstwood.\n\nAnother silence.\n\n\"I believe I'll turn in,\" said the man.\n\nRising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only\nhis shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him\nin a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but he did not dwell\non it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else.\nPresently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his\nshoes.\n\nWhile he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here\nentered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial.\n\n\"Better'n nothin',\" he observed, looking around.\n\nHurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be an\nexpression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. The youth\nimagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. Seeing\nanother man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence.\n\nHurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and\npushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in\nsheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, its\ncharacter was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept.\n\nIn the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men\nstirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back in Chicago\nin fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had been arranging to go\nsomewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. This was so clear\nin his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room. He\nraised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into\nwakefulness.\n\n\"Guess I'd better get up,\" he said.\n\nThere was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the cold and\nstood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes felt\ndisagreeable, his hair bad.\n\n\"Hell!\" he muttered, as he put on his hat.\n\nDownstairs things were stirring again.\n\nHe found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for horses,\nbut there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from\nyesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with the ice-cold\nwater. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground.\n\n\"Had your breakfast yet?\" inquired that worthy.\n\n\"No,\" said Hurstwood.\n\n\"Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while.\"\n\nHurstwood hesitated.\n\n\"Could you let me have a meal ticket?\" he asked, with an effort.\n\n\"Here you are,\" said the man, handing him one.\n\nHe breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and bad\ncoffee. Then he went back.\n\n\"Here,\" said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. \"You take this\ncar out in a few minutes.\"\n\nHurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited for a\nsignal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anything was\nbetter than the barn.\n\nOn this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn for\nthe worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and the\nnewspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had been no great\nviolence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men argued\nwith. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windows broken,\nsome jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six instances\nhad men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose acts the leaders\ndisclaimed.\n\nIdleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the police,\ntriumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day more cars were going\non, each day more declarations were being made by the company officials\nthat the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. This put\ndesperate thoughts in the minds of the men. Peaceful methods meant, they\nsaw, that the companies would soon run all their cars and those who had\ncomplained would be forgotten. There was nothing so helpful to the\ncompanies as peaceful methods.\n\nAll at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and\nstress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with,\ntracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob\nmovements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia.\n\nHurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper.\n\n\"Run your car out,\" called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him. A\ngreen conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to\nstart. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door\ninto the street in front of the barn. Here two brawny policemen got up\nbeside him on the platform--one on either hand.\n\nAt the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the\nconductor and Hurstwood opened his lever.\n\nThe two policemen looked about them calmly.\n\n\"'Tis cold, all right, this morning,\" said the one on the left, who\npossessed a rich brogue.\n\n\"I had enough of it yesterday,\" said the other. \"I wouldn't want a\nsteady job of this.\"\n\n\"Nor I.\"\n\nNeither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stood facing the\ncold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his\norders.\n\n\"Keep a steady gait,\" the foreman had said. \"Don't stop for any one who\ndoesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stop for a\ncrowd.\"\n\nThe two officers kept silent for a few moments.\n\n\"The last man must have gone through all right,\" said the officer on the\nleft. \"I don't see his car anywhere.\"\n\n\"Who's on there?\" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its\ncomplement of policemen.\n\n\"Schaeffer and Ryan.\"\n\nThere was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. There\nwere not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwood did not\nsee many people either. The situation was not wholly disagreeable to\nhim. If he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough.\n\nHe was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve\nahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current and did an\nenergetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally\nquick turn. It shook him up and made him feel like making some\napologetic remarks, but he refrained.\n\n\"You want to look out for them things,\" said the officer on the left,\ncondescendingly.\n\n\"That's right,\" agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly.\n\n\"There's lots of them on this line,\" said the officer on the right.\n\nAround the corner a more populated way appeared. One or two pedestrians\nwere in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket\ngave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting.\n\n\"Scab!\" he yelled. \"Scab!\"\n\nHurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. He\nknew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably.\n\nAt a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the car to\nstop.\n\n\"Never mind him,\" said one of the officers. \"He's up to some game.\"\n\nHurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No sooner did\nthe man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist.\n\n\"Ah, you bloody coward!\" he yelled.\n\nSome half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers\nafter the speeding car.\n\nHurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worse than\nthe thoughts of it had been.\n\nNow came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something\non the track.\n\n\"They've been at work, here, all right,\" said one of the policemen.\n\n\"We'll have an argument, maybe,\" said the other.\n\nHurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done so wholly,\nhowever, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed of ex-motormen\nand conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers.\n\n\"Come off the car, pardner,\" said one of the men in a voice meant to be\nconciliatory. \"You don't want to take the bread out of another man's\nmouth, do you?\"\n\nHurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to\ndo.\n\n\"Stand back,\" yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform\nrailing. \"Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to do his work.\"\n\n\"Listen, pardner,\" said the leader, ignoring the policeman and\naddressing Hurstwood. \"We're all working men, like yourself. If you were\na regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you wouldn't\nwant any one to come in and take your place, would you? You wouldn't\nwant any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would\nyou?\"\n\n\"Shut her off! shut her off!\" urged the other of the policemen, roughly.\n\"Get out of this, now,\" and he jumped the railing and landed before the\ncrowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officer was down beside\nhim.\n\n\"Stand back, now,\" they yelled. \"Get out of this. What the hell do you\nmean? Out, now.\"\n\nIt was like a small swarm of bees.\n\n\"Don't shove me,\" said one of the strikers, determinedly. \"I'm not doing\nanything.\"\n\n\"Get out of this!\" cried the officer, swinging his club. \"I'll give ye a\nbat on the sconce. Back, now.\"\n\n\"What the hell!\" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way,\nadding at the same time some lusty oaths.\n\nCrack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyes\nblindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and\nstaggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck.\n\nInfuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about\nmadly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother of the blue,\nwho poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. No severe damage\nwas done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach.\nThey stood about the sidewalk now and jeered.\n\n\"Where is the conductor?\" yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on\nthat individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by Hurstwood.\nThe latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment than\nfear.\n\n\"Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?\"\ninquired the officer. \"What you standing there for? Do you want to stay\nhere all day? Get down.\"\n\nHurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the\nnervous conductor as if he had been called.\n\n\"Hurry up, now,\" said the other policeman.\n\nCold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood worked with\nthe conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the\nwork.\n\n\"Ah, you scab, you!\" yelled the crowd. \"You coward! Steal a man's job,\nwill you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet, now.\nWait.\"\n\nNot all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here and there,\nincorporated with much more of the same sort and curses.\n\n\"Work, you blackguards,\" yelled a voice. \"Do the dirty work. You're the\nsuckers that keep the poor people down!\"\n\n\"May God starve ye yet,\" yelled an old Irish woman, who now threw open\na nearby window and stuck out her head.\n\n\"Yes, and you,\" she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen.\n\"You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you, you\nhard-hearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye----\"\n\nBut the officer turned a deaf ear.\n\n\"Go to the devil, you old hag,\" he half muttered as he stared round upon\nthe scattered company.\n\nNow the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid a\ncontinued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him and the\nconductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door came\nrocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Another\nshattered the window behind.\n\n\"Throw open your lever,\" yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the\nhandle himself.\n\nHurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones\nand a rain of curses.\n\n\"That-- -- -- ---- hit me in the neck,\" said one of the officers. \"I gave\nhim a good crack for it, though.\"\n\n\"I think I must have left spots on some of them,\" said the other.\n\n\"I know that big guy that called us a-- -- -- ----,\" said the first. \"I'll\nget him yet for that.\"\n\n\"I thought we were in for it sure, once there,\" said the second.\n\nHurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was an\nastonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but the\nreality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit. The\nfact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a\nstolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur in thought to New\nYork or the flat. This one trip seemed a consuming thing.\n\nThey now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted. People\ngazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood in his plain\nclothes. Voices called \"scab\" now and then, as well as other epithets,\nbut no crowd attacked the car. At the down-town end of the line, one of\nthe officers went to call up his station and report the trouble.\n\n\"There's a gang out there,\" he said, \"laying for us yet. Better send\nsome one over there and clean them out.\"\n\nThe car ran back more quietly--hooted, watched, flung at, but not\nattacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns.\n\n\"Well,\" he observed to himself, \"I came out of that all right.\"\n\nThe car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he\nwas again called. This time a new team of officers was aboard. Slightly\nmore confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets and felt\nsomewhat less fearful. On one side, however, he suffered intensely. The\nday was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the\nmore intolerable by the speed of the car. His clothing was not intended\nfor this sort of work. He shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms\nas he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing. The\nnovelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust and\ndistress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him\nfrom feeling grim and sour. This was a dog's life, he thought. It was a\ntough thing to have to come to.\n\nThe one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by Carrie.\nHe was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. He could do\nsomething--this, even--for a while. It would get better. He would save a\nlittle.\n\nA boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon\nthe arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time\nsince morning.\n\n\"The little cur!\" he muttered.\n\n\"Hurt you?\" asked one of the policemen.\n\n\"No,\" he answered.\n\nAt one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an\nex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him:\n\n\"Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we're fighting for\ndecent day's wages, that's all. We've got families to support.\" The man\nseemed most peaceably inclined.\n\nHurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight on before\nand opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing in it.\n\nAll morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He made three such\ntrips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work and the cold was\ntelling on him. At each end of the line he stopped to thaw out, but he\ncould have groaned at the anguish of it. One of the barnmen, out of\npity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and for\nonce he was extremely thankful.\n\nOn the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half way\nalong the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old\ntelegraph pole.\n\n\"Get that thing off the track,\" shouted the two policemen.\n\n\"Yah, yah, yah!\" yelled the crowd. \"Get it off yourself.\"\n\nThe two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow.\n\n\"You stay there,\" one called. \"Some one will run away with your car.\"\n\nAmid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him.\n\n\"Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leave that to\nthe corporations.\"\n\nHe saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now, as\nbefore, he pretended not to hear him.\n\n\"Come down,\" the man repeated gently. \"You don't want to fight poor men.\nDon't fight at all.\" It was a most philosophic and jesuitical motorman.\n\nA third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one ran\nto telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about, determined but\nfearful.\n\nA man grabbed him by the coat.\n\n\"Come off of that,\" he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him\nover the railing.\n\n\"Let go,\" said Hurstwood, savagely.\n\n\"I'll show you--you scab!\" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on the car\nand aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it on the\nshoulder instead of the jaw.\n\n\"Away from here,\" shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and\nadding, of course, the usual oaths.\n\nHurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becoming serious\nwith him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. One girl was\nmaking faces.\n\nHe began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and\nmore officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared and the\nrelease effected.\n\n\"Let her go now, quick,\" said the officer, and again he was off.\n\nThe end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a\nmile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-looking\nneighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the track\nwas blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a\nhalf-dozen blocks away.\n\n\"There they are again!\" exclaimed one policeman.\n\n\"I'll give them something this time,\" said the second officer, whose\npatience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the\ncar rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather than\ncome near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed and\nHurstwood dodged a stone.\n\nBoth policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by\nrunning toward the car. A woman--a mere girl in appearance--was among\nthese, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful and struck at\nHurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged,\njumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardly time to speak\nor shout before he fell.\n\n\"Let go of me,\" he said, falling on his side.\n\n\"Ah, you sucker,\" he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained on him.\nHe seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragging him off\nand he wrestled for freedom.\n\n\"Let up,\" said a voice, \"you're all right. Stand up.\"\n\nHe was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised two officers.\nHe felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Something was wet on his\nchin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. It was red.\n\n\"They cut me,\" he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief.\n\n\"Now, now,\" said one of the officers. \"It's only a scratch.\"\n\nHis senses became cleared now and he looked around. He was standing in a\nlittle store, where they left him for the moment. Outside, he could see,\nas he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. A patrol\nwagon was there, and another.\n\nHe walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in.\n\nHe saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made.\n\n\"Come on, now, if you want to take your car,\" said an officer, opening\nthe door and looking in.\n\nHe walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very cold and\nfrightened.\n\n\"Where's the conductor?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, he's not here now,\" said the policeman.\n\nHurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did so\nthere was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder.