Author: Dreiser, Theodore
Title: Sister Carrie
Publisher: Eris Etext Project
Tag(s): hurstwood; drouet; american literature
Contributor(s): Eric Lease Morgan (Infomotions, Inc.)
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Rights: GNU General Public License
Size: 156,276 words(average) Grade range: 6-9(grade school) Readabilityscore: 72 (easy)
Identifier: dreiser-sister-393
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1900 SISTER CARRIE by Theodore Dreiser Chapter I. THE MAGNET ATTRACTING: A WAIF AMID FORCES When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, hertotal outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitationalligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellowleather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with hersister's address in Van Buren Street, and four dollars in money. Itwas in August, 1889. She was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, andfull of the illusions of ignorance and youth. Whatever touch of regretat parting characterised her thoughts, it was certainly not foradvantages now being given up. A gush of tears at her mother'sfarewell kiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by theflour mill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh asthe familiar green environs of the village passed in review, and thethreads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home wereirretrievably broken. To be sure there was always the next station, where one mightdescend and return. There was the great city, bound more closely bythese very trains which came up daily. Columbia City was not so veryfar away, even once she was in Chicago. What, pray, is a few hours-a few hundred miles? She looked at the little slip bearing hersister's address and wondered. She gazed at the green landscape, nowpassing in swift review, until her swifter thoughts replaced itsimpression with vague conjectures of what Chicago might be. When a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things.Either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or sherapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse.Of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is nopossibility. The city has its cunning wiles, no less than theinfinitely smaller and more human tempter. There are large forceswhich allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in themost cultured human. The gleam of a thousand lights is often aseffective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye.Half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind isaccomplished by forces wholly superhuman. A blare of sound, a roarof life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonishedsenses in equivocal terms. Without a counsellor at hand to whispercautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things breatheinto the unguarded ear! Unrecognised for what they are, theirbeauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts thesimpler human perceptions. Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionatelytermed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its powerof observation and analysis. Self-interest with her was high, butnot strong. It was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. Warmwith the fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of theformative period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapelinessand an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fairexample of the middle American class- two generations removed from theemigrant. Books were beyond her interest- knowledge a sealed book.In the intuitive graces she was still crude. She could scarcely tossher head gracefully. Her hands were almost ineffectual. The feet,though small, were set flatly. And yet she was interested in hercharms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious togain in material things. A half-equipped little knight she was,venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wilddreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey andsubject- the proper penitent, grovelling at a woman's slipper. "That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest littleresorts in Wisconsin." "Is it?" she answered nervously. The train was just pulling out of Waukesha. For some time she hadbeen conscious of a man behind. She felt him observing her mass ofhair. He had been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt acertain interest growing in that quarter. Her maidenly reserve, anda certain sense of what was conventional under the circumstances,called her to forestall and deny this familiarity, but the daringand magnetism of the individual, born of past experiences andtriumphs, prevailed. She answered. He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat andproceeded to make himself volubly agreeable. "Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people. The hotels areswell. You are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?" "Oh, yes, I am," answered Carrie. "That is, I live at Columbia City.I have never been through here, though." "And so this is your first visit to Chicago," he observed. All the time she was conscious of certain features out of the sideof her eye. Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a greyfedora hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, theinstincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in herbrain. "I didn't say that," she said. "Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air ofmistake, "I thought you did." Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturinghouse- a class which at that time was first being dubbed by theslang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of a stillnewer term, which had sprung into general use among Americans in 1880,and which concisely expressed the thought of one whose dress ormanners are calculated to elicit the admiration of susceptible youngwomen- a "masher." His suit was of a striped and crossed pattern ofbrown wool, new at that time, but since become familiar as abusiness suit. The low crotch of the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosomof white and pink stripes. From his coat sleeves protruded a pair oflinen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened with large, gold platebuttons, set with the common yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes."His fingers bore several rings- one, the ever-enduring heavy seal- andfrom his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which wassuspended the secret insignia of the Order of Elks. The whole suit wasrather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan shoes,highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. He was, for the order ofintellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommendhim, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in this, her firstglance. Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me putdown some of the most striking characteristics of his mostsuccessful manner and method. Good clothes, of course, were thefirst essential, the things without which he was nothing. A strongphysical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the feminine, was thenext. A mind free of any consideration of the problems or forces ofthe world and actuated not by greed, but an insatiable love ofvariable pleasure. His method was always simple. Its principal elementwas daring, backed, of course, by an intense desire and admiration forthe sex. Let him meet with a young woman once and he would approachher with an air of kindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading,which would result in most cases in a tolerant acceptance. If sheshowed any tendency to coquetry he would be apt to straighten her tie,or if she "took up" with him at all, to call her by her first name. Ifhe visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly over thecounter and ask some leading questions. In more exclusive circles,on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower. If some seeminglyvulnerable object appeared he was all attention- to pass thecompliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor car, carryingher grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her with the hope ofbeing able to court her to her destination. Pillows, books, afoot-stool, the shade lowered; all these figured in the things whichhe could do. If, when she reached her destination, he did not alightand attend her baggage for her, it was because, in his own estimation,he had signally failed. A woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. Nomatter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends.There is an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparelwhich somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at andthose who are not. Once an individual has passed this faint line onthe way downward he will get no glance from her. There is another lineat which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. This linethe individual at her elbow now marked for Carrie. She becameconscious of an inequality. Her own plain blue dress, with its blackcotton tape trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. She felt the wornstate of her shoes. "Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in yourtown. Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man." "Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings theirshow windows had cost her. At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. Ina few minutes he had come about into her seat. He talked of sales ofclothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of that city. "If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have yourelatives?" "I am going to visit my sister," she explained. "You want to see Lincoln Park," he said, "and Michigan Boulevard.They are putting up great buildings there. It's a second New York-great. So much to see- theatres, crowds, fine houses- oh, you'lllike that." There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. Herinsignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintlyaffected her. She realised that hers was not to be a round ofpleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the materialprospect he set forth. There was something satisfactory in theattention of this individual with his good clothes. She could not helpsmiling as he told her of some popular actress of whom she remindedhim. She was not silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight. "You will be in Chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed atone turn of the now easy conversation. "I don't know," said Carrie vaguely- a flash vision of thepossibility of her not securing employment rising in her mind. "Several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes. There was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. Herecognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination andbeauty in her. She realised that she was of interest to him from theone standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. Her mannerwas simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learnedthe many little affectations with which women conceal their truefeelings. Some things she did appeared bold. A clever companion- hadshe ever had one- would have warned her never to look a man in theeyes so steadily. "Why do you ask?" she said. "Well, I'm going to be there several weeks. I'm going to study stockat our place and get new samples. I might show you 'round." "I don't know whether you can or not. I mean I don't know whetherI can. I shall be living with my sister, and-" "Well, if she minds, we'll fix that." He took out his pencil and alittle pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "What is youraddress there?" She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip. He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. It wasfilled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll ofgreenbacks. It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never beencarried by any one attentive to her. Indeed, an experienced traveller,a brisk man of the world, had never come within such close rangebefore. The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and theair with which he did things, built up for her a dim world of fortune,of which he was the centre. It disposed her pleasantly toward all hemight do. He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett,Caryoe & Company, and down in the lefthand corner, Chas. H. Drouet. "That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touchinghis name. "It's pronounced Drew-eh. Our family was French, on myfather's side." She looked at it while he put up his purse. Then he got out a letterfrom a bunch in his coat pocket. "This is the house I travel for,"he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of State and Lake."There was pride in his voice. He felt that it was something to beconnected with such a place, and he made her feel that way. "What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write. "Carrie Meeber," she said slowly. "Three hundred and fifty-four WestVan Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson." He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll beat home if I come around Monday night?" he said. "I think so," she answered. How true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumeswe mean. Little audible links, they are, chaining together greatinaudible feelings and purposes. Here were these two, bandyinglittle phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconsciousof how inarticulate all their real feelings were. Neither was wiseenough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other. He couldnot tell how his luring succeeded. She could not realise that shewas drifting, until he secured her address. Now she felt that shehad yielded something- he, that he had gained a victory. Alreadythey felt that they were somehow associated. Already he took controlin directing the conversation. His words were easy. Her manner wasrelaxed. They were nearing Chicago. Signs were everywhere numerous. Trainsflashed by them. Across wide stretches of flat, open prairie theycould see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields towardthe great city. Far away were indications of suburban towns, somebig smoke-stacks towering high in the air. Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in theopen fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of theapproaching army of homes. To the child, the genius with imagination, or the whollyuntravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is awonderful thing. Particularly if it be evening- that mystic periodbetween the glare and gloom of the world when life is changing fromone sphere or condition to another. Ah, the promise of the night. Whatdoes it not hold for the weary! What old illusion of hope is nothere forever repeated! Says the soul of the toiler to itself, "I shallsoon be free. I shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry. Thestreets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me.The theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths ofsong- these are mine in the night." Though all humanity be stillenclosed in the shops, the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air. Thedullest feel something which they may not always express ordescribe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil. Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected byher wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest inthe city and pointed out its marvels. "This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet. "This is the ChicagoRiver," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with thehuge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-postedbanks. With a puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone."Chicago is getting to be a great town," he went on. "It's a wonder.You'll find lots to see here." She did not hear this very well. Her heart was troubled by a kind ofterror. The fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into agreat sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. She could not help butfeel a little choked for breath- a little sick as her heart beat sofast. She half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, thatColumbia City was only a little way off. "Chicago! Chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door.They were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter andclang of life. She began to gather up her poor little grip andclosed her hand firmly upon her purse. Drouet arose, kicked his legsto straighten his trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip. "I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "Let mecarry your grip." "Oh, no," she said. "I'd rather you wouldn't. I'd rather youwouldn't be with me when I meet my sister." "All right," he said in all kindness. "I'll be near, though, in caseshe isn't here, and take you out there safely." "You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of suchattention in her strange situation. "Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. They wereunder a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were alreadybeginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the trainmoving at a snail's pace. The people in the car were all up andcrowding about the door. "Well, here we are," said Drouet, leading the way to the door."Good-bye, till I see you Monday." "Good-bye," she answered, taking his proffered hand. "Remember, I'll be looking till you find your sister." She smiled into his eyes. They filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. Alean-faced, rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the platformand hurried forward. "Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was a perfunctory embraceof welcome. Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. Amidall the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking herby the hand. No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement.Her sister carried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil. "Why, how are all the folks at home?" she began; "how is father, andmother?" Carrie answered, but was looking away. Down the aisle, toward thegate leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood Drouet. Hewas looking back. When he saw that she saw him and was safe with hersister he turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. OnlyCarrie saw it. She felt something lost to her when he moved away. Whenhe disappeared she felt his absence thoroughly. With her sister shewas much alone, a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea. Chapter II. WHAT POVERTY THREATENED: OF GRANITE AND BRASS Minnie's flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were thenbeing called, was in a part of West Van Buren Street inhabited byfamilies of labourers and clerks, men who had come, and were stillcoming, with the rush of population pouring in at the rate of 50,000 ayear. It was on the third floor, the front windows looking down intothe street, where, at night, the lights of grocery stores were shiningand children were playing. To Carrie, the sound of the little bellsupon the horse-cars, as they tinkled in and out of hearing, was aspleasing as it was novel. She gazed into the lighted street whenMinnie brought her into the front room, and wondered at the sounds,the movement, the murmur of the vast city which stretched for milesand miles in every direction. Mrs. Hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave Carrie thebaby and proceeded to get supper. Her husband asked a few questionsand sat down to read the evening paper. He was a silent man,American born, of a Swede father, and now employed as a cleaner ofrefrigerator cars at the stock-yards. To him the presence or absenceof his wife's sister was a matter of indifference. Her personalappearance did not affect him one way or the other. His oneobservation to the point was concerning the chances of work inChicago. "It's a big place," he said. "You can get in somewhere in a fewdays. Everybody does." It had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get workand pay her board. He was of a clean, saving disposition, and hadalready paid a number of monthly instalments on two lots far out onthe West Side. His ambition was some day to build a house on them. In the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carriefound time to study the flat. She had some slight gift ofobservation and that sense, so rich in every woman- intuition. She felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. The walls of therooms were discordantly papered. The floors were covered withmatting and the hall laid with a thin rag carpet. One could see thatthe furniture was of that poor, hurriedly patched together qualitysold by the instalment houses. She sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it beganto cry. Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson, disturbed in hisreading, came and took it. A pleasant side to his nature came outhere. He was patient. One could see that he was very much wrapped upin his offspring. "Now, now," he said, walking. "There, there," and there was acertain Swedish accent noticeable in his voice. "You'll want to see the city first, won't you?" said Minnie, whenthey were eating. "Well, we'll go out Sunday and see Lincoln Park." Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to bethinking of something else. "Well," she said, "I think I'll look around to-morrow. I've gotFriday and Saturday, and it won't be any trouble. Which way is thebusiness part?" Minnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of theconversation to himself. "It's that way," he said, pointing east. "That's east." Then he wentoff into the longest speech he had yet indulged in, concerning the layof Chicago. "You'd better look in those big manufacturing houses alongFranklin Street and just the other side of the river," he concluded."Lots of girls work there. You could get home easy, too. It isn't veryfar." Carrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighbourhood. Thelatter talked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew about it,while Hanson concerned himself with the baby. Finally he jumped up andhanded the child to his wife. "I've got to get up early in the morning, so I'll go to bed," andoff he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall,for the night. "He works way down at the stock-yards," explained Minnie, "What time do you get up to get breakfast?" asked Carrie. "so he'sgot to get up at half-past five." "At about twenty minutes of five." Together they finished the labour of the day, Carrie washing thedishes while Minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed. Minnie'smanner was one of trained industry, and Carrie could see that it was asteady round of toil with her. She began to see that her relations with Drouet would have to beabandoned. He could not come here. She read from the manner of Hanson,in the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of theflat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round oftoil. If Hanson sat every evening in the front room and read hispaper, if he went to bed at nine, and Minnie a little later, whatwould they expect of her? She saw that she would first need to getwork and establish herself on a paying basis before she could think ofhaving company of any sort. Her little flirtation with Drouet seemednow an extraordinary thing. "No," she said to herself, "he can't come here." She asked Minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel inthe dining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got outDrouet's card and wrote him. "I cannot have you call on me here. You will have to wait untilyou hear from me again. My sister's place is so small." She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. She wantedto make some reference to their relations upon the train, but wastoo timid. She concluded by thanking him for his kindness in a crudeway, then puzzled over the formality of signing her name, andfinally decided upon the severe, winding up with a "Very truly," whichshe subsequently changed to "Sincerely." She sealed and addressedthe letter, and going in the front room, the alcove of which containedher bed, drew the one small rocking-chair up to the open window, andsat looking out upon the night and streets in silent wonder.Finally, wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in herchair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for thenight and went to bed. When she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone. Hersister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room,sewing. She worked, after dressing, to arrange a little breakfastfor herself, and then advised with Minnie as to which way to look. Thelatter had changed considerably since Carrie had seen her. She was nowa thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-seven, with ideas of lifecoloured by her husband's, and fast hardening into narrowerconceptions of pleasure and duty than had ever been hers in athoroughly circumscribed youth. She had invited Carrie, not becauseshe longed for her presence, but because the latter was dissatisfiedat home, and could probably get work and pay her board here. She waspleased to see her in a way, but reflected her husband's point of viewin the matter of work. Anything was good enough so long as it paid-say, five dollars a week to begin with. A shop girl was the destinyprefigured for the newcomer. She would get in one of the great shopsand do well enough until- well, until something happened. Neither ofthem knew exactly what. They did not figure on promotion. They did notexactly count on marriage. Things would go on, though, in a dim kindof way until the better thing would eventuate, and Carrie would berewarded for coming and toiling in the city. It was under suchauspicious circumstances that she started out this morning to look forwork. Before following her in her round of seeking, let us look at thesphere in which her future was to lie. In 1889 Chicago had thepeculiar qualifications of growth which made such adventuresomepilgrimages even on the part of young girls plausible. Its many andgrowing commercial opportunities gave it widespread fame, which madeof it a giant magnet, drawing to itself, from all quarters, thehopeful and the hopeless- those who had their fortune yet to makeand those whose fortunes and affairs had reached a disastrous climaxelsewhere. It was a city of over 500,000, with the ambition, thedaring, the activity of a metropolis of a million. Its streets andhouses were already scattered over an area of seventy-five squaremiles. Its population was not so much thriving upon establishedcommerce as upon the industries which prepared for the arrival ofothers. The sound of the hammer engaged upon the erection of newstructures was everywhere