\n\n\"Who fired that?\" he heard an officer exclaim. \"By God! who did that?\"\nBoth left him, running toward a certain building. He paused a moment and\nthen got down.\n\n\"George!\" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, \"this is too much for me.\"\n\nHe walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street.\n\n\"Whew!\" he said, drawing in his breath.\n\nA half block away, a small girl gazed at him.\n\n\"You'd better sneak,\" she called.\n\nHe walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk.\nThe cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him\ncuriously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused. All\nthe wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm passed\nfor nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat. There he\nentered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. A couple of evening\npapers were lying on the table where she left them. He lit the gas and\nsat down. Then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder. It was a\nmere scratch. He washed his hands and face, still in a brown study,\napparently, and combed his hair. Then he looked for something to eat,\nand finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable rocking-chair.\nIt was a wonderful relief.\n\nHe put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, \"that's a\npretty tough game over there.\"\n\nThen he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the\n\"World.\"\n\n\"Strike Spreading in Brooklyn,\" he read. \"Rioting Breaks Out in all\nParts of the City.\"\n\nHe adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the one\nthing he read with absorbing interest.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nA TOUCH OF SPRING: THE EMPTY SHELL\n\n\nThose who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of judgment\nwill none the less realise the negative influence on him of the fact\nthat he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of it. He said so\nlittle that she imagined he had encountered nothing worse than the\nordinary roughness--quitting so soon in the face of this seemed\ntrifling. He did not want to work.\n\nShe was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second act\nof the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentate\nas the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to any of\nthem, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself in the loft\nof the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star, feeling\nexceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a ripple\nof laughter:\n\n\"Well, who are you?\"\n\nIt merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. It might\nas well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned. He\nexpected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But Carrie,\nwhose experience and belief in herself gave her daring, courtesied\nsweetly again and answered:\n\n\"I am yours truly.\"\n\nIt was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did it\ncaught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-fierce potentate\ntowering before the young woman. The comedian also liked it, hearing the\nlaughter.\n\n\"I thought your name was Smith,\" he returned, endeavouring to get the\nlast laugh.\n\nCarrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. All\nmembers of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or\n\"business\" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think.\n\nAs she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting\nanother entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in\nrecognition.\n\n\"You can just leave that in hereafter,\" he remarked, seeing how\nintelligent she appeared. \"Don't add any more, though.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found herself\ntrembling violently.\n\n\"Well, you're in luck,\" remarked another member of the chorus. \"There\nisn't another one of us has got a line.\"\n\nThere was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the company\nrealised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself when next\nevening the lines got the same applause. She went home rejoicing,\nknowing that soon something must come of it. It was Hurstwood who, by\nhis presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee and replaced them with\nsharp longings for an end of distress.\n\nThe next day she asked him about his venture.\n\n\"They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't want\nanybody just now--not before next week.\"\n\nNext week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more\napathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the like\nwith the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found himself\nstaring at an item, but thinking of something else. The first of these\nlapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he had once\nattended at a driving club, of which he had been a member. He sat,\ngazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the\nclink of glasses.\n\n\"You're a dandy, Hurstwood,\" his friend Walker said. He was standing\nagain well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores for\na good story.\n\nAll at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike. He\nheard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been\ndozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items\nhe had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the\ndoze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second time,\nhowever, it did not seem quite so strange.\n\nButcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group with whom he\nwas then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit--called. He\nmet them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he became bold,\npretended to be out, or waved them off.\n\n\"They can't get blood out of a turnip,\" he said. \"If I had it I'd pay\nthem.\"\n\nCarrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding, had\nbecome a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of herself amount\nto anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort of pussy-like way and\ninstinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, you'll get up,\" she kept telling Carrie with admiration. \"You're so\ngood.\"\n\nTimid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance of\nothers made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.\nExperience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. No longer\nthe lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned that men\ncould change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had lost its\nforce with her. It required superiority--kindly superiority--to move\nher--the superiority of a genius like Ames.\n\n\"I don't like the actors in our company,\" she told Lola one day.\n\"They're all so struck on themselves.\"\n\n\"Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?\" inquired Lola, who had\nreceived a condescending smile or two from that quarter.\n\n\"Oh, he's nice enough,\" answered Carrie; \"but he isn't sincere. He\nassumes such an air.\"\n\nLola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:\n\n\"Are you paying room-rent where you are?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Carrie. \"Why?\"\n\n\"I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's too\nbig for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is only six\ndollars a week for both.\"\n\n\"Where?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"In Seventeenth Street.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know as I'd care to change,\" said Carrie, who was already\nturning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was thinking if she\nhad only herself to support this would leave her seventeen for herself.\n\nNothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of Hurstwood's\nand her success with the speaking part. Then she began to feel as if she\nmust be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and thus making him act\nfor himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits she feared he\nmight resist any effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at the\nshow and hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he\nwould, but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if\nhe made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly.\n\nThings were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of the\nactresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of leaving\nand Carrie was selected.\n\n\"How much are you going to get?\" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing the good\nnews.\n\n\"I didn't ask him,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask.\nTell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Certainly!\" exclaimed Lola. \"Ask 'em, anyway.\"\n\nCarrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the manager\ngave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part.\n\n\"How much do I get?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Thirty-five dollars,\" he replied.\n\nCarrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioning\nforty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged Lola, who clung\nto her at the news.\n\n\"It isn't as much as you ought to get,\" said the latter, \"especially\nwhen you've got to buy clothes.\"\n\nCarrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She had\nnone laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near.\n\n\"I'll not do it,\" she said, remembering her necessity. \"I don't use the\nflat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move.\"\n\nFitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgent\nthan ever.\n\n\"Come live with me, won't you?\" she pleaded. \"We can have the loveliest\nroom. It won't cost you hardly anything that way.\"\n\n\"I'd like to,\" said Carrie, frankly.\n\n\"Oh, do,\" said Lola. \"We'll have such a good time.\"\n\nCarrie thought a while.\n\n\"I believe I will,\" she said, and then added: \"I'll have to see first,\nthough.\"\n\nWith the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes calling\nfor instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood's lassitude. He\nsaid less and drooped more than ever.\n\nAs rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by the\ndemands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many more.\nTwenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. \"It's hard on her,\" he\nthought. \"We could get a cheaper place.\"\n\nStirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.\n\n\"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?\" he asked.\n\n\"Indeed I do,\" said Carrie, not catching his drift.\n\n\"I should think we could get a smaller place,\" he suggested. \"We don't\nneed four rooms.\"\n\nHer countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have exhibited the\ndisturbance she felt at this evidence of his determination to stay by\nher. He saw nothing remarkable in asking her to come down lower.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" she answered, growing wary.\n\n\"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of rooms,\nwhich would do just as well.\"\n\nHer heart revolted. \"Never!\" she thought. Who would furnish the money to\nmove? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolved to spend her\nmoney for clothes quickly, before something terrible happened. That very\nday she did it. Having done so, there was but one other thing to do.\n\n\"Lola,\" she said, visiting her friend, \"I think I'll come.\"\n\n\"Oh, jolly!\" cried the latter.\n\n\"Can we get it right away?\" she asked, meaning the room.\n\n\"Certainly,\" cried Lola.\n\nThey went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her\nexpenditures--enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged salary\nwould not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her for seventeen. She\npaid half of the six dollars with her friend.\n\n\"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week,\" she confided.\n\n\"Oh, I've got some,\" said Lola. \"I've got twenty-five dollars, if you\nneed it.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie. \"I guess I'll get along.\"\n\nThey decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the thing\nwas settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like a\ncriminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she had realised\nthat, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude, there was\nsomething pathetic.\n\nShe looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go, and\nnow he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and beaten\nupon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his hands\nflabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. All unconscious of his\ndoom, he rocked and read his paper, while she glanced at him.\n\nKnowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.\n\n\"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?\" she asked Hurstwood,\nlaying down a two-dollar bill.\n\n\"Certainly,\" he said, looking in wonder at the money.\n\n\"See if you can get some nice asparagus,\" she added. \"I'll cook it for\ndinner.\"\n\nHurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and getting\nhis hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel were old\nand poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before, but now it\ncame home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it, after all.\nHe had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine appearance the days\nhe had met her in the park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it\nbeen all his fault?\n\nHe came back and laid the change down with the food.\n\n\"You'd better keep it,\" she observed. \"We'll need other things.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, with a sort of pride; \"you keep it.\"\n\n\"Oh, go on and keep it,\" she replied, rather unnerved. \"There'll be\nother things.\"\n\nHe wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become in\nher eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a quaver\nin her voice.\n\nTo say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case. She\nhad looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had regretted\nthat she had served him so badly. She hoped she would never meet him\nagain, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she had any choice\nin the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek him, with\nsympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported him ill. There was\nsomething cruel somewhere, and not being able to track it mentally to\nits logical lair, she concluded with feeling that he would never\nunderstand what Hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision\nin her deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did not\nwant to make any one who had been good to her feel badly.\n\nShe did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings to\npossess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of her.\n\"Carrie's good-natured, anyhow,\" he thought.\n\nGoing to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little lady\npacking and singing.\n\n\"Why don't you come over with me to-day?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh, I can't,\" said Carrie. \"I'll be there Friday. Would you mind\nlending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" said Lola, going for her purse.\n\n\"I want to get some other things,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" answered the little girl, good-naturedly, glad\nto be of service.\n\nIt had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to the grocery or\nto the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was upon him--had been\nfor two days--but chill, grey weather had held him back. Friday broke\nfair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers of spring, given as\na sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken of warmth and beauty.\nThe blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured down a crystal wash\nof warm light. It was plain, from the voice of the sparrows, that all\nwas halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front windows, and felt the south\nwind blowing.\n\n\"It's lovely out to-day,\" she remarked.\n\n\"Is it?\" said Hurstwood.\n\nAfter breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.\n\n\"Will you be back for lunch?\" asked Carrie, nervously.\n\n\"No,\" he said.\n\nHe went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh Avenue,\nidly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He had seen\nsome ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. He\nwondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.\n\nPassing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park, which\nhe followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered the\nneighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected.\nIt was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling up. Coming\nback, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then turned into\nSeventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o'clock.\n\nThere it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear\nlight, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,\ntree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke him to\na sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it,\nfolding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and followed it toward\nthe east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clock\nbefore the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused\nhim to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room.\n\nWhen he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He knew\nthat Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing\nthrough the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between\nthe outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in.\nEverything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to\nwait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late.\nHe read until six, then got up to fix something for himself.\n\nAs he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What was\nit? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an\nenvelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost\nwithout further action on his part.\n\nReaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while\nhe reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Green\npaper money lay soft within the note.\n\n     \"Dear George,\" he read, crunching the money in one hand. \"I'm going\n     away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to keep up\n     the flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could,\n     but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I\n     make to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all I\n     have just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I\n     won't want it.--CARRIE.\"\n\nHe dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he\nmissed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had gone\nfrom the mantelpiece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, the\nparlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier had gone the\nknick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the lace\ncoverings. He opened the wardrobe--no clothes of hers. He opened the\ndrawers--nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place.\nBack in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them.\nNothing else was gone.\n\nHe stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking vacantly\nat the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat seemed\nwonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it was\nonly dinner-time. It seemed later in the night.\n\nSuddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were\ntwenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving the\nlights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.\n\n\"I'll get out of this,\" he said to himself.\n\nThen the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full.\n\n\"Left me!\" he muttered, and repeated, \"left me!\"\n\nThe place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days\nof warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confronted\nhim. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand--mere\nsensation, without thought, holding him.\n\nThen something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him.\n\n\"She needn't have gone away,\" he said. \"I'd have got something.\"\n\nHe sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud:\n\n\"I tried, didn't I?\"\n\nAt midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nTHE WORLD TURNS FLATTERER: AN EYE IN THE DARK\n\n\nInstalled in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood had\ntaken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then left for\nthe theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Not finding\nhim, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him. She quite\nforgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the chance of\nhis being there frightened her. As day after day passed and she heard\nnothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him passed. In a little\nwhile she was, except for occasional thoughts, wholly free of the gloom\nwith which her life had been weighed in the flat.\n\nIt is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carrie\nbecame wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. She\nlearned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items\nabout actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices,\nnot only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others.\nGradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to be\nrenowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or\ncritical comments made concerning others high in her profession. The\nshowy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her.\n\nIt was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were beginning\nto pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the stage which\nhas since become fervid. The newspapers, and particularly the Sunday\nnewspapers, indulged in large decorative theatrical pages, in which the\nfaces and forms of well-known theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed\nwith artistic scrolls. The magazines also--or at least one or two of the\nnewer ones--published occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and\nagain photos of scenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with\ngrowing interest. When would a scene from her opera appear? When would\nsome paper think her photo worth while?\n\nThe Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical pages\nfor some little notice. It would have accorded with her expectations if\nnothing had been said, but there in the squibs, tailing off several more\nsubstantial items, was a wee notice. Carrie read it with a tingling\nbody:\n\n     \"The part of Katisha, the country maid, in 'The Wives of Abdul' at\n     the Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafter\n     filled by Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the\n     chorus.\"\n\nCarrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn't it just fine! At last!\nThe first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And they called\nher clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughing loudly. Had\nLola seen it?\n\n\"They've got a notice here of the part I'm going to play to-morrow\nnight,\" said Carrie to her friend.\n\n\"Oh, jolly! Have they?\" cried Lola, running to her. \"That's all right,\"\nshe said, looking. \"You'll get more now, if you do well. I had my\npicture in the 'World' once.\"\n\n\"Did you?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"Did I? Well, I should say,\" returned the little girl. \"They had a frame\naround it.\"\n\nCarrie laughed.\n\n\"They've never published my picture.\"\n\n\"But they will,\" said Lola. \"You'll see. You do better than most that\nget theirs in now.\"\n\nCarrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola for the\nsympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her--so almost\nnecessary.\n\nFulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that\nshe was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely. She began\nto think the world was taking note of her.\n\nThe first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an enormous\nsum. Paying only three dollars for room rent seemed ridiculous. After\ngiving Lola her twenty-five, she still had seven dollars left. With four\nleft over from previous earnings, she had eleven. Five of this went to\npay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. The next week\nshe was even in greater feather. Now, only three dollars need be paid\nfor room rent and five on her clothes. The rest she had for food and her\nown whims.\n\n\"You'd better save a little for summer,\" cautioned Lola. \"We'll probably\nclose in May.\"\n\n\"I intend to,\" said Carrie.\n\nThe regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has\nendured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing.\nCarrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable\ndenominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy pretty\nclothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her room.\nFriends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men who\nbelonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company made her\nacquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these\ndiscovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with\nher.\n\n\"Let's stop in and have a rarebit,\" he suggested one midnight.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Carrie.\n\nIn the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours, she\nfound herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, too\nself-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her above the\ncommon run of clothes and material success. When it was all over, he\nsmiled most graciously.\n\n\"Got to go straight home, have you?\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered, with an air of quiet understanding.\n\n\"She's not so inexperienced as she looks,\" he thought, and thereafter\nhis respect and ardour were increased.\n\nShe could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. There were\ndays when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show they\ndined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefully dressed.\nShe was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure.\n\nAt last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had not known\nof it, and it took her breath. \"Miss Carrie Madenda,\" it was labelled.\n\"One of the favourites of 'The Wives of Abdul' company.\" At Lola's\nadvice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They had got one\nthere. She thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper,\nbut remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them\nto. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world was interested.\n\nThe metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon found that a\nlittle money brought her nothing. The world of wealth and distinction\nwas quite as far away as ever. She could feel that there was no warm,\nsympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with which many\napproached her. All seemed to be seeking their own amusement, regardless\nof the possible sad consequence to others. So much for the lessons of\nHurstwood and Drouet.\n\nIn April she learned that the opera would probably last until the middle\nor the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Next season\nit would go on the road. She wondered if she would be with it. As usual,\nMiss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for securing a home\nengagement.\n\n\"They're putting on a summer play at the Casino,\" she announced, after\nfiguratively putting her ear to the ground. \"Let's try and get in that.\"\n\n\"I'm willing,\" said Carrie.\n\nThey tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again.\nThat was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th.\n\n\"Those that want to go with the show next season,\" said the manager,\n\"will have to sign this week.\"\n\n\"Don't you sign,\" advised Lola. \"I wouldn't go.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Carrie, \"but maybe I can't get anything else.\"\n\n\"Well, I won't,\" said the little girl, who had a resource in her\nadmirers. \"I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of the\nseason.\"\n\nCarrie thought this over. She had never been on the road.\n\n\"We can get along,\" added Lola. \"I always have.\"\n\nCarrie did not sign.\n\nThe manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had never\nheard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her\npublished picture, and the programme bearing her name had some little\nweight with him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars a week.\n\n\"Didn't I tell you?\" said Lola. \"It doesn't do you any good to go away\nfrom New York. They forget all about you if you do.\"\n\nNow, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance\nillustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected\nCarrie's photo along with others to illustrate the announcement. Because\nshe was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about\nit. Carrie was delighted. Still, the management did not seem to have\nseen anything of it. At least, no more attention was paid to her than\nbefore. At the same time there seemed very little in her part. It\nconsisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little\nQuakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be\nmade of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had\nbeen doled out to Carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out.\n\n\"Don't kick, old man,\" remarked the manager. \"If it don't go the first\nweek we will cut it out.\"\n\nCarrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her part\nruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the dress\nrehearsal she was disconsolate.\n\n\"That isn't so bad,\" said the author, the manager noting the curious\neffect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. \"Tell her to frown a\nlittle more when Sparks dances.\"\n\nCarrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between\nher eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.\n\n\"Frown a little more, Miss Madenda,\" said the stage manager.\n\nCarrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke.\n\n\"No; frown,\" he said. \"Frown as you did before.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him in astonishment.\n\n\"I mean it,\" he said. \"Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want to see\nhow it looks.\"\n\nIt was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something so\nquaint and droll it caught even the manager.\n\n\"That _is_ good,\" he said. \"If she'll do that all through, I think it\nwill take.\"\n\nGoing over to Carrie, he said:\n\n\"Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It'll make\nthe part really funny.\"\n\nOn the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to her\npart, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to see her\nin the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect. Eyes were\nriveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars.\n\nIn the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation, roved with\nits eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was, grey-suited,\nsweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general idea was that\nshe was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at\nall. As she went on frowning, looking now at one principal and now at\nthe other, the audience began to smile. The portly gentlemen in the\nfront rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was\nthe kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All\nthe gentlemen yearned toward her. She was capital.\n\nAt last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage, noticed\na giggle where it was not expected. Then another and another. When the\nplace came for loud applause it was only moderate. What could be the\ntrouble? He realised that something was up.\n\nAll at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She was frowning\nalone on the stage and the audience was giggling and laughing.\n\n\"By George, I won't stand that!\" thought the thespian. \"I'm not going to\nhave my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits that when I do my\nturn or I quit.\"\n\n\"Why, that's all right,\" said the manager, when the kick came. \"That's\nwhat she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention to that.\"\n\n\"But she ruins my work.\"\n\n\"No, she don't,\" returned the former, soothingly. \"It's only a little\nfun on the side.\"\n\n\"It is, eh?\" exclaimed the big comedian. \"She killed my hand all right.\nI'm not going to stand that.\"\n\n\"Well, wait until after the show. Wait until to-morrow. We'll see what\nwe can do.\"\n\nThe next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was the chief\nfeature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her, the more it\nindicated its delight. Every other feature paled beside the quaint,\nteasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributed while on the\nstage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit.\n\nThe critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There were long\nnotices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with\nrecurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thing was\nrepeatedly emphasised.\n\n     \"Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character\n     work ever seen on the Casino stage,\" observed the sage critic of\n     the \"Sun.\" \"It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery which warms\n     like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended to take\n     precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage, but the\n     audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies,\n     selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for a\n     favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held\n     attention and applause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed\n     curious.\"\n\nThe critic of the \"Evening World,\" seeking as usual to establish a catch\nphrase which should \"go\" with the town, wound up by advising: \"If you\nwish to be merry, see Carrie frown.\"\n\nThe result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune was concerned. Even\nduring the morning she received a congratulatory message from the\nmanager.\n\n\"You seem to have taken the town by storm,\" he wrote. \"This is\ndelightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own.\"\n\nThe author also sent word.\n\nThat evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most\npleasant greeting for her.\n\n\"Mr. Stevens,\" he said, referring to the author, \"is preparing a little\nsong, which he would like you to sing next week.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't sing,\" returned Carrie.\n\n\"It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is very simple,' he\nsays, 'and would suit you exactly.'\"\n\n\"Of course, I wouldn't mind trying,\" said Carrie, archly.\n\n\"Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you\ndress?\" observed the manager, in addition. \"There's a little matter I\nwant to speak to you about.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied Carrie.\n\nIn that latter place the manager produced a paper.\n\n\"Now, of course,\" he said, \"we want to be fair with you in the matter of\nsalary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for the\nnext three months. How would it do to make it, say, one hundred and\nfifty a week and extend it for twelve months?\"\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears.\n\n\"Supposing, then, you just sign this.\"\n\nCarrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one,\nwith the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With a hand\ntrembling from excitement she affixed her name.\n\n\"One hundred and fifty a week!\" she murmured, when she was again alone.\nShe found, after all--as what millionaire has not?--that there was no\nrealising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. It was only a\nshimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities.\n\nDown in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwood read\nthe dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at first realising\nwho was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole thing\nover again.\n\n\"That's her, all right, I guess,\" he said.\n\nThen he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby.\n\n\"I guess she's struck it,\" he thought, a picture of the old shiny,\nplush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its\ncarriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Its splendid\ngates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside. She seemed\na creature afar off--like every other celebrity he had known.\n\n\"Well, let her have it,\" he said. \"I won't bother her.\"\n\nIt was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nAND THIS IS NOT ELF LAND: WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY\n\n\nWhen Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her\ndressing-room had been changed.\n\n\"You are to use this room, Miss Madenda,\" said one of the stage lackeys.\n\nNo longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop\nshared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious\nchamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She\nbreathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical than\nmental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and body were\nhaving their say.\n\nGradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental\nappreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested, and\nthat politely. The other members of the cast looked at her enviously as\nshe came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore all through the\nplay. All those who had supposedly been her equals and superiors now\nsmiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: \"How friendly we\nhave always been.\" Only the star comedian whose part had been so deeply\ninjured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand\nthat smote him.\n\nDoing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of the\napplause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty of\nsomething--perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her in\nthe wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were not\nfor her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty--to be\nother than she had been. After the performances she rode to her room\nwith Lola, in a carriage provided.