heard. Great industries were moving in.The huge railroad corporations which had long before recognised theprospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of land fortransfer and shipping purposes. Street-car lines had been extended farout into the open country in anticipation of rapid growth. The cityhad laid miles and miles of streets and sewers through regionswhere, perhaps, one solitary house stood out alone- a pioneer of thepopulous ways to be. There were regions open to the sweeping winds andrain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long,blinking lines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. Narrow boardwalks extended out, passing here a house, and there a store, at farintervals, eventually ending on the open prairie. In the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping district,to which the uninformed seeker for work usually drifted. It was acharacteristic of Chicago then, and one not generally shared byother cities, that individual firms of any pretension occupiedindividual buildings. The presence of ample ground made this possible.It gave an imposing appearance to most of the wholesale houses,whose offices were upon the ground floor and in plain view of thestreet. The large plates of window glass, now so common, were thenrapidly coming into use, and gave to the ground floor offices adistinguished and prosperous look. The casual wanderer could see as hepassed a polished array of office fixtures, much frosted glass, clerkshard at work, and genteel business men in "nobby" suits and cleanlinen lounging about or sitting in groups. Polished brass or nickelsigns at the square stone entrances announced the firm and thenature of the business in rather neat and reserved terms. The entiremetropolitan centre possessed a high and mighty air calculated tooverawe and abash the common applicant, and to make the gulf betweenpoverty and success seem both wide and deep. Into this important commercial region the timid Carrie went. Shewalked east along Van Buren Street through a region of lesseningimportance, until it deteriorated into a mass of shanties andcoal-yards, and finally verged upon the river. She walked bravelyforward, led by an honest desire to find employment and delayed atevery step by the interest of the unfolding scene, and a sense ofhelplessness amid so much evidence of power and force which she didnot understand. These vast buildings, what were they? These strangeenergies and huge interests, for what purposes were they there? Shecould have understood the meaning of a little stone-cutter's yard atColumbia City, carving little pieces of marble for individual use, butwhen the yards of some huge stone corporation came into view, filledwith spur tracks and flat cars, transpierced by docks from the riverand traversed overhead by immense trundling cranes of wood andsteel, it lost all significance in her little world. It was so with the vast railroad yards, with the crowded array ofvessels she saw at the river, and the huge factories over the way,lining the water's edge. Through the open windows she could see thefigures of men and women in working aprons, moving busily about. Thegreat streets were wall-lined mysteries to her; the vast offices,strange mazes which concerned far-off individuals of importance. Shecould only think of people connected with them as counting money,dressing magnificently, and riding in carriages. What they dealt in,how they laboured, to what end it all came, she had only the vaguestconception. It was all wonderful, all vast, all far removed, and shesank in spirit inwardly and fluttered feebly at the heart as shethought of entering any one of these mighty concerns and asking forsomething to do- something that she could do- anything. Chapter III. WE QUESTION OF FORTUNE: FOUR-FIFTY A WEEK Once across the river and into the wholesale district, she glancedabout her for some likely door at which to apply. As shecontemplated the wide windows and imposing signs, she became consciousof being gazed upon and understood for what she was- a wage-seeker.She had never done this thing before, and lacked courage. To avoid acertain indefinable shame she felt at being caught spying about fora position, she quickened her steps and assumed an air of indifferencesupposedly common to one upon an errand. In this way she passed manymanufacturing and wholesale houses without once glancing in. Atlast, after several blocks of walking, she felt that this would notdo, and began to look about again; though without relaxing her pace. Alittle way on she saw a great door which, for some reason, attractedher attention. It was ornamented by a small brass sign, and seemedto be the entrance to a vast hive of six or seven floors. "Perhaps,"she thought, "they may want some one," and crossed over to enter. Whenshe came within a score of feet of the desired goal, she saw throughthe window a young man in a grey checked suit. That he had anything todo with the concern, she could not tell, but because he happened to belooking in her direction her weakening heart misgave her and shehurried by, too overcome with shame to enter. Over the way stood agreat six-story structure, labelled Storm and King, which she viewedwith rising hope. It was a wholesale dry goods concern and employedwomen. She could see them moving about now and then upon the upperfloors. This place she decided to enter, no matter what. She crossedover and walked directly toward the entrance. As she did so, two mencame out and paused in the door. A telegraph messenger in bluedashed past her and up the few steps that led to the entrance anddisappeared. Several pedestrians out of the hurrying throng whichfilled the sidewalks passed about her as she paused, hesitating. Shelooked helplessly around, and then, seeing herself observed,retreated. It was too difficult a task. She could not go past them. So severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves. Her feet carriedher mechanically forward, every foot of her progress being asatisfactory portion of a flight which she gladly made. Block afterblock passed by. Upon street-lamps at the various corners she readnames such as Madison, Monroe, La Salle, Clark, Dearborn, State, andstill she went, her feet beginning to tire upon the broad stoneflagging. She was pleased in part that the streets were bright andclean. The morning sun, shining down with steadily increasingwarmth, made the shady side of the streets pleasantly cool. She lookedat the blue sky overhead with more realisation of its charm than hadever come to her before. Her cowardice began to trouble her in a way. She turned back,resolving to bunt up Storm and King and enter. On the way sheencountered a great wholesale shoe company, through the broad platewindows of which she saw an enclosed executive department, hidden byfrosted glass. Without this enclosure, but just within the streetentrance, sat a grey-haired gentleman at a small table, with a largeopen ledger before him. She walked by this institution several timeshesitating, but, finding herself unobserved, faltered past thescreen door and stood humbly waiting. "Well, young lady," observed the old gentleman, looking at hersomewhat kindly, "what is it you wish?" "I am, that is, do you- I mean, do you need any help?" shestammered. "Not just at present," he answered smiling. "Not just at present.Come in some time next week. Occasionally we need some one." She received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out. Thepleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her. She hadexpected that it would be more difficult, that something cold andharsh would be said- she knew not what. That she had not been put toshame and made to feel her unfortunate position, seemed remarkable. Somewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure. Itwas a clothing company, and more people were in evidence- well-dressedmen of forty and more, surrounded by brass railings. An office boy approached her. "Who is it you wish to see?" he asked. "I want to see the manager," she said. He ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who wereconferring together. One of these came towards her. "Well?" he said coldly. The greeting drove all courage from her atonce. "Do you need any help?" she stammered. "No," he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel. She went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging thedoor for her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd. It was asevere setback to her recently pleased mental state. Now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there,seeing one great company after another, but finding no courage toprosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with it hunger.She hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbedto find that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. Abowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quicklyeaten, she went out again. It restored her strength somewhat andmade her moderately bold to pursue the search. In walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she againencountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time managed to getin. Some gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no noticeof her. She was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. Whenthe limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned toby a man at one of the many desks within the near-by railing. "Who is it you wish to see?" he inquired. "Why, any one, if you please," she answered. "I am looking forsomething to do." "Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus," he returned. "Sit down," and hepointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall. He went on leisurelywriting, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in fromthe street. "Mr. McManus," called the man at the desk, "this young woman wantsto see you." The short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose andcame forward. "What can I do for you, miss?" he inquired, surveying her curiously. "I want to know if I can get a position," she inquired. "As what?" he asked. "Not as anything in particular," she faltered. "Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goodsbusiness?" he questioned. "No, sir," she replied. "Are you a stenographer or typewriter?" "No, sir." "Well, we haven't anything here," he said. "We employ onlyexperienced help." She began to step backward toward the door, when something about herplaintive face attracted him. "Have you ever worked at anything before?" he inquired. "No, sir," she said. "Well, now, it's hardly possible that you would get anything to doin a wholesale house of this kind. Have you tried the departmentstores?" She acknowledged that she had not. "Well, if I were you," he said, looking at her rather genially "Iwould try the department stores. They often need young women asclerks." "Thank you," she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark offriendly interest. "Yes," he said, as she moved toward the door, "you try thedepartment stores," and off he went. At that time the department store was in its earliest form ofsuccessful operation, and there were not many. The first three inthe United States, established about 1884, were in Chicago. Carrie wasfamiliar with the names of several through the advertisements in the"Daily News," and now proceeded to seek them. The words of Mr. McManushad somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low,and she dared to hope that this new line would offer her something.Some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounterthe buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecutinga hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which thesemblance of search, without the reality, gives. At last sheinquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed "twoblocks up," where she would find "The Fair." The nature of these vast retail combinations, should they everpermanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in thecommercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modesttrade principle the world had never witnessed up to that time. Theywere along the line of the most effective retail organisation, withhundreds of stores coordinated into one and laid out upon the mostimposing and economic basis. They were handsome, bustling,successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of patrons.Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkabledisplays of trinkets, dress goods, stationery, and jewelry. Eachseparate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction.She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable uponher personally, and yet she did not stop. There was nothing therewhich she could not have used- nothing which she did not long toown. The dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilledskirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, alltouched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the factthat not any of these things were in the range of her purchase. Shewas a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the averageemployee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation. It must not be thought that any one could have mistaken her for anervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold,calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not. But womenare peculiarly sensitive to their adornment. Not only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was newand pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touchat the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushingpast in utter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlistedin the materials which the store contained. Carrie was not familiarwith the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neitherhad she before known the nature and appearance of the shop girlswith whom she now compared poorly. They were pretty in the main,some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference whichadded, in the case of the more favoured, a certain piquancy. Theirclothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever sheencountered the eye of one it was only to recognise in it a keenanalysis of her own position- her individual shortcomings of dress andthat shadow of manner which she thought must hang about her and makeclear to all who and what she was. A flame of envy lighted in herheart. She realised in a dim way how much the city held- wealth,fashion, ease- every adornment for women, and she longed for dress andbeauty with a whole heart. On the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, aftersome inquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girlsahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of thatself-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city lends;girls who scrutinised her in a painful manner. After a wait of perhapsthree-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn. "Now," said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at aroll-top desk near the window, "have you ever worked in any otherstore?" "No, sir," said Carrie. "Oh, you haven't," he said, eyeing her keenly. "No, sir," she replied. "Well, we prefer young women just now with some experience. Iguess we can't use you." Carrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether theinterview had terminated. "Don't wait!" he exclaimed. "Remember we are very busy here." Carrie began to move quickly to the door. "Hold on," he said, calling her back. "Give me your name andaddress. We want girls occasionally." When she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcelyrestrain the tears. It was not so much the particular rebuff which shehad just experienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day. She wastired and nervous. She abandoned the thought of appealing to the otherdepartment stores and now wandered on, feeling a certain safety andrelief in mingling with the crowd. In her indifferent wandering she turned into Jackson Street, not farfrom the river, and was keeping her way along the south side of thatimposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper, written on withmarking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her attention. Itread, "Girls wanted- wrappers & stitchers." She hesitated a moment,then entered. The firm of Speigelheim & Co., makers of boys' caps, occupied onefloor of the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet indepth. It was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portionshaving incandescent lights, filled with machines and work benches.At the latter laboured quite a company of girls and some men. Theformer were drabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil anddust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more orless worn shoes. Many of them had their sleeves rolled up, revealingbare arms, and in some cases, owing to the heat, their dresses wereopen at the neck. They were a fair type of nearly the lowest orderof shop-girls- careless, slouchy, and more or less pale fromconfinement. They were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, andstrong in daring and slang. Carrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that shedid not want to work here. Aside from making her uncomfortable bysidelong glances, no one paid her the least attention. She waiteduntil the whole department was aware of her presence. Then some wordwas sent around, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt sleeves, thelatter rolled up to his shoulders, approached. "Do you want to see me?" he asked. "Do you need any help?" said Carrie, already learning directnessof address. "Do you know how to stitch caps?" he returned. "No, sir," she replied. "Have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?" heinquired. She answered that she had not. "Well," said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we doneed a stitcher. We like experienced help, though. We've hardly gottime to break people in." He paused and looked away out of the window."We might, though, put you at finishing," he concluded reflectively. "How much do you pay a week?" ventured Carrie, emboldened by acertain softness in the man's manner and his simplicity of address. "Three and a half," he answered. "Oh," she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowedher thoughts to die without expression. "We're not exactly in need of anybody," he went on vaguely,looking her over as one would a package. "You can come on Mondaymorning, though," he added, "and I'll put you to work." "Thank you," said Carrie weakly. "If you come, bring an apron," he added. He walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never somuch as inquiring her name. While the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the pricepaid per week operated very much as a blow to Carrie's fancy, the factthat work of any kind was offered after so rude a round ofexperience was gratifying. She could not begin to believe that shewould take the place, modest as her aspirations were. She had beenused to better than that. Her mere experience and the free out-of-doorlife of the country caused her nature to revolt at such confinement.Dirt had never been her share. Her sister's flat was clean. This placewas grimy and low, the girls were careless and hardened. They mustbe bad-minded and hearted, she imagined. Still, a place had beenoffered her. Surely Chicago was not so bad if she could find one placein one day. She might find another and better later. Her subsequent experiences were not of a reassuring nature, however.From all the more pleasing or imposing places she was turned awayabruptly with the most chilling formality. In others where she appliedonly the experienced were required. She met with painful rebuffs,the most trying of which had been in a manufacturing cloak house,where she had gone to the fourth floor to inquire. "No, no," said the foreman, a rough, heavily built individual, wholooked after a miserably lighted workshop, "we don't want any one.Don't come here." With the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, andher strength. She had been astonishingly persistent. So earnest aneffort was well deserving of a better reward. On every hand, to herfatigued senses, the great business portion grew larger, harder,more stolid in its indifference. It seemed as if it was all closedto her, that the struggle was too fierce for her to hope to doanything at all. Men and women hurried by in long, shifting lines. Shefelt the flow of the tide of effort and interest- felt her ownhelplessness without quite realising the wisp on the tide that shewas. She cast about vainly for some possible place to apply, but foundno door which she had the courage to enter. It would be the same thingall over. The old humiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial.Sick at heart and in body, she turned to the west, the direction ofMinnie's flat, which she had now fixed in mind, and began thatwearisome, baffled retreat which the seeker for employment atnightfall too often makes. In passing through Fifth Avenue, southtowards Van Buren Street, where she intended to take a car, she passedthe door of a large wholesale shoe house, through the plate-glasswindow of which she could see a middle-aged gentleman sitting a asmall desk. One of those forlorn impulses which often grow out of afixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting of a baffled and uprootedgrowth of ideas, seized upon her. She walked deliberately throughthe door and up to the gentleman, who looked at her weary face withpartially awakened interest. "What is it?" he said. "Can you give me something to do?" said Carrie. "Now, I really don't know," he said kindly. "What kind of work is ityou want- you're not a typewriter, are you?" "Oh, no," answered Carrie. "Well, we only employ book-keepers and typewriters here. You mightgo around to the side and inquire upstairs. They did want some helpupstairs a few days ago. Ask for Mr. Brown." She hastened around to the side entrance and was taken up by theelevator to the fourth floor. "Call Mr. Brown, Willie," said the elevator man to a boy near by. Willie went off and presently returned with the information that Mr.Brown said she should sit down and that he would be around in a littlewhile. It was a portion of the stock room which gave no idea of the generalcharacter of the place, and Carrie could form no opinion of the natureof the work. "So you want something to do," said Mr. Brown, after he inquiredconcerning the nature of her errand. "Have you ever been employed in ashoe factory before?" "No, sir," said Carrie. "What is your name?" he inquired, and being informed, "Well, I don'tknow as I have anything for you. Would you work for four and a halfa week?" Carrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it wasconsiderable. She had not expected that he would offer her less thansix. She acquiesced, however, and he took her name and address. "Well," he said, finally, "you report here at eight o'clock Mondaymorning. I think I can find something for you to do." He left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had foundsomething at last. Instantly the blood crept warmly over her body. Hernervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy street anddiscovered a new atmosphere. Behold, the throng was moving with alightsome step. She noticed that men and women were smiling. Scraps ofconversation and notes of laughter floated to her. The air waslight. People were already pouring out of the buildings, theirlabour ended for the day. She noticed that they were pleased, andthoughts of her sister's home and the meal that would be awaitingher quickened her steps. She hurried on, tired perhaps, but nolonger weary of foot. What would not Minnie say! Ah, the long winterin Chicago- the lights, the crowd, the amusement! This was a great,pleasing metropolis after all. Her new firm was a goodlyinstitution. Its windows were of huge plate glass. She couldprobably do well there. Thoughts of Drouet returned- of the thingshe had told her. She now felt that life was better, that it waslivelier, sprightlier. She boarded a car in the best of spirits,feeling her blood still flowing pleasantly. She would live in Chicago,her mind kept saying to itself. She would have a better time thanshe had ever had before- she would be happy. Chapter IV. THE SPENDINGS OF FANCY: FACTS ANSWER WITH SNEERS For the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flownspeculations. Her fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements whichwould have been much more becoming had she been cradled a child offortune. With ready will and quick mental selection she scatteredher meagre four-fifty per week with a swift and graceful hand. Indeed,as she sat in her rocking-chair these several evenings before going tobed and looked out upon the pleasantly lighted street, this moneycleared for its prospective possessor the way to every joy and everybauble which the heart of woman may desire. "I will have a fine time,"she thought. Her sister Minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations,though they exhausted the markets of delight. She was too busyscrubbing the kitchen woodwork and calculating the purchasing power ofeighty cents for Sunday's dinner. When Carrie had returned home,flushed with her first success and ready, for all her weariness, todiscuss the now interesting events which led up to her achievement,the former had merely smiled approvingly and inquired whether shewould have to spend any of it for car fare. This consideration had notentered in before, and it did not now for long affect the glow ofCarrie's enthusiasm. Disposed as she then was to calculate upon thatvague basis which allows the subtraction of one sum from anotherwithout any perceptible diminution, she was happy. When Hanson came home at seven o'clock, he was inclined to be alittle crusty- his usual demeanour before supper. This never showed somuch in anything he said as in a certain solemnity of countenanceand the silent manner in which he slopped about. He had a pair ofyellow carpet slippers which he enjoyed wearing, and these he wouldimmediately substitute for his solid pair of shoes. This, andwashing his face with the aid of common washing soap until it glowed ashiny red, constituted his only preparation for his evening meal. Hewould then get his evening paper and read in silence. For a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, andso affected Carrie. Indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of theflat, as such things are inclined to do, and gave to his wife's mindits subdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid taciturn replies. Underthe influence of Carrie's announcement he brightened up somewhat. "You didn't lose any time, did you?" he remarked, smiling a little. "No," returned Carrie with a touch of pride. He asked her one or two more questions and then turned to playwith the baby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again