\n\nThen came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to\nher lips--bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary\nhad not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began to\nget letters and cards. A Mr. Withers--whom she did not know from\nAdam--having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed\nhimself politely in.\n\n\"You will excuse me for intruding,\" he said; \"but have you been thinking\nof changing your apartments?\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought of it,\" returned Carrie.\n\n\"Well, I am connected with the Wellington--the new hotel on Broadway.\nYou have probably seen notices of it in the papers.\"\n\nCarrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and most\nimposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid\nrestaurant.\n\n\"Just so,\" went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of\nfamiliarity. \"We have some very elegant rooms at present which we would\nlike to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you\nintend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in every\ndetail--hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for\nevery floor, elevators, and all that. You know what our restaurant is.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to\nbe a millionaire.\n\n\"What are your rates?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our\nregular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day.\"\n\n\"Mercy!\" interrupted Carrie. \"I couldn't pay any such rate as that.\"\n\n\"I know how you feel about it,\" exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. \"But\njust let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every\nother hotel we make special ones, however. Possibly you have not thought\nabout it, but your name is worth something to us.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.\n\n\"Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A\nwell-known actress like yourself,\" and he bowed politely, while Carrie\nflushed, \"draws attention to the hotel, and--although you may not\nbelieve it--patrons.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious\nproposition in her mind.\n\n\"Now,\" continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating\none of his polished shoes upon the floor, \"I want to arrange, if\npossible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not\ntrouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything will\ndo for the summer--a mere figure--anything that you think you could\nafford to pay.\"\n\nCarrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.\n\n\"You can come to-day or to-morrow--the earlier the better--and we will\ngive you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms--the very best we\nhave.\"\n\n\"You're very kind,\" said Carrie, touched by the agent's extreme\naffability. \"I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what\nis right, however. I shouldn't want to----\"\n\n\"You need not trouble about that at all,\" interrupted Mr. Withers. \"We\ncan arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three\ndollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you have\nto do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or month,\njust as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms\nwould cost if charged for at our regular rates.\"\n\nThe speaker paused.\n\n\"Suppose you come and look at the rooms,\" he added.\n\n\"I'd be glad to,\" said Carrie, \"but I have a rehearsal this morning.\"\n\n\"I did not mean at once,\" he returned. \"Any time will do. Would this\nafternoon be inconvenient?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Carrie.\n\nSuddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.\n\n\"I have a room-mate,\" she added, \"who will have to go wherever I do. I\nforgot about that.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" said Mr. Withers, blandly. \"It is for you to say whom\nyou want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit yourself.\"\n\nHe bowed and backed toward the door.\n\n\"At four, then, we may expect you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"I will be there to show you,\" and so Mr. Withers withdrew.\n\nAfter rehearsal Carrie informed Lola.\n\n\"Did they really?\" exclaimed the latter, thinking of the Wellington as a\ngroup of managers. \"Isn't that fine? Oh, jolly! It's so swell. That's\nwhere we dined that night we went with those two Cushing boys. Don't you\nknow?\"\n\n\"I remember,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Oh, it's as fine as it can be.\"\n\n\"We'd better be going up there,\" observed Carrie, later in the\nafternoon.\n\nThe rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and\nbath--a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in chocolate and dark\nred, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down into\nbusy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed there.\nThere were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel beds,\nwhite, ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the third\nroom, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of\ngorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado\nbook shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. Pictures were\nupon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan, footstools of brown\nplush upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost a\nhundred dollars a week.\n\n\"Oh, lovely!\" exclaimed Lola, walking about.\n\n\"It is comfortable,\" said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and\nlooking down into crowded Broadway.\n\nThe bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large,\nblue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and\ncommodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and\nincandescent lights arranged in three places.\n\n\"Do you find these satisfactory?\" observed Mr. Withers.\n\n\"Oh, very,\" answered Carrie.\n\n\"Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready.\nThe boy will bring you the keys at the door.\"\n\nCarrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbelled\nlobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often\ndreamed of occupying.\n\n\"I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?\" she observed\nto Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street.\n\n\"Oh, by all means,\" said the latter.\n\nThe next day her trunks left for the new abode.\n\nDressing, after the matinée on Wednesday, a knock came at her\ndressing-room door.\n\nCarrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of\nsurprise.\n\n\"Tell her I'll be right out,\" she said softly. Then, looking at the\ncard, added: \"Mrs. Vance.\"\n\n\"Why, you little sinner,\" the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie coming\ntoward her across the now vacant stage. \"How in the world did this\nhappen?\"\n\nCarrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her\nfriend's manner. You would have thought that the long separation had\ncome about accidentally.\n\n\"I don't know,\" returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first troubled\nfeelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.\n\n\"Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your name\nthrew me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked just like\nyou, and I said: 'Well, now, I will go right down there and see.' I was\nnever more surprised in my life. How are you anyway?\"\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" returned Carrie. \"How have you been?\"\n\n\"Fine. But aren't you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking about\nyou. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I was almost\nafraid to come back here this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Oh, nonsense,\" said Carrie, blushing. \"You know I'd be glad to see\nyou.\"\n\n\"Well, anyhow, here you are. Can't you come up and take dinner with me\nnow? Where are you stopping?\"\n\n\"At the Wellington,\" said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of pride\nin the acknowledgment.\n\n\"Oh, are you?\" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without\nits proper effect.\n\nTactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom she\ncould not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much she\nsurmised.\n\n\"Oh, I don't think I can,\" said Carrie, \"to-night. I have so little\ntime. I must be back here by 7.30. Won't you come and dine with me?\"\n\n\"I'd be delighted, but I can't to-night,\" said Mrs. Vance, studying\nCarrie's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune made her seem more\nthan ever worthy and delightful in the other's eyes. \"I promised\nfaithfully to be home at six.\" Glancing at the small gold watch pinned\nto her bosom, she added: \"I must be going, too. Tell me when you're\ncoming up, if at all.\"\n\n\"Why, any time you like,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well, to-morrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now.\"\n\n\"Moved again?\" exclaimed Carrie, laughing.\n\n\"Yes. You know I can't stay six months in one place. I just have to\nmove. Remember now--half-past five.\"\n\n\"I won't forget,\" said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went away.\nThen it came to her that she was as good as this woman now--perhaps\nbetter. Something in the other's solicitude and interest made her feel\nas if she were the one to condescend.\n\nNow, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman\nat the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly developed since\nMonday. What they contained she well knew. _Mash notes_ were old affairs\nin their mildest form. She remembered having received her first one far\nback in Columbia City. Since then, as a chorus girl, she had received\nothers--gentlemen who prayed for an engagement. They were common sport\nbetween her and Lola, who received some also. They both frequently made\nlight of them.\n\nNow, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes did not\nhesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of\nvirtues, that they had their horses and carriages. Thus one:\n\n     \"I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury.\n     There isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. I\n     say this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I\n     love you and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that\n     prompts me to write. Will you not give me one half-hour in which to\n     plead my cause?\"\n\nSuch of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the Seventeenth\nStreet place were read with more interest--though never delight--than\nthose which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters at\nthe Wellington. Even there her vanity--or that self-appreciation which,\nin its more rabid form, is called vanity--was not sufficiently cloyed to\nmake these things wearisome. Adulation, being new in any form, pleased\nher. Only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish between her old\ncondition and her new one. She had not had fame or money before. Now\nthey had come. She had not had adulation and affectionate propositions\nbefore. Now they had come. Wherefore? She smiled to think that men\nshould suddenly find her so much more attractive. In the least way it\nincited her to coolness and indifference.\n\n\"Do look here,\" she remarked to Lola. \"See what this man says: 'If you\nwill only deign to grant me one half-hour,'\" she repeated, with an\nimitation of languor. \"The idea. Aren't men silly?\"\n\n\"He must have lots of money, the way he talks,\" observed Lola.\n\n\"That's what they all say,\" said Carrie, innocently.\n\n\"Why don't you see him,\" suggested Lola, \"and hear what he has to say?\"\n\n\"Indeed I won't,\" said Carrie. \"I know what he'd say. I don't want to\nmeet anybody that way.\"\n\nLola looked at her with big, merry eyes.\n\n\"He couldn't hurt you,\" she returned. \"You might have some fun with\nhim.\"\n\nCarrie shook her head.\n\n\"You're awfully queer,\" returned the little, blue-eyed soldier.\n\nThus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary had\nnot yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted her.\nWithout money--or the requisite sum, at least--she enjoyed the luxuries\nwhich money could buy. For her the doors of fine places seemed to open\nquite without the asking. These palatial chambers, how marvellously they\ncame to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs. Vance in the Chelsea--these\nwere hers. Men sent flowers, love notes, offers of fortune. And still\nher dreams ran riot. The one hundred and fifty! the one hundred and\nfifty! What a door to an Aladdin's cave it seemed to be. Each day, her\nhead almost turned by developments, her fancies of what her fortune must\nbe, with ample money, grew and multiplied. She conceived of delights\nwhich were not--saw lights of joy that never were on land or sea. Then,\nat last, after a world of anticipation, came her first installment of\none hundred and fifty dollars.\n\nIt was paid to her in greenbacks--three twenties, six tens, and six\nfives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was accompanied\nby a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" said the latter, when she applied; \"Miss Madenda--one hundred\nand fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have made.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" returned Carrie.\n\nRight after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and\nshe heard the changed tone of address.\n\n\"How much?\" said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she had only\nrecently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took her back to\nthe few weeks in which she had collected--or rather had received--almost\nwith the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week from a lordly foreman in\na shoe factory--a man who, in distributing the envelopes, had the manner\nof a prince doling out favours to a servile group of petitioners. She\nknew that out in Chicago this very day the same factory chamber was full\nof poor homely-clad girls working in long lines at clattering machines;\nthat at noon they would eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour; that\nSaturday they would gather, as they had when she was one of them, and\naccept the small pay for work a hundred times harder than she was now\ndoing. Oh, it was so easy now! The world was so rosy and bright. She\nfelt so thrilled that she must needs walk back to the hotel to think,\nwondering what she should do.\n\nIt does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing the\ndesires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred and fifty in\nhand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. In itself, as a\ntangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look upon, it was a\ndiverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed. Her hotel bill did\nnot require its use. Her clothes had for some time been wholly\nsatisfactory. Another day or two and she would receive another hundred\nand fifty. It began to appear as if this were not so startlingly\nnecessary to maintain her present state. If she wanted to do anything\nbetter or move higher she must have more--a great deal more.\n\nNow a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which shine\nwith clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display the folly\nof celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie, and said so,\npublicly--adding, however, that she was merely pretty, good-natured, and\nlucky. This cut like a knife. The \"Herald,\" getting up an entertainment\nfor the benefit of its free ice fund, did her the honour to beg her to\nappear along with celebrities for nothing. She was visited by a young\nauthor, who had a play which he thought she could produce. Alas, she\ncould not judge. It hurt her to think it. Then she found she must put\nher money in the bank for safety, and so moving, finally reached the\nplace where it struck her that the door to life's perfect enjoyment was\nnot open.\n\nGradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothing was\ngoing on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was star.\nFifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their mansions.\nMadison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full of loafing thespians\nin search of next season engagements. The whole city was quiet and her\nnights were taken up with her work. Hence the feeling that there was\nlittle to do.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of the windows\nwhich looked down into Broadway, \"I get lonely; don't you?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Lola, \"not very often. You won't go anywhere. That's what's\nthe matter with you.\"\n\n\"Where can I go?\"\n\n\"Why, there're lots of places,\" returned Lola, who was thinking of her\nown lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. \"You won't go with anybody.\"\n\n\"I don't want to go with these people who write to me. I know what kind\nthey are.\"\n\n\"You oughtn't to be lonely,\" said Lola, thinking of Carrie's success.\n\"There're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes.\"\n\nCarrie looked out again at the passing crowd.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said.\n\nUnconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nCURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR\n\n\nThe gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken\nrefuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture--between him and\nnothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. He was not\nwholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. As\nfifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he\nbecame uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room--thirty-five cents a\nday--to make his money last longer. Frequently he saw notices of Carrie.\nHer picture was in the \"World\" once or twice, and an old \"Herald\" he\nfound in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some\nothers at a benefit for something or other. He read these things with\nmingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her farther and farther away\ninto a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him. On the\nbill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the Quaker\nMaid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped and looked at these,\ngazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way. His clothes were\nshabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to\nbe.\n\nSomehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he had never\nany intention of going near her, there was a sub-conscious comfort for\nhim--he was not quite alone. The show seemed such a fixture that, after\na month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still\nrunning. In September it went on the road and he did not notice it. When\nall but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent\nlodging-house in the Bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled\nwith tables and benches as well as some chairs. Here his preference was\nto close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him.\nIt was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and\nincidents in his Chicago life. As the present became darker, the past\ngrew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief.\n\nHe was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one\nday he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his\nfriends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if he stood in the\ndoor of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to Sagar\nMorrison about the value of South Chicago real estate in which the\nlatter was about to invest.\n\n\"How would you like to come in on that with me?\" he heard Morrison say.\n\n\"Not me,\" he answered, just as he had years before. \"I have my hands\nfull now.\"\n\nThe movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he had really\nspoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he really did\ntalk.\n\n\"Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?\" he was saying. \"Jump!\"\n\nIt was a funny English story he was telling to a company of actors. Even\nas his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty old codger, sitting\nnear by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way.\nHurstwood straightened up. The humour of the memory fled in an instant\nand he felt ashamed. For relief, he left his chair and strolled out into\nthe streets.\n\nOne day, looking down the ad. columns of the \"Evening World,\" he saw\nwhere a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mental halt.\nCarrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday,\nbut no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. Curiously, this\nfact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehow he was depending\nupon her being in the city. Now she was gone. He wondered how this\nimportant fact had skipped him. Goodness knows when she would be back\nnow. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall,\nwhere he counted his remaining money, unseen. There were but ten dollars\nin all.\n\nHe wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got\nalong. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged--unquestionably\nthey did. Many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day. He\nhad seen other men asking for money on the streets. Maybe he could get\nsome that way. There was horror in this thought.\n\nSitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. He\nhad saved and counted until his health was affected. His stoutness had\ngone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. Now he\ndecided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by,\nbringing him down to his last twenty cents--not enough to eat for the\nmorrow.\n\nSummoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to the Broadway\nCentral hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big, heavy-faced\nporter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. Hurstwood\npurposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up, he was upon him before\nhe could turn away.\n\n\"My friend,\" he said, recognising even in his plight the man's\ninferiority, \"is there anything about this hotel that I could get to\ndo?\"\n\nThe porter stared at him the while he continued to talk.\n\n\"I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something--it\ndoesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, but if\nyou'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged to you. It\nwouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I've got to have\nsomething.\"\n\nThe porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeing that\nHurstwood was about to go on, he said:\n\n\"I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside.\"\n\nCuriously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort.\n\n\"I thought you might tell me.\"\n\nThe fellow shook his head irritably.\n\nInside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's\ndesk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwood\nlooked him straight in the eye.\n\n\"Could you give me something to do for a few days?\" he said. \"I'm in a\nposition where I have to get something at once.\"\n\nThe comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: \"Well, I\nshould judge so.\"\n\n\"I came here,\" explained Hurstwood, nervously, \"because I've been a\nmanager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way, but I'm not here\nto tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week.\"\n\nThe man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye.\n\n\"What hotel did you manage?\" he inquired.\n\n\"It wasn't a hotel,\" said Hurstwood. \"I was manager of Fitzgerald and\nMoy's place in Chicago for fifteen years.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" said the hotel man. \"How did you come to get out of that?\"\n\nThe figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact.\n\n\"Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk about now.\nYou could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, if you will\nbelieve me, I haven't eaten anything to-day.\"\n\nThe hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardly\ntell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestness made\nhim wish to do something.\n\n\"Call Olsen,\" he said, turning to the clerk.\n\nIn reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the head porter,\nappeared.\n\n\"Olsen,\" said the manager, \"is there anything downstairs you could find\nfor this man to do? I'd like to give him something.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir,\" said Olsen. \"We have about all the help we need. I\nthink I could find something, sir, though, if you like.\"\n\n\"Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him something to\neat.\"\n\n\"All right, sir,\" said Olsen.\n\nHurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner\nchanged.\n\n\"I don't know what the devil there is to do,\" he observed.\n\nHurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subject for\nprivate contempt.\n\n\"You're to give this man something to eat,\" he observed to the cook.\n\nThe latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and\nintellectual in his eyes, said:\n\n\"Well, sit down over there.\"\n\nThus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not for long.\nHe was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the\nfoundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he was set to aid\nthe fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything\nthat might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him.\nMoreover his appearance did not please these individuals--his temper was\ntoo lonely--and they made it disagreeable for him.\n\nWith the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it\nall, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook\ngave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. His\nconstitution was in no shape to endure.\n\nOne day the following February he was sent on an errand to a large coal\ncompany's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streets were\nsloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull\nand weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about as\nmuch as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in\nothers.\n\nIn the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new\nculinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering a big\nbox, he could not lift it.\n\n\"What's the matter there?\" said the head porter. \"Can't you handle it?\"\n\nHe was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit.\n\n\"No,\" he said, weakly.\n\nThe man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale.\n\n\"Not sick, are you?\" he asked.\n\n\"I think I am,\" returned Hurstwood.\n\n\"Well, you'd better go sit down, then.\"\n\nThis he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he could do to\ncrawl to his room, where he remained for a day.\n\n\"That man Wheeler's sick,\" reported one of the lackeys to the night\nclerk.\n\n\"What's the matter with him?\"\n\n\"I don't know. He's got a high fever.\"\n\nThe hotel physician looked at him.\n\n\"Better send him to Bellevue,\" he recommended. \"He's got pneumonia.\"\n\nAccordingly, he was carted away.\n\nIn three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of May\nbefore his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he was\ndischarged.\n\nNo more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine\nthan the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency had fled. His face\nwas thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. Clothes and all, he\nweighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. Some old garments had\nbeen given him--a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. Also\nsome change and advice. He was told to apply to the charities.\n\nAgain he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to\nlook. From this it was but a step to beggary.\n\n\"What can a man do?\" he said. \"I can't starve.\"\n\nHis first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed man\ncame leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park. Hurstwood\nnerved himself and sidled near.\n\n\"Would you mind giving me ten cents?\" he said, directly. \"I'm in a\nposition where I must ask someone.\"\n\nThe man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket and took\nout a dime.\n\n\"There you are,\" he said.\n\n\"Much obliged,\" said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more\nattention to him.\n\nSatisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided\nthat he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be\nsufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before\njust the right face and situation arrived. When he asked, he was\nrefused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then\nasked again. This time a nickel was given him. By the most watchful\neffort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful.\n\nThe next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of\nrebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last it crossed his mind\nthat there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal\ncountenance if he tried.\n\nIt was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. He saw\none man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested.\nNevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something\nwhich is always better.\n\nIt was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one\nmorning the return of the Casino Company, \"with Miss Carrie Madenda.\" He\nhad thought of her often enough in days past. How successful she\nwas--how much money she must have! Even now, however, it took a severe\nrun of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. He was truly hungry\nbefore he said:\n\n\"I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars.\"\n\nAccordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing it several\ntimes in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he sat in Bryant\nPark, a block away, waiting. \"She can't refuse to help me a little,\" he\nkept saying to himself.\n\nBeginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the\nThirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying\npedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He was\nslightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being\nweak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At last he saw that\nthe actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased,\nuntil it seemed as if he could not stand much more.\n\nOnce he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that\nhe was mistaken.\n\n\"She can't be long, now,\" he said to himself, half fearing to encounter\nher and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by\nanother way. His stomach was so empty that it ached.\n\nIndividual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost\nall indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with\nladies--the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres\nand hotels.\n\nSuddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door.\nBefore Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk\nand disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it was\nso unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waited\na while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the\nstage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he\nconcluded it must have been Carrie and turned away.\n\n\"Lord,\" he said, hastening out of the street into which the more\nfortunate were pouring, \"I've got to get something.\"\n\nAt that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting\naspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of\nTwenty-sixth Street and Broadway--a spot which is also intersected by\nFifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to\nreceive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusements\nblazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like\nyellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely\nmingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing\nand jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers--a few wealthy strollers, a\ngentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some clubmen\npassing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great\nhotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafés and billiard-rooms\nfilled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All\nabout was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and\nexhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon finding\njoy in a thousand different ways.\n\nThis unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned\nreligionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our\npeculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he\nconceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he chose\nto administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of\nsecuring a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at\nthis particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide\na comfortable habitation for himself.\n\nTaking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his\nstocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a\nbroad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways\nlearned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone,\ngazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the evening in\nquestion, a policeman passing saluted him as \"captain,\" in a friendly\nway. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All\nothers took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of\ndress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his\nown amusement.\n\nAs the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and\nthere in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer\nedging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner\nand glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue\nto the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and hobbled\noff again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth\nAvenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in\nhis cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and\nfro, indifferently whistling.\n\nAs nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour\npassed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too,\nwas colder. On every hand curious figures were moving--watchers and\npeepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to\nenter--a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of\ncold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadow\nof Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close\nto the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about\nthe movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping\nuntil the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came\nthe halt.\n\nThe captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting.\nThe newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits\nfor gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge of the walk.\n\n\"Stand over there,\" he said.\n\nBy this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short,\nsolemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much as\ngreet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and\nscraping their feet.\n\n\"Cold, ain't it?\"\n\n\"I'm glad winter's over.\"\n\n\"Looks as though it might rain.\"\n\nThe motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and\nconversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd\nand yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying\nnothing in particular and moving their feet.\n\nThere would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance.\nCounting sufficient to begin, he came forward.\n\n\"Beds, eh, all of you?\"\n\nThere was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.\n\n\"Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent myself.\"\n\nThey fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some\nof the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the\nline. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a\nsecond-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped\nand frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the\nstore lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red\nwith blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two\nwere rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came\nnear, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and\nquickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began to\ntalk.\n\n\"Silence!\" exclaimed the captain. \"Now, then, gentlemen, these men are\nwithout beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. They can't\nlie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed.\nWho will give it to me?\"\n\nNo reply.\n\n\"Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents\nisn't so very much for one man.\"\n\n\"Here's fifteen,\" exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained\neyes. \"It's all I can afford.\"\n\n\"All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line,\" and seizing one\nby the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him\nup alone.\n\nComing back, he resumed his place and began again.\n\n\"I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There\nare\"--counting--\"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine,\nten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed;\ngive him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and\nlook after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?\"\n\nOne of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent\npiece.\n\n\"Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come,\ngentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds.\nHow about these?\"\n\n\"Here you are,\" remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.\n\n\"That,\" said the captain, looking at the coin, \"pays for two beds for\ntwo men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents\nmore?\"\n\n\"I will,\" said a voice.\n\nComing down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east\nthrough Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly\ndisconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal\nextent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would\nbe eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would go\naway in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances.\nWorst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must\nintervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no food\nand no bed.\n\nWhen he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of\nwanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some\npatent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing the\nstreet toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds\nwere already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In\nthe glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his\nown kind--the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the\nlodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered what\nit could be and turned back.