byMinnie at the table. Carrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level ofobservation which prevailed in the flat. "It seems to be such a large company," she said at one place. "Greatbig plate-glass windows and lots of clerks. The man I saw said theyhired ever so many people." "It's not very hard to get work now," put in Hanson, "if you lookright." Minnie, under the warming influence of Carrie's good spirits and herhusband's somewhat conversational mood, began to tell Carrie of someof the well-known things to see- things the enjoyment of which costnothing. "You'd like to see Michigan Avenue. There are such fine houses. Itis such a fine street." "Where is 'H. R. Jacob's'?" interrupted Carrie, mentioning one ofthe theatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the time. "Oh, it's not very far from here," answered Minnie. "It's inHalstead Street, right up here." "How I'd like to go there. I crossed Halstead Street to-day,didn't I?" At this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. Thoughts are astrangely permeating factor. At her suggestion of going to thetheatre, the unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of thosethings which involved the expenditure of money- shades of feelingwhich arose in the mind of Hanson and then in Minnie- slightlyaffected the atmosphere of the table. Minnie answered "yes," butCarrie could feel that going to the theatre was poorly advocated here.The subject was put off for a little while until Hanson, throughwith his meal, took his paper and went into the front room. When they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freerconversation, Carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they workedat the dishes. "I should like to walk up and see Halstead Street, if it isn't toofar," said Carrie, after a time. "Why don't we go to the theatreto-night?" "Oh, I don't think Sven would want to go to-night," returned Minnie."He has to get up so early." "He wouldn't mind- he'd enjoy it," said Carrie. "No, he doesn't go very often," returned Minnie. "Well, I'd like to go," rejoined Carrie. "Let's you and me go." Minnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go- forthat point was already negatively settled with her- but upon somemeans of diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other topic. "We'll go some other time," she said at last, finding no ready meansof escape. Carrie sensed the root of the opposition at once. "I have some money," she said. "You go with me." Minnie shook her head. "He could go along," said Carrie. "No," returned Minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown theconversation. "He wouldn't." It had been several years since Minnie had seen Carrie, and inthat time that latter's character had developed a few shades.Naturally timid in all things that related to her own advancement, andespecially so when without power or resource, her craving for pleasurewas so strong that it was the one stay of her nature. She wouldspeak for that when silent on all else. "Ask him," she pleaded softly. Minnie was thinking of the resource which Carrie's board wouldadd. It would pay the rent and would make the subject of expenditure alittle less difficult to talk about with her husband. But if Carriewas going to think of running around in the beginning there would be ahitch somewhere. Unless Carrie submitted to a solemn round of industryand saw the need of hard work without longing for play, how was hercoming to the city to profit them? These thoughts were not those ofa cold, hard nature at all. They were the serious reflections of amind which invariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, tosuch surroundings as its industry could make for it. At last she yielded enough to ask Hanson. It was a half-heartedprocedure without a shade of desire on her part. "Carrie wants us to go to the theatre," she said, looking in uponher husband. Hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged amild look, which said as plainly as anything: "This isn't what weexpected." "I don't care to go," he returned. "What does she want to see?" "H. R. Jacob's," said Minnie. He looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively. When Carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained astill clearer feeling of their way of life. It weighed on her, buttook no definite form of opposition. "I think I'll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs," shesaid, after a time. Minnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and wentbelow. "Where has Carrie gone?" asked Hanson, coming back into thedining-room when he heard the door close. "She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs," answeredMinnie. "I guess she just wants to look out a while." "She oughtn't to be thinking about spending her money on theatresalready, do you think?" he said. "She just feels a little curious, I guess," ventured Minnie."Everything is so new." "I don't know," said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his foreheadslightly wrinkled. He was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness whicha young girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie couldcontemplate such a course when she had so little, as yet, with whichto do. On Saturday Carrie went out by herself- first toward the river,which interested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which wasthen lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequentlycaused it to be made into a boulevard. She was struck with theevidences of wealth, although there was, perhaps, not a person onthe street worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. She was glad tobe out of the flat, because already she felt that it was a narrow,humdrum place, and that interest and joy lay elsewhere. Her thoughtsnow were of a more liberal character, and she punctuated them withspeculations as to the whereabouts of Drouet. She was not sure butthat he might call anyhow Monday night, and, while she felt a littledisturbed at the possibility, there was, nevertheless, just theshade of a wish that he would. On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressedherself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt oflight-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she hadworn all summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and hernecktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and muchwearing impart. She made a very average looking shop-girl with theexception of her features. These were slightly more even thancommon, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance. It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one isused to sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at home.She gained some inkling of the character of Hanson's life when, halfasleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six o'clock and saw himsilently finishing his breakfast. By the time she was dressed he wasgone, and she, Minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter beingjust old enough to sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with aspoon. Her spirits were greatly subdued now when the fact ofentering upon strange and untried duties confronted her. Only theashes of all her fine fancies were remaining- ashes stillconcealing, nevertheless, a few red embers of hope. So subdued was sheby her weakening nerves, that she ate quite in silence, going overimaginary conceptions of the character of the shoe company thenature of the work, her employer's attitude. She was vaguely feelingthat she would come in contact with the great owners, that her workwould be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on. "Well, good luck," said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They hadagreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she coulddo it every day- sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an itemunder the circumstances. "I'll tell you how it goes to-night," said Carrie. Once in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in eitherdirection, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with thesmall clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men andwomen generally coming out of doors and passing about theneighbourhood, Carrie felt slightly reassured. In the sunshine ofthe morning, beneath the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh windastir, what fears, except the most desperate, can find a harbourage?In the night, or the gloomy chambers of the day, fears andmisgivings wax strong, but out in the sunlight there is, for a time,cessation even of the terror of death. Carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and thenturned into Fifth Avenue. The thoroughfare, in this part, was like awalled canon of brown stone and dark red brick. The big windows lookedshiny and clean. Trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men andwomen, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. She metgirls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for herdiffidence. She wondered at the magnitude of this life and at theimportance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. Dreadat her own inefficiency crept upon her. She would not know how, shewould not be quick enough. Had not all the other places refused herbecause she did not know something or other? She would be scolded,abused, ignominiously discharged. It was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing thatshe came up to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue andentered the elevator. When she stepped out on the fourth floor therewas no one at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling.She stood, very much frightened, awaiting some one. Presently Mr. Brown came up. He did not seem to recognise her. "What is it you want?" he inquired. Carrie's heart sank. "You said I should come this morning to see about work-" "Oh," he interrupted. "Um- yes. What is your name?" "Carrie Meeber." "Yes," said he. "You come with me." He led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell ofnew shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into thefactory proper. There was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking,rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue ginghamaprons were working. She followed him diffidently through theclattering automatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, andflushing slightly. They crossed to a far corner and took an elevatorto the sixth floor. Out of the array of machines and benches, Mr.Brown signalled a foreman. "This is the girl," he said, and turning to Carrie, "You go withhim." He then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to alittle desk in a corner, which he used as a kind of official centre. "You've never worked at anything like this before, have you?" hequestioned, rather sternly. "No, sir," she answered. He seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but putdown her name and then led her across to where a line of girlsoccupied stools in front of clacking machines. On the shoulder ofone of the girls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper,by the aid of the machine, he put his hand. "You," he said, "show this girl how to do what you're doing. Whenyou get through, come to me." The girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place. "It isn't hard to do," she said, bending over. "You just take thisso, fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine." She suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, whichwas eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man's shoe, bylittle adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the sideof the machine. The latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp,snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side ofthe upper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. Afterobserving a few times, the girl let her work at it alone. Seeingthat it was fairly well done, she went away. The pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to herright, and were passed on to the girl at her left. Carrie saw atonce that an average speed was necessary or the work would pile upon her and all those below would be delayed. She had no time to lookabout, and bent anxiously to her task. The girls at her left and rightrealised her predicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aidher, as much as they dared, by working slower. At this task she laboured incessantly for some time, findingrelief from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum,mechanical movement of the machine. She felt, as the minutes passed,that the room was not very light. It had a thick odour of freshleather, but that did not worry her. She felt the eyes of the otherhelp upon her, and troubled lest she was not working fast enough. Once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made aslight error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared beforeher eyes and fastened the clamp for her. It was the foreman. Her heartthumped so that she could scarcely see to go on. "Start your machine," he said, "start your machine. Don't keep theline waiting." This recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardlybreathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. Then she heaveda great breath. As the morning wore on the room became hotter. She felt the needof a breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not ventureto stir. The stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and shebegan to feel uncomfortable. She found, after a time, that her backwas beginning to ache. She twisted and turned from one position toanother slightly different, but it did not case her for long. Shewas beginning to weary. "Stand up, why don't you?" said the girl at her right, without anyform of introduction. "They won't care." Carrie looked at her gratefully. "I guess I will," she said. She stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, butit was a more difficult position. Her neck and shoulders ached inbending over. The spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way.She did not venture to look around, but above the clack of the machineshe could hear an occasional remark. She could also note a thing ortwo out of the side of her eye. "Did you see Harry last night?" said the girl at her left,addressing her neighbour. "No." "You ought to have seen the tie he had on. Gee, but he was a mark." "S-s-t," said the other girl, bending over her work. The first,silenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. The foreman passed slowlyalong, eyeing each worker distinctly. The moment he was gone, theconversation was resumed again. "Say," began the girl at her left, "what jeh think he said?" "I don't know." "He said he saw us with Eddie Harris at Martin's last night." "No!" They both giggled. A youth with tan-coloured hair, that needed clipping very badly,came shuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of leatherfindings under his left arm, and pressed against his stomach. Whennear Carrie, he stretched out his right hand and gripped one girlunder the arm. "Aw, let me go," she exclaimed angrily. "Duffer." He only grinned broadly in return. "Rubber!" he called back as she looked after him. There wasnothing of the gallant in him. Carrie at last could scarcely sit still. Her legs began to tireand she wanted to get up and stretch. Would noon never come? It seemedas if she had worked an entire day. She was not hungry at all, butweak, and her eyes were tired, straining at the one point where theeye-punch came down. The girl at the right noticed her squirmingsand felt sorry for her. She was concentrating herself toothoroughly- what she did really required less mental and physicalstrain. There was nothing to be done, however. The halves of theuppers came piling steadily down. Her hands began to ache at thewrists and then in the fingers, and towards the last she seemed onemass of dull, complaining muscles, fixed in an eternal position andperforming a single mechanical movement which became more and moredistasteful, until at last it was absolutely nauseating. When shewas wondering whether the strain would ever cease, a dull-soundingbell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the end came. In aninstant there was a buzz of action and conversation. All the girlsinstantly left their stools and hurried away in an adjoining room, menpassed through, coming from some department which opened on the right.The whirling wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying key, untilat last they died away in a low buzz. There was an audiblestillness, in which the common voice sounded strange. Carrie got up and sought her lunch box. She was stiff, a littledizzy, and very thirsty. On the way to the small space portioned offby wood, where all the wraps and lunches were kept, she encounteredthe foreman, who stared at her hard. "Well," he said, "did you get along all right?" "I think so," she replied, very respectfully. "Um," he replied, for want of something better, and walked on. Under better material conditions, this kind of work would not havebeen so bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant workingconditions for employees had not then taken hold upon manufacturingcompanies. The place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather-a combination which, added to the stale odours of the building, wasnot pleasant even in cold weather. The floor, though regularly sweptevery evening, presented a littered surface. Not the slightestprovision had been made for the comfort of the employees, the ideabeing that something was gained by giving them as little and makingthe work as hard and unremunerative as possible. What we know offoot-rests, swivel-back chairs, dining-rooms for the girls, cleanaprons and curling irons supplied free, and a decent cloak room,were unthought of. The washrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foulplaces, and the whole atmosphere was sordid. Carrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of waterfrom a bucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat. The othergirls had ranged themselves about the windows or the work-benches ofthose of the men who had gone out. She saw no place which did not holda couple or a group of girls, and being too timid to think ofintruding herself, she sought out her machine and, seated upon herstool, opened her lunch on her lap. There she sat listening to thechatter and comment about her. It was, for the most part, silly andgraced by the current slang. Several of the men in the roomexchanged compliments with the girls at long range. "Say, Kitty," called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in afew feet of space near one of the windows, "are you going to theball with me?" "Look out, Kitty," called another, "you'll jar your back hair." "Go on, Rubber," was her only comment. As Carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiarbadinage among the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew intoherself. She was not used to this type, and felt that there wassomething hard and low about it all. She feared that the young boysabout would address such remarks to her- boys who, beside Drouet,seemed uncouth and ridiculous. She made the average femininedistinction between clothes, putting worth, goodness, anddistinction in a dress suit, and leaving all the unlovely qualitiesand those beneath notice in overalls and jumper. She was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheelsbegan to whirr again. Though wearied, she would be inconspicuous. Thisillusion ended when another young man passed along the aisle and pokedher indifferently in the ribs with his thumb. She turned about,indignation leaping to her eyes, but he had gone on and only onceturned to grin. She found it difficult to conquer an inclination tocry. The girl next her noticed her state of mind. "Don't you mind," shesaid. "He's too fresh." Carrie said nothing, but bent over her work. She felt as thoughshe could hardly endure such a life. Her idea of work had been soentirely different. All during the long afternoon she thought of thecity outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings.Columbia City and the better side of her home life came back. By threeo'clock she was sure it must be six, and by four it seemed as ifthey had forgotten to note the hour and were letting all workovertime. The foreman became a true ogre, prowling constantly about,keeping her tied down to her miserable task. What she heard of theconversation about her only made her feel sure that she did not wantto make friends with any of these. When six o'clock came she hurriedeagerly away, her arms aching and her limbs stiff from sitting inone position. As she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a youngmachine hand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her. "Say, Maggie," he called, "if you wait, I'll walk with you." It was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who wasmeant, but never turned to look. In the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth triedto make an impression on her by leering in her face. One young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance ofanother, grinned at her as she passed. "Ain't going my way, are you?" he called jocosely. Carrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart. As sheturned the corner, she saw through the great shiny window the smalldesk at which she had applied. There were the crowds, hurrying withthe same buzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm. She felt a slightrelief, but it was only at her escape. She felt ashamed in the face ofbetter dressed girls who went by. She felt as though she should bebetter served, and her heart revolted. Chapter V. A GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER: THE USE OF A NAME Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he hadlaid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floatingaround having what he considered a gay time. On this particularevening he dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, whichoccupied a basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. Thereafter he visitedthe resort of Fitzgerald and Moy's in Adams Street, opposite theimposing Federal Building. There he leaned over the splendid bar andswallowed a glass of plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars,one of which he lighted. This to him represented in part high life-a fair sample of what the whole must be. Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. Heonly craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemedto him a part of the best. Rector's, with its polished marble wallsand floor, its profusion of lights, its show of china andsilverware, and, above all, its reputation as a resort for actorsand professional men, seemed to him the proper place for asuccessful man to go. He loved fine clothes, good eating, andparticularly the company and acquaintanceship of successful men.When dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction to him to knowthat Joseph Jefferson was wont to come to this same place, or thatHenry E. Dixie, a well-known performer of the day, was then only a fewtables off. At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction,for there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, somerich young "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzzof popular commonplace conversation. "That's So-and-so over there," was a common remark of thesegentlemen among themselves, particularly among those who had not yetreached, but hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dinehere lavishly represented. "You don't say so," would be the reply. "Why, yes, didn't you know that? Why, he's manager of the GrandOpera House." When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would straightenhimself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. If he hadany vanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, thisstirred it. He would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too someday. As it was, he could eat where they did. His preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place wasanother yard off the same cloth. This was really a gorgeous saloonfrom a Chicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also ornamentedwith a blaze of incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. Thefloors were of brightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition ofrich, dark, polished wood, which reflected the light, and colouredstucco-work, which gave the place a very sumptuous appearance. Thelong bar was a blaze of lights, polished wood-work, coloured and cutglassware, and many fancy bottles. It was a truly swell saloon, withrich screens, fancy wines, and a line of bar goods unsurpassed inthe country. At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager ofFitzgerald and Moy's. He had been pointed out as a very successful andwell-known man about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besidesbeing slightly under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, anactive manner, and a solid, substantial air, which was composed inpart of his fine clothes, his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all,his own sense of his importance. Drouet immediately conceived a notionof him as being some one worth knowing, and was glad not only tomeet him, but to visit the Adams Street bar thereafter whenever hewanted a drink or a cigar. Hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was shrewdand clever in many little things, and capable of creating a goodimpression. His managerial position was fairly important- a kind ofstewardship which was imposing, but lacked financial control. He hadrisen by perseverance and industry, through long years of service,from the position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to hispresent altitude. He had a little office in the place, set off inpolished cherry and grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, therather simple accounts of the place- supplies ordered and needed.The chief executive and financial functions devolved 'upon the owners-Messrs. Fitzgerald and Moy- and upon a cashier who looked after themoney taken in. For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailoredsuits of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond inhis tie, a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain ofsolid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of thelatest make and engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personallywith a "Well, old fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians,and the general run of successful characters about town, and it waspart of his success to do so. He had a finely graduated scale ofinformality and friendship, which improved from the "How do you do?"addressed to