\n\nThere was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with\nastonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: \"These men\nmust have a bed.\" Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds\nwere yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a\nposition at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use to\ncontend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one\ndifficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he would do better.\n\nBack of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed\nair was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them\ntalking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability.\nPolitics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper\nsensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found\nmouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced\nforcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made in\nreply.\n\nThere were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those\nwho were too dull or too weary to converse.\n\nStanding tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he\nshould drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At\nlast his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the\nblessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was\ntalking for him.\n\n\"Twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn't\nstand here in the cold if he had any place to go.\"\n\nHurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and\nweakness had made a coward of him.\n\n\"Here you are,\" said a stranger, handing money to the captain.\n\nNow the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder.\n\n\"Line up over there,\" he said.\n\nOnce there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not\nquite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like\nhimself about this.\n\n\"Captain's a great feller, ain't he?\" said the man ahead--a little,\nwoe-begone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he\nhad ever been the sport and care of fortune.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Hurstwood, indifferently.\n\n\"Huh! there's a lot back there yet,\" said a man farther up, leaning out\nand looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.\n\n\"Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night,\" said another.\n\n\"Look at the guy in the cab,\" observed a third.\n\nA cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to\nthe captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line.\nThere was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt\nfront sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe.\n\n\"That fixes up nine men for the night,\" said the captain, counting out\nas many of the line near him. \"Line up over there. Now, then, there are\nonly seven. I need twelve cents.\"\n\nMoney came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a\nmeagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot\npassenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only\nnow and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a\ncoin, and went away, unheeding.\n\nThe captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly,\nuttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he\ncould not fail.\n\n\"Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and\ncold. Some one give me four cents.\"\n\nThere came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, and\nfor each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other\nline. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.\n\nThe theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven.\nAnother half-hour and he was down to the last two men.\n\n\"Come, now,\" he exclaimed to several curious observers; \"eighteen cents\nwill fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody\ngive me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night.\nBefore that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen\ncents.\"\n\nNo one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several\nminutes, occasionally saying softly: \"Eighteen cents.\" It seemed as if\nthis paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the\nrest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was\na part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.\n\nAt last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue,\naccompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both\nof Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own\nwife in like manner.\n\nWhile he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company,\nsent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all\nelegant and graceful.\n\n\"Here you are,\" he said.\n\n\"Thanks,\" said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants.\n\"Now we have some for to-morrow night,\" he added.\n\nTherewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting\nas he went.\n\n\"One hundred and thirty-seven,\" he announced. \"Now, boys, line up. Right\ndress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now.\"\n\nHe placed himself at the head and called out \"Forward.\" Hurstwood moved\nwith the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the\nwinding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound\nthe long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped\nand stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at various\ncorners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had\nseen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to\nEighth Street, where there was a lodging-house, closed, apparently, for\nthe night. They were expected, however.\n\nOutside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then\ndoors swung open and they were invited in with a \"Steady, now.\"\n\nSome one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for\nkeys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the\ncaptain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad\nsolicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into\nthe night.\n\n\"I can't stand much of this,\" said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him\npainfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small,\nlightless chamber allotted to him. \"I've got to eat, or I'll die.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nSTIRRING TROUBLED WATERS\n\n\nPlaying in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was putting\nthe finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the night, when a\ncommotion near the stage door caught her ear. It included a familiar\nvoice.\n\n\"Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda.\"\n\n\"You'll have to send in your card.\"\n\n\"Oh, come off! Here.\"\n\nA half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her dressing-room\ndoor.\n\nCarrie opened it.\n\n\"Well, well!\" said Drouet. \"I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew that\nwas you the moment I saw you.\"\n\nCarrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation.\n\n\"Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy! That's\nall right, shake hands.\"\n\nCarrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man's\nexuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed. The\nsame fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy countenance.\n\n\"That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until I paid\nhim. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a great show. You do\nyour part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be passing to-night\nand thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I saw your name on the\nprogramme, but I didn't remember it until you came on the stage. Then it\nstruck me all at once. Say, you could have knocked me down with a\nfeather. That's the same name you used out there in Chicago, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance.\n\n\"I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been, anyhow?\"\n\n\"Oh, very well,\" said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She was\nrather dazed by the assault. \"How have you been?\"\n\n\"Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branch here.\"\n\n\"How nice!\"\n\n\"Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?\" inquired Drouet.\n\n\"About three years ago,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it. I knew\nyou would, though. I always said you could act--didn't I?\"\n\nCarrie smiled.\n\n\"Yes, you did,\" she said.\n\n\"Well, you do look great,\" he said. \"I never saw anybody improve so.\nYou're taller, aren't you?\"\n\n\"Me? Oh, a little, maybe.\"\n\nHe gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was set\njauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to avert.\nEvidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once and\nwithout modification.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and the\nlike, preparatory to departing, \"I want you to come out to dinner with\nme; won't you? I've got a friend out here.\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't,\" said Carrie. \"Not to-night. I have an early engagement\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want to\nhave a good talk with you.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Carrie; \"I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I don't\ncare for a late dinner.\"\n\n\"Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Not to-night,\" she said, shaking her head. \"We'll have a talk some\nother time.\"\n\nAs a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his face,\nas if he were beginning to realise that things were changed. Good-nature\ndictated something better than this for one who had always liked her.\n\n\"You come around to the hotel to-morrow,\" she said, as sort of penance\nfor error. \"You can take dinner with me.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Drouet, brightening. \"Where are you stopping?\"\n\n\"At the Waldorf,\" she answered, mentioning the fashionable hostelry then\nbut newly erected.\n\n\"What time?\"\n\n\"Well, come at three,\" said Carrie, pleasantly.\n\nThe next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that\nCarrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome as\never, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to\nwhether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked as\nvolubly as ever.\n\n\"They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?\" was his first remark.\n\n\"Yes; they do,\" said Carrie.\n\nGenial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed account of\nhis own career.\n\n\"I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon,\" he observed in one\nplace. \"I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars.\"\n\nCarrie listened most good-naturedly.\n\n\"Say,\" he said, suddenly; \"where is Hurstwood now?\"\n\nCarrie flushed a little.\n\n\"He's here in New York, I guess,\" she said. \"I haven't seen him for some\ntime.\"\n\nDrouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that the\nex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He imagined\nnot; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that Carrie had got rid\nof him--as well she ought, he thought.\n\n\"A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that,\" he\nobserved.\n\n\"Like what?\" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.\n\n\"Oh, you know,\" and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with his\nhand.\n\n\"No, I don't,\" she answered. \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Why that affair in Chicago--the time he left.\"\n\n\"I don't know what you are talking about,\" said Carrie. Could it be he\nwould refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?\n\n\"Oho!\" said Drouet, incredulously. \"You knew he took ten thousand\ndollars with him when he left, didn't you?\"\n\n\"What!\" said Carrie. \"You don't mean to say he stole money, do you?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, \"you knew that, didn't you?\"\n\n\"Why, no,\" said Carrie. \"Of course I didn't.\"\n\n\"Well, that's funny,\" said Drouet. \"He did, you know. It was in all the\npapers.\"\n\n\"How much did you say he took?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards,\nthough.\"\n\nCarrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was\nshining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered now\na hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he took\nit on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of\nsorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his\nhead all the time.\n\nAt dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood,\nfancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for\nhim. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her\nlife again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. How\nbeautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf\nsetting, Carrie was to him the all-desirable.\n\n\"Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?\" he\nasked.\n\nCarrie smiled to think of it.\n\n\"I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad,\" he added\nruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; \"I thought you and I were\ngoing to get along fine those days.\"\n\n\"You mustn't talk that way,\" said Carrie, bringing in the least touch of\ncoldness.\n\n\"Won't you let me tell you----\"\n\n\"No,\" she answered, rising. \"Besides, it's time I was getting ready for\nthe theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now.\"\n\n\"Oh, stay a minute,\" pleaded Drouet. \"You've got plenty of time.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Carrie, gently.\n\nReluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw her to\nthe elevator and, standing there, said:\n\n\"When do I see you again?\"\n\n\"Oh, some time, possibly,\" said Carrie. \"I'll be here all summer.\nGood-night!\"\n\nThe elevator door was open.\n\n\"Good-night!\" said Drouet, as she rustled in.\n\nThen he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived,\nbecause she was now so far off. The merry frou-frou of the place spoke\nall of her. He thought himself hardly dealt with. Carrie, however, had\nother thoughts.\n\nThat night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the Casino,\nwithout observing him.\n\nThe next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face to\nface. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if he\nhad to send in word. At first she did not recognise the shabby, baggy\nfigure. He frightened her, edging so close, a seemingly hungry stranger.\n\n\"Carrie,\" he half whispered, \"can I have a few words with you?\"\n\nShe turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had lurked\nany feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. Still, she\nremembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the money.\n\n\"Why, George,\" she said; \"what's the matter with you?\"\n\n\"I've been sick,\" he answered. \"I've just got out of the hospital. For\nGod's sake, let me have a little money, will you?\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to\nmaintain her composure. \"But what's the matter with you, anyhow?\"\n\nShe was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it--a\nfive and two twos.\n\n\"I've been sick, I told you,\" he said, peevishly, almost resenting her\nexcessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a source.\n\n\"Here,\" she said. \"It's all I have with me.\"\n\n\"All right,\" he answered, softly. \"I'll give it back to you some day.\"\n\nCarrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt the\nstrain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.\n\n\"Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?\" she asked, hardly\nknowing what to do. \"Where are you living?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery,\" he answered. \"There's no use\ntrying to tell you here. I'm all right now.\"\n\nHe seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries--so much better had\nfate dealt with her.\n\n\"Better go on in,\" he said. \"I'm much obliged, but I won't bother you\nany more.\"\n\nShe tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward the\neast.\n\nFor days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to wear\npartially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen by\nher. His attentions seemed out of place.\n\n\"I'm out,\" was her reply to the boy.\n\nSo peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she\nwas becoming an interesting figure in the public eye--she was so quiet\nand reserved.\n\nNot long after the management decided to transfer the show to London. A\nsecond summer season did not seem to promise well here.\n\n\"How would you like to try subduing London?\" asked her manager, one\nafternoon.\n\n\"It might be just the other way,\" said Carrie.\n\n\"I think we'll go in June,\" he answered.\n\nIn the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and Drouet\nwere left to discover that she was gone. The latter called once, and\nexclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of\nhis moustache. At last he reached a conclusion--the old days had gone\nfor good.\n\n\"She isn't so much,\" he said; but in his heart of hearts he did not\nbelieve this.\n\nHurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. A\nsmall job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. Begging,\nsometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park, carried him over\nmore days. Resorting to those peculiar charities, several of which, in\nthe press of hungry search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest.\nToward the dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in a\nnew play; but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered about the\ncity, begging, while the fire sign, announcing her engagement, blazed\nnightly upon the crowded street of amusements. Drouet saw it, but did\nnot venture in.\n\nAbout this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little success\nin the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of course,\nhe encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was nothing\nresponsive between them. He thought she was still united to Hurstwood,\nuntil otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he did not profess\nto understand, and refrained from comment.\n\nWith Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself accordingly.\n\n\"She ought not to be in comedy,\" he said. \"I think she could do better\nthan that.\"\n\nOne afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a very\nfriendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keen\ninterest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because\nat that time he had represented something which she did not have; but\nthis she did not understand. Success had given her the momentary feeling\nthat she was now blessed with much of which he would approve. As a\nmatter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. He\nthought she could have done better, by far.\n\n\"You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?\" he said, remembering her\ninterest in that form of art.\n\n\"No,\" she answered; \"I haven't, so far.\"\n\nHe looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had\nfailed. It moved her to add: \"I want to, though.\"\n\n\"I should think you would,\" he said. \"You have the sort of disposition\nthat would do well in comedy-drama.\"\n\nIt surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then, so\nclearly in his mind?\n\n\"Why?\" she asked.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your\nnature.\"\n\nCarrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with her\nthat she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal was\nsounding.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all\nconcealment.\n\n\"I saw your play,\" he remarked. \"It's very good.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you liked it.\"\n\n\"Very good, indeed,\" he said, \"for a comedy.\"\n\nThis is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but\nlater they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring\nat the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard work\nhad given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not for Carrie\nto know the thing in it which appealed to her.\n\n\"All alone?\" she said.\n\n\"I was listening to the music.\"\n\n\"I'll be back in a moment,\" said her companion, who saw nothing in the\ninventor.\n\nNow he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while he\nsat.\n\n\"Isn't that a pathetic strain?\" he inquired, listening.\n\n\"Oh, very,\" she returned, also catching it, now that her attention was\ncalled.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he added, offering her the chair beside him.\n\nThey listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling,\nonly hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as in\nthe old days.\n\n\"I don't know what it is about music,\" she started to say, moved by the\ninexplicable longings which surged within her; \"but it always makes me\nfeel as if I wanted something--I----\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he replied; \"I know how you feel.\"\n\nSuddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition,\nexpressing her feelings so frankly.\n\n\"You ought not to be melancholy,\" he said.\n\nHe thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observation\nwhich, however, accorded with their feelings.\n\n\"The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we can\noccupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring our hands\nover the far-off things.\"\n\nThe music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before her, as\nif to rest himself.\n\n\"Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?\" he said. He was\nlooking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large, sympathetic\neyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of his judgment.\n\n\"Perhaps I shall,\" she returned.\n\n\"That's your field,\" he added.\n\n\"Do you think so?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but there is\nsomething about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of\nwork.\"\n\nCarrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, loneliness\ndeserted her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical.\n\n\"It's in your eyes and mouth,\" he went on abstractedly. \"I remember\nthinking, the first time I saw you, that there was something peculiar\nabout your mouth. I thought you were about to cry.\"\n\n\"How odd,\" said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heart\ncraved.\n\n\"Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night I saw it\nagain. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face much\nthis same character. It's in the depth of them, I think.\"\n\nCarrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused.\n\n\"You probably are not aware of it,\" he added.\n\nShe looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be equal\nto this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked the door to a\nnew desire.\n\nShe had cause to ponder over this until they met again--several weeks or\nmore. It showed her she was drifting away from the old ideal which had\nfilled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage and thereafter, for\na long time. Why had she lost it?\n\n\"I know why you should be a success,\" he said, another time, \"if you\nhad a more dramatic part. I've studied it out----\"\n\n\"What is it?\" said Carrie.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, \"the expression in your\nface is one that comes out in different things. You get the same thing\nin a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you deeply. It's a thing\nthe world likes to see, because it's a natural expression of its\nlonging.\"\n\nCarrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant.\n\n\"The world is always struggling to express itself,\" he went on. \"Most\npeople are not capable of voicing their feelings. They depend upon\nothers. That is what genius is for. One man expresses their desires for\nthem in music; another one in poetry; another one in a play. Sometimes\nnature does it in a face--it makes the face representative of all\ndesire. That's what has happened in your case.\"\n\nHe looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes\nthat she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was\nsomething which represented the world's longing. She took it to heart as\na creditable thing, until he added:\n\n\"That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have this\nthing. It is no credit to you--that is, I mean, you might not have had\nit. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you must do\nsomething with it.\"\n\n\"What?\" asked Carrie.\n\n\"I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathy and\nsuch a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will make your\npowers endure.\"\n\nCarrie did not understand this last. All the rest showed her that her\ncomedy success was little or nothing.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" she asked.\n\n\"Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in\nyour nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it and\nlive to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The look will\nleave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act will\ndisappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takes care of\nthat.\"\n\nHe was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes\nbecame enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something in\nCarrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up.\n\n\"I know,\" she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect.\n\n\"If I were you,\" he said, \"I'd change.\"\n\nThe effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubled\nover it in her rocking-chair for days.\n\n\"I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer,\" she\neventually remarked to Lola.\n\n\"Oh, why not?\" said the latter.\n\n\"I think,\" she said, \"I can do better in a serious play.\"\n\n\"What put that idea in your head?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing,\" she answered; \"I've always thought so.\"\n\nStill, she did nothing--grieving. It was a long way to this better\nthing--or seemed so--and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity and\nlonging.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nTHE WAY OF THE BEATEN: A HARP IN THE WIND\n\n\nIn the city, at that time, there were a number of charities similar in\nnature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood now patronised in a\nlike unfortunate way. One was a convent mission-house of the Sisters of\nMercy in Fifteenth Street--a row of red brick family dwellings, before\nthe door of which hung a plain wooden contribution box, on which was\npainted the statement that every noon a meal was given free to all those\nwho might apply and ask for aid. This simple announcement was modest in\nthe extreme, covering, as it did, a charity so broad. Institutions and\ncharities are so large and so numerous in New York that such things as\nthis are not often noticed by the more comfortably situated. But to one\nwhose mind is upon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection.\nUnless one were looking up this matter in particular, he could have\nstood at Sixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hour\nand never have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that\nbusy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some\nweather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenance\nand dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is none the less\ntrue, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it became. Space\nand a lack of culinary room in the mission-house, compelled an\narrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirty eating at one\ntime, so that a line had to be formed outside and an orderly entrance\neffected. This caused a daily spectacle which, however, had become so\ncommon by repetition during a number of years that now nothing was\nthought of it. The men waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest\nweather--waited for several hours before they could be admitted. No\nquestions were asked and no service rendered. They ate and went away\nagain, some of them returning regularly day after day the winter\nthrough.\n\nA big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door during\nthe entire operation and counted the admissible number. The men moved up\nin solemn order. There was no haste and no eagerness displayed. It was\nalmost a dumb procession. In the bitterest weather this line was to be\nfound here. Under an icy wind there was a prodigious slapping of hands\nand a dancing of feet. Fingers and the features of the face looked as if\nseverely nipped by the cold. A study of these men in broad light proved\nthem to be nearly all of a type. They belonged to the class that sit on\nthe park benches during the endurable days and sleep upon them during\nthe summer nights. They frequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heels\nEast Side streets where poor clothes and shrunken features are not\nsingled out as curious. They are the men who are in the lodging-house\nsitting-rooms during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the\ncheaper shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower East\nSide streets. Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played\nhavoc with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,\nhollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were a\nsickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended to, their ears\nanæmic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at heel\nand toe. They were of the class which simply floats and drifts, every\nwave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a stormy\nshore.\n\nFor nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city,\nFleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who would\ncome for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of Broadway\nand Tenth Street, at midnight. Every night during twenty years about\nthree hundred men had formed in line and at the appointed time marched\npast the doorway, picked their loaf from a great box placed just\noutside, and vanished again into the night. From the beginning to the\npresent time there had been little change in the character or number of\nthese men. There were two or three figures that had grown familiar to\nthose who had seen this little procession pass year after year. Two of\nthem had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. There were about\nforty, more or less, regular callers. The remainder of the line was\nformed of strangers. In times of panic and unusual hardships there were\nseldom more than three hundred. In times of prosperity, when little is\nheard of the unemployed, there were seldom less. The same number, winter\nand summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this\nmelancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box.\n\nAt both of these two charities, during the severe winter which was now\non, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it was peculiarly\ncold, and finding no comfort in begging about the streets, he waited\nuntil noon before seeking this free offering to the poor. Already, at\neleven o'clock of this morning, several such as he had shambled forward\nout of Sixth Avenue, their thin clothes flapping and fluttering in the\nwind. They leaned against the iron railing which protects the walls of\nthe Ninth Regiment Armory, which fronts upon that section of Fifteenth\nStreet, having come early in order to be first in. Having an hour to\nwait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but others coming\nup, they moved closer in order to protect their right of precedence. To\nthis collection Hurstwood came up from the west out of Seventh Avenue\nand stopped close to the door, nearer than all the others. Those who had\nbeen waiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by a\ncertain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated that\nthey were first.\n\nSeeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the line,\nthen moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order had been\nrestored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed.\n\n\"Must be pretty near noon,\" ventured one.\n\n\"It is,\" said another. \"I've been waiting nearly an hour.\"\n\n\"Gee, but it's cold!\"\n\nThey peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery man\ndrove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started some\nwords upon grocery men and the cost of food in general.\n\n\"I see meat's gone up,\" said one.\n\n\"If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot.\"\n\nThe line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more, and\nthose at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulated\nthemselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. There\nwas much jerking of heads, and looking down the line.\n\n\"It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're in the\nfirst twenty-five,\" commented one of the first twenty-five. \"You all go\nin together.\"\n\n\"Humph!\" ejaculated Hurstwood, who had been so sturdily displaced.\n\n\"This here Single Tax is the thing,\" said another. \"There ain't going to\nbe no order till it comes.\"\n\nFor the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling, glancing, and\nbeating their arms.\n\nAt last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared. She\nonly looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one, passed\nin, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stout arm, and\nthe line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these the ex-manager was\none. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of\nit; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At last he was admitted, and, having\neaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in getting it.\n\nAt eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, he was at\nthe midnight offering of a loaf--waiting patiently. It had been an\nunfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touch of\nphilosophy. If he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in the\nevening, here was a place he could come. A few minutes before twelve, a\ngreat box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour a portly,\nround-faced German took position by it, calling \"Ready.\" The whole line\nat once moved forward, each taking his loaf in turn and going his\nseparate way. On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he went,\nplodding the dark streets in silence to his bed.\n\nBy January he had about concluded that the game was up with him. Life\nhad always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want and weakened\nvitality had made the charms of earth rather dull and inconspicuous.\nSeveral times, when fortune pressed most harshly, he thought he would\nend his troubles; but with a change of weather, or the arrival of a\nquarter or a dime, his mood would change, and he would wait. Each day he\nwould find some old paper lying about and look into it, to see if there\nwas any trace of Carrie, but all summer and fall he had looked in vain.\nThen he noticed that his eyes were beginning to hurt him, and this\nailment rapidly increased until, in the dark chambers of the lodgings he\nfrequented, he did not attempt to read. Bad and irregular eating was\nweakening every function of his body. The one recourse left him was to\ndoze when a place offered and he could get the money to occupy it.\n\nHe was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagre state of\nbody, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and beggar. Police\nhustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepers turned him out\npromptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved him off. He found\nit more and more difficult to get anything from anybody.\n\nAt last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was after a long\nseries of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been refused and\nrefused--every one hastening from contact.\n\n\"Give me a little something, will you, mister?\" he said to the last one.\n\"For God's sake, do; I'm starving.\"\n\n\"Aw, get out,\" said the man, who happened to be a common type himself.\n\"You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'.\"\n\nHurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. Tears came\ninto his eyes.\n\n\"That's right,\" he said; \"I'm no good now. I was all right. I had money.\nI'm going to quit this,\" and, with death in his heart, he started down\ntoward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas before and died; why\nshouldn't he? He remembered a lodging-house where there were little,\nclose rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost pre-arranged, he thought, for\nwhat he wanted to do, which rented for fifteen cents. Then he remembered\nthat he had no fifteen cents.\n\nOn the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming, clean-shaven,\nout of a fine barber shop.\n\n\"Would you mind giving me a little something?\" he asked this man boldly.\n\nThe gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing but\nquarters were in his pocket.\n\n\"Here,\" he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. \"Be off, now.\"\n\nHurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, bright coin\npleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that he could\nget a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed, for the\ntime being, out of his mind. It was only when he could get nothing but\ninsults that death seemed worth while.\n\nOne day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the season\nset in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the second\nsnowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents by\nnightfall, and this he had spent for food. At evening he found himself\nat the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned his\nface Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wandering\npropensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged his\nwet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coat was\nturned up about his red ears--his cracked derby hat was pulled down\nuntil it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets.\n\n\"I'll just go down Broadway,\" he said to himself.\n\nWhen he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were already\nblazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through bright windows,\nat every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant restaurants.\nThere were coaches and crowded cable cars.\n\nIn his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. The\ncontrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things.\n\n\"What's the use?\" he thought. \"It's all up with me. I'll quit this.\"\n\nPeople turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling figure.\nSeveral officers followed him with their eyes, to see that he did not\nbeg of anybody.\n\nOnce he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked through\nthe windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign,\nand through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red and\ngold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware,\nand, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind had become, his\nhunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. He stopped stock\nstill, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly\nin.\n\n\"Eat,\" he mumbled. \"That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any.\"\n\nThen his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the fancy it\nhad.\n\n\"It's mighty cold,\" he said. \"Awful cold.\"\n\nAt Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescent fire,\nCarrie's name. \"Carrie Madenda,\" it read, \"and the Casino Company.\" All\nthe wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated fire. It was so\nbright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He looked up, and then at a\nlarge, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a fine lithograph of\nCarrie, life-size.\n\nHurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, as\nif something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, that his\nmind was not exactly clear.\n\n\"That's you,\" he said at last, addressing her. \"Wasn't good enough for\nyou, was I? Huh!\"\n\nHe lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longer possible with\nhim.\n\n\"She's got it,\" he said, incoherently, thinking of money. \"Let her give\nme some.\"\n\nHe started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was going for\nand paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists. Suddenly it\nreturned. The stage door! That was it.\n\nHe approached that entrance and went in.\n\n\"Well?\" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, he went\nover and shoved him. \"Get out of here,\" he said.\n\n\"I want to see Miss Madenda,\" he said.\n\n\"You do, eh?\" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle. \"Get out\nof here,\" and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had no strength to resist.\n\n\"I want to see Miss Madenda,\" he tried to explain, even as he was being\nhustled away. \"I'm all right. I----\"\n\nThe man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so,\nHurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vague\nsense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly.\n\n\"God damned dog!\" he said. \"Damned old cur,\" wiping the slush from his\nworthless coat. \"I--I hired such people as you once.\"\n\nNow a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up--just one fierce, angry\nthought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind.\n\n\"She owes me something to eat,\" he said. \"She owes it to me.\"\n\nHopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward and\naway, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after another,\nas a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do.\n\nIt was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one distinct\nmental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock, the sombre hue of\nnight was thickening the air. A heavy snow was falling--a fine picking,\nwhipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. The\nstreets were bedded with it--six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to\na dirty brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway\nmen picked their way in ulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men\nslouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears. In the\nformer thoroughfare business men and travellers were making for\ncomfortable hotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past\ndingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already\ngleaming. There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter\nwas reduced by the mantle about the wheels. The whole city was muffled\nby this fast-thickening mantle.\n\nIn her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading at this\ntime \"Père Goriot,\" which Ames had recommended to her. It was so strong,\nand Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest, that she\ncaught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. For the first\ntime, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthless had been\nher earlier reading, as a whole. Becoming wearied, however, she yawned\nand came to the window, looking out upon the old winding procession of\ncarriages rolling up Fifth Avenue.\n\n\"Isn't it bad?\" she observed to Lola.\n\n\"Terrible!\" said that little lady, joining her. \"I hope it snows enough\nto go sleigh riding.\"\n\n\"Oh, dear,\" said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of Father Goriot were\nstill keen. \"That's all you think of. Aren't you sorry for the people\nwho haven't anything to-night?\"\n\n\"Of course I am,\" said Lola; \"but what can I do? I haven't anything.\"\n\nCarrie smiled.\n\n\"You wouldn't care, if you had,\" she returned.\n\n\"I would, too,\" said Lola. \"But people never gave me anything when I was\nhard up.\"\n\n\"Isn't it just awful?\" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm.\n\n\"Look at that man over there,\" laughed Lola, who had caught sight of\nsome one falling down. \"How sheepish men look when they fall, don't\nthey?\"\n\n\"We'll have to take a coach to-night,\" answered Carrie, absently.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was just arriving,\nshaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Bad weather had driven him\nhome early and stirred his desire for those pleasures which shut out the\nsnow and gloom of life. A good dinner, the company of a young woman, and\nan evening at the theatre were the chief things for him.\n\n\"Why, hello, Harry!\" he said, addressing a lounger in one of the\ncomfortable lobby chairs. \"How are you?\"\n\n\"Oh, about six and six,\" said the other.\n\n\"Rotten weather, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Well, I should say,\" said the other. \"I've been just sitting here\nthinking where I'd go to-night.\"\n\n\"Come along with me,\" said Drouet. \"I can introduce you to something\ndead swell.\"\n\n\"Who is it?\" said the other.\n\n\"Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have a\ndandy time. I was just looking for you.\"\n\n\"Supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?\"\n\n\"Sure,\" said Drouet. \"Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll be in the barber shop,\" said the other. \"I want to get a\nshave.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward the\nelevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOn an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour\nthrough the snow of the evening, were three others, all related.\n\n\"First call for dinner in the dining-car,\" a Pullman servitor was\nannouncing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and\njacket.\n\n\"I don't believe I want to play any more,\" said the youngest, a\nblack-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a\neuchre hand away from her.\n\n\"Shall we go into dinner?\" inquired her husband, who was all that fine\nraiment can make.\n\n\"Oh, not yet,\" she answered. \"I don't want to play any more, though.\"\n\n\"Jessica,\" said her mother, who was also a study in what good clothing\ncan do for age, \"push that pin down in your tie--it's coming up.\"\n\nJessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at\na little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty, even\ncold, is fascinating from one point of view.\n\n\"Well, we won't have much more of this weather,\" he said. \"It only takes\ntwo weeks to get to Rome.\"\n\nMrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. It was so\nnice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man--one whose financial\nstate had borne her personal inspection.\n\n\"Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?\" asked Jessica, \"if it\nkeeps up like this?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" answered her husband. \"This won't make any difference.\"\n\nPassing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of\nChicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he did not\nhesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With a specially\nconjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away.\nIt was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was her pride satisfied.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four-story building in a\nside street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had been\nchanged by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men--a crowd which\nhad been, and was still, gathering by degrees.\n\nIt began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the closed\nwooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had on faded\nderby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavy with melted\nsnow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers were mere bags, frayed\nat the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes, torn at the sides and\nworn almost to shreds. They made no effort to go in, but shifted\nruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering at\nthe crowd and the increasing lamps. With the minutes, increased the\nnumber. There were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, men\nwho were comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who were\nmiddle-aged. None were fat. There was a face in the thick of the\ncollection which was as white as drained veal. There was another red as\nbrick. Some came with thin, rounded shoulders; others with wooden legs,\nstill others with frames so lean that clothes only flapped about them.\nThere were great ears, swollen noses, thick lips, and, above all, red,\nblood-shot eyes. Not a normal, healthy face in the whole mass; not a\nstraight figure; not a straightforward, steady glance.\n\nIn the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another. There\nwere wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red with cold.\nThere were ears, half covered by every conceivable semblance of a hat,\nwhich still looked stiff and bitten. In the snow they shifted, now one\nfoot, now another, almost rocking in unison.\n\nWith the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. It was not\nconversation, but a running comment directed at any one in general. It\ncontained oaths and slang phrases.\n\n\"By damn, I wish they'd hurry up.\"\n\n\"Look at the copper watchin'.\"\n\n\"Maybe it ain't winter, nuther!\"\n\n\"I wisht I was in Sing Sing.\"\n\nNow a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. It was an\nedging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, no pleading, no\nthreatening words. It was all sullen endurance, unlightened by either\nwit or good fellowship.\n\nA carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One of the\nmen nearest the door saw it.\n\n\"Look at the bloke ridin'.\"\n\n\"He ain't so cold.\"\n\n\"Eh, eh, eh!\" yelled another, the carriage having long since passed out\nof hearing.\n\nLittle by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowd turned out\non its way home. Men and shop-girls went by with quick steps. The\ncross-town cars began to be crowded. The gas lamps were blazing, and\nevery window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. Still the crowd hung\nabout the door, unwavering.\n\n\"Ain't they ever goin' to open up?\" queried a hoarse voice,\nsuggestively.\n\nThis seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, and many\ngazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb brutes look, as dogs\npaw and whine and study the knob. They shifted and blinked and muttered,\nnow a curse, now a comment. Still they waited and still the snow whirled\nand cut them with biting flakes. On the old hats and peaked shoulders it\nwas piling. It gathered in little heaps and curves and no one brushed it\noff. In the centre of the crowd the warmth and steam melted it, and\nwater trickled off hat rims and down noses, which the owners could not\nreach to scratch. On the outer rim the piles remained unmelted.\nHurstwood, who could not get in the centre, stood with head lowered to\nthe weather and bent his form.\n\nA light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrill of\npossibility through the watchers. There was a murmur of recognition. At\nlast the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears. Footsteps\nshuffled within and it murmured again. Some one called: \"Slow up there,\nnow,\" and then the door opened. It was push and jam for a minute, with\ngrim, beast silence to prove its quality, and then it melted inward,\nlike logs floating, and disappeared. There were wet hats and wet\nshoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass, pouring in between bleak\nwalls. It was just six o'clock and there was supper in every hurrying\npedestrian's face. And yet no supper was provided here--nothing but\nbeds.\n\nHurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps to\nhis allotted room. It was a dingy affair--wooden, dusty, hard. A small\ngas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner.\n\n\"Hm!\" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door.\n\nNow he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped first with\nhis coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. His vest he\narranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laid softly upon\nthe table. Then he pulled off his shoes and lay down.\n\nIt seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turned the gas\nout, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. After a few\nmoments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated, he turned\nthe gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stood there, hidden\nwholly in that kindness which is night, while the uprising fumes filled\nthe room. When the odour reached his nostrils, he quit his attitude and\nfumbled for the bed.\n\n\"What's the use?\" he said, weakly, as he stretched himself to rest.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemed life's\nobject, or, at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever attain of\ntheir original desires. She could look about on her gowns and carriage,\nher furniture and bank account. Friends there were, as the world takes\nit--those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of her success. For\nthese she had once craved. Applause there was, and publicity--once far\noff, essential things, but now grown trivial and indifferent. Beauty\nalso--her type of loveliness--and yet she was lonely. In her\nrocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged--singing and dreaming.\n\nThus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotional\nnature--the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one come the\nmen of action--generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets and\ndreamers--artists all.\n\nAs harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy,\nvoicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal.\n\nMan has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has the ideal.\nFor him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe. Ever\nhearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of its\ndistant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet in travelling. So\nwatched Carrie, so followed, rocking and singing.\n\nAnd it must be remembered that reason had little part in this. Chicago\ndawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than she had ever\nknown, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone, clung to it. In\nfine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed to be contented.\nHence, she drew near these things. Chicago, New York; Drouet, Hurstwood;\nthe world of fashion and the world of stage--these were but incidents.\nNot them, but that which they represented, she longed for. Time proved\nthe representation false.\n\nOh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here was Carrie,\nin the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional; responding with\ndesire to everything most lovely in life, yet finding herself turned as\nby a wall. Laws to say: \"Be allured, if you will, by everything lovely,\nbut draw not nigh unless by righteousness.\" Convention to say: \"You\nshall not better your situation save by honest labour.\" If honest labour\nbe unremunerative and difficult to endure; if it be the long, long road\nwhich never reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if the\ndrag to follow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, taking\nrather the despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall cast\nthe first stone? Not evil, but longing for that which is better, more\noften directs the steps of the erring. Not evil, but goodness more often\nallures the feeling mind unused to reason.\n\nAmid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy. As when\nDrouet took her, she had thought: \"Now am I lifted into that which is\nbest\"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her the better way: \"Now am I\nhappy.\" But since the world goes its way past all who will not partake\nof its folly, she now found herself alone. Her purse was open to him\nwhose need was greatest. In her walks on Broadway, she no longer thought\nof the elegance of the creatures who passed her. Had they more of that\npeace and beauty which glimmered afar off, then were they to be envied.\n\nDrouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood's death\nshe was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting out from the pier at\nTwenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errand bore, with many others, his\nnameless body to the Potter's Field.\n\nThus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in their\nrelation to her. Their influence upon her life is explicable alone by\nthe nature of her longings. Time was when both represented for her all\nthat was most potent in earthly success. They were the personal\nrepresentatives of a state most blessed to attain--the titled\nambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. It is\nbut natural that when the world which they represented no longer allured\nher, its ambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwood returned\nin his original beauty and glory, he could not now have allured her. She\nhad learned that in his world, as in her own present state, was not\nhappiness.\n\nSitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways by which\none who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit of beauty.\nThough often disillusioned, she was still waiting for that halcyon day\nwhen she should be led forth among dreams become real. Ames had pointed\nout a farther step, but on and on beyond that, if accomplished, would\nlie others for her. It was forever to be the pursuit of that radiance of\ndelight which tints the distant hilltops of the world.\n\nOh, Carrie, Carrie! Oh, blind strivings of the human heart! Onward,\nonward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows. Whether it\nbe the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quiet landscape, or the\nglimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show of soul in some passing\neye, the heart knows and makes answer, following. It is when the feet\nweary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise.\nKnow, then, that for you is neither surfeit nor content. In your\nrocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. In your\nrocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may\nnever feel.\n\n\nTHE END"