the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches,who, by long frequenting of the place, became aware of his position,to the "Why, old man, how are you?" which he addressed to thosenoted or rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to befriendly. There was a class, however, too rich, too famous, or toosuccessful, with whom he could not attempt any familiarity of address,and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a grave anddignified attitude, paying them the deference which would win theirgood feeling without in the least compromising his own bearing andopinions. There were, in the last place, a few good followers, neitherrich nor poor, famous, nor yet remarkably successful, with whom he wasfriendly on the score of good-fellowship. These were the kind of menwith whom he would converse longest and most seriously. He loved to goout and have a good time once in a while- to go to the races, thetheatres, the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs. He kepta horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who were wellestablished in a neat house on the North Side near Lincoln Park, andwas altogether a very acceptable individual of our great Americanupper class- the first grade below the luxuriously rich. Hurstwood liked Drouet. The latter's genial nature and dressyappearance pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a travellingsalesman- and not one of many years at that- but the firm of Bartlett,Caryoe & Company was a large and prosperous house, and Drouet stoodwell. Hurstwood knew Caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now andthen with him, in company with several others, when the conversationwas general. Drouet had what was a help in his business, a moderatesense of humour, and could tell a good story when the occasionrequired. He could talk races with Hurstwood, tell interestingincidents concerning himself and his experiences with women, andreport the state of trade in the cities which he visited, and somanaged to make himself almost invariably agreeable. To-night he wasparticularly so, since his report to the company had been favourablycommented upon, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected,and his trip marked out for the next six weeks. "Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came inthat evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?" The room was crowded. Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towardsthe bar. "Oh, all right." "I haven't seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?" "Friday," said Drouet. "Had a fine trip." "Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth whichhalf displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "Whatare you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacketand tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar. "Old Pepper," saidDrouet. "A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood. "How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood. "Only until Wednesday. I'm going up to St. Paul." "George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you inMilwaukee last week." "Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet. "Great old boy, isn't he? Wehad quite a time there together." The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them,and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling histo within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwoodtaking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer. "What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood. "I haven't seen himaround here in two weeks." "Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet. "Say, he's a gouty old boy!" "Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?" "Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet. "He won't live much longer.Barely comes down to the office now." "Just one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood. "Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet. "I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with theother members all there." "No, he can't injure that any, I guess." Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets,the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeabledistinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort. To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn ofmind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seeman anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. Here come themoths, in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame.Such conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendationof the scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems plain that schemerswould choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, thatpoliticians would not gather here in company to discuss anythingsave formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it wouldscarcely be justified on the score of thirst, (or the majority ofthose who frequent these more gorgeous places have no craving forliquor. Nevertheless, the fact that here men gather, here chatter,here love to pass and rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds.It must be that a strange bundle of passions and vague desires giverise to such a curious social institution or it would not be. Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as byhis desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met heredropped in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciouslyanalysing it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere which theyfound. One might take it, after all, as an augur of the bettersocial order, for the things which they satisfied here, though sensorywere not evil. No evil could come out of the contemplation of anexpensively decorated chamber. The worst effect of such a thingwould be, perhaps, to stir up in the material-minded an ambition toarrange their lives upon a similarly splendid basis. In the lastanalysis, that would scarcely be called the fault of thedecorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind. That such ascene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the moreexpensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anythingsave the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. Removethe element so thoroughly and solely complained of- liquor- andthere would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty andenthusiasm which would remain. The pleased eye with which our modernrestaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this assertion. Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedycompany, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized,aimless, wandering mental action which it represents- the love oflight and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serenelight of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. Underthe stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it mustbloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding,insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure. "See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at agentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat,his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating. "No, where?" said Drouet. "There," said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of hiseye, "the man with the silk hat." "Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see. "Who is he?" "That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist." Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested. "Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" saidDrouet. "Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood. "He's got the money, allright," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes. "I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet. "Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood. "There may besomething to it. I wouldn't bother about it myself, though. By theway," he added, "are you going anywhere to-night?" "'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popularfarce of the time. "Well, you'd better be going. It's half after eight already," and hedrew out his watch. The crowd was already thinning out considerably- some bound forthe theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinatingof all the pleasures- for the type of man there represented, at least-the ladies. "Yes, I will," said Drouet. "Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,"said Hurstwood. "Sure," said Drouet, elated. "You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" addedHurstwood. "Not a thing." "Well, come round, then." "I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarkedDrouet, by way of parting. "By George, that's so, I must go and callon her before I go away." "Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked. "Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouetconfidentially, and trying to impress his friend. "Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood. "That's right," said Drouet, going out. Thus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gayof places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning hernarrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages ofthis, her unfolding fate. Chapter VI. THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN: A KNIGHT OF TODAY At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of itsatmosphere. The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings weredifferent, increased her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after thegood spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report.Hanson supposed that Carrie would be satisfied. "Well," he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes,and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, "how did you makeout?" "Oh," said Carrie, "it's pretty hard. I don't like it." There was an air about her which showed plainer than any wordsthat she was both weary and disappointed. "What sort of work is it?" he asked, lingering a moment as he turnedupon his heel to go into the bathroom. "Running a machine," answered Carrie. It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save fromthe side of the flat's success. He was irritated a shade because itcould not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to bepleased. Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carriearrived. The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasingnow that Carrie had reported her discontent. To Carrie, the one reliefof the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympatheticreception, a bright supper table, and some one to say: "Oh, well,stand it a little while. You will get something better," but nowthis was ashes. She began to see that they looked upon her complaintas unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and saynothing. She knew that she was to pay four dollars for her board androom, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round,living with these people. Minnie was no companion for her sister- she was too old. Herthoughts were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson hadany pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemedto do all his mental operations without the aid of physicalexpression. He was as still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on theother hand, had the blood of youth and some imagination. Her day oflove and the mysteries of courtship were still ahead. She couldthink of things she would like to do, of clothes she would like towear, and of places she would like to visit. These were the thingsupon which her mind ran, and it was like meeting with opposition atevery turn to find no one here to call forth or respond to herfeelings. She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of herday, that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive thesetwo people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly whatshe would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. Aftersupper she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she wasrather a sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her faceexpressed the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction and depression shefelt. She wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked alittle with Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in thedoor at the foot of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet himthere. Her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as sheput on her hat to go below. "Carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well," said Minnie toher husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in thedining-room a few minutes. "She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow," said Hanson. "Has shegone downstairs?" "Yes," said Minnie. "I'd tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weekswithout getting another one." Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper. "If I were you," he said a little later, "I wouldn't let her standin the door down there. It don't look good." "I'll tell her," said Minnie. The life of the streets continued for a long time to interestCarrie. She never wearied of wondering where the people in the carswere going or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod avery narrow round, always winding up at points which concernedmoney, looks, clothes, or enjoyment. She would have a far-offthought of Columbia City now and then, or an irritating rush offeeling concerning her experiences of the present day, but, on thewhole, the little world about her enlisted her whole attention. The first floor of the building, of which Hanson's flat was thethird, was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standingthere, Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware ofhis presence until he was quite near her. "I'm after bread," was all he said as he passed. The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hansonreally came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he wouldsee what Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that inmind than she felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what putit into her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shadeof real antipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. Hewas suspicious. A thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie'smeditations had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long goneupstairs before she followed. She had realised with the lapse of thequarter hours that Drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt alittle resentful, a little as if she had been forsaken- was not goodenough. She went upstairs, where everything was silent. Minnie wassewing by a lamp at the table. Hanson had already turned in for thenight. In her weariness and disappointment Carrie did no more thanannounce that she was going to bed. "Yes you'd better," returned Minnie. "You've got to get up early,you know." The morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door asCarrie came from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her duringbreakfast, but there was not much of interest which they couldmutually discuss. As on the previous morning, Carrie walked down town,for she began to realise now that her four-fifty would not evenallow her car fare after she paid her board. This seemed a miserablearrangement. But the morning light swept away the first misgivingsof the day, as morning light is ever wont to do. At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisomeas the preceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, onhis round, stopped by her machine. "Where did you come from?" he inquired. "Mr. Brown hired me," she replied. "Oh, he did, eh!" and then, "See that you keep things going." The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemedsatisfied with their lot, and were in a sense "common." Carrie hadmore imagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct inthe matter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen tothe girl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience. "I'm going to quit this," she heard her remark to her neighbour."What with the stipend and being up late, it's too much for mehealth." They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, andexchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. Shesaw that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressedaccordingly. "Hello," remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her atnoon. "You're a daisy." He really expected to hear the common "Aw!go chase yourself!" in return, and was sufficiently abashed, byCarrie's silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning. That night at the flat she was even more lonely- the dullsituation was becoming harder to endure. She could see that theHansons seldom or never had any company. Standing at the street doorlooking out, she ventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gaitand idle manner attracted attention of an offensive but common sort.She was slightly taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed manof thirty, who in passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turnedback, and said: "Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?" Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficientthought to reply: "Why, I don't know you," backing away as she did so. "Oh, that don't matter," said the other affably. She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching herown door quite out of breath. There was something in the man's lookwhich frightened her. During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One ortwo nights she found herself too tired to walk home and expended carfare. She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected herback. She went to bed one night before Hanson. Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers ormaidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere tocontinue even a natural growth. It would have been better if heracclimatization had been more gradual- less rigid. She would have donebetter if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen moreof the city which she constantly troubled to know about. On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella.Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was thekind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of thegreat department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and aquarter of her small store to pay for it. "What did you do that for, Carrie?" asked Minnie when she saw it. "Oh, I need one," said Carrie. "You foolish girl." Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going tobe a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either. On the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars.Minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know howto explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just fourdollars less toward the household expenses with a smile ofsatisfaction. He contemplated increasing his Building and Loanpayments. As for Carrie, she studied over the problem of findingclothes and amusement on fifty cents a week, She brooded over thisuntil she was in a state of mental rebellion. "I'm going up the street for a walk," she said after supper. "Not alone are you?" asked Hanson. "Yes," returned Carrie. "I wouldn't," said Minnie. "I want to see something," said Carrie, and by the tone she put intothe last word they realised for the first time she was not pleasedwith them. "What's the matter with her?" asked Hanson, when she went into thefront room to get her hat. "I don't know," said Minnie. "Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone." Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in thedoor. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did notplease her. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day sheheard the highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivialamusements. They had been happy. On several days it rained and sheused up car fare. One night she got thoroughly soaked, going tocatch the car at Van Buren Street. All that evening she sat alone inthe front room looking out upon the street, where the lights werereflected on the wet pavements, thinking. She had imagination enoughto be moody. On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fiftycents in despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formedwith some of the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact thatthey had more of their earnings to use for themselves than she did.They had young men of the kind whom she, since her experience withDrouet, felt above, who took them about. She came to thoroughlydislike the light-headed young fellows of the shop. Not one of themhad a show of refinement. She saw only their workday side. There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter sweptover the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailedlong, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced aboutthe streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt theproblem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winterjacket, no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie aboutthis, but at last she summoned the courage. "I don't know what I'm going to do about clothes," she said oneevening when they were together. "I need a hat." Minnie looked serious. "Why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?" shesuggested, worried over the situation which the withholding ofCarrie's money would create. "I'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind," ventured Carrie. "Could you pay two dollars?" asked Minnie. Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation,and liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and beganfiguring at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnieexplained to Hanson she never knew. He said nothing at all, butthere were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions. The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had notintervened. It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie wasstill without a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six andshivered as the wind struck her. In the morning she was sneezing,and going down town made it worse. That day her bones ached and shefelt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill, and when shereached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping actions andasked her about herself. "I don't know," said Carrie. "I feel real bad." She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went tobed sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish. Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindlydemeanour. Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for awhile. When she got up after three days, it was taken for granted thather position was lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothesand now she was out of work. "I don't know," said Carrie; "I'll go down Monday and see if I can'tget something." If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trialthan the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Herlast money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about,utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becomingunbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening.Hanson was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortlyshe would have to give up and go home. On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed tencents for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind ofplaces without success. She even answered for a waitress in a smallrestaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted anexperienced girl. She moved through the thick throng of strangers,utterly subdued in spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turnedher about. "Well, well!" said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet.He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence ofsunshine and good-humour. "Why, how are you, Carrie?" he said. "You'rea daisy. Where have you been?" Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality. "I've been out home," she said. "Well," he said, "I saw you across the street there. I thought itwas you. I was just coming out to your place. How are you, anyhow?" "I'm all right," said Carrie, smiling. Drouet looked her over and saw something different. "Well," he said, "I want to talk to you. You're not going anywherein particular, are you?" "Not just now," said Carrie. "Let's go up here and have something to eat. George! but I'm glad tosee you again." She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked afterand cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest airof holding back. "Well," he said as he took her arm- and there was an exuberance ofgood-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of herheart. They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room,which was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisineand substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by thewindow, where the busy rout of the street could be seen. He lovedthe changing panorama of the street- to see and be seen as he dined. "Now," he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, whatwill you have?" Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handedher without really considering it. She was very hungry, and the thingsshe saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held herattention. "Half broiled spring chicken- seventy-five. Sirloin steakwith mushrooms- one twenty-five." She had dimly heard of these things,but it seemed strange to be called to order from the list. "I'll fix this," exclaimed Drouet. "Sst! waiter." That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro,approached, and inclined his ear. "Sirloin with mushrooms," said Drouet. "Stuffed tomatoes." "Yassah," assented the negro, nodding his head. "Hashed brown potatoes." "Yassah." "Asparagus." "Yassah." "And a pot of coffee." Drouet turned to Carrie. "I haven't had a thing since breakfast.Just got in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you." Carried smiled and smiled. "What have you been doing?" he went on. "Tell me all about yourself.How is your sister?" "She's well," returned Carrie, answering the last query. He looked at her hard. "Say," he said, "you haven't been sick, have you?" Carrie nodded. "Well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it? You don't look verywell. I thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?" "Working," said Carrie. "You don't say so! At what?" She told him. "Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott- why, I know that house. Over hereon Fifth Avenue, isn't it? They're a close-fisted concern. What madeyou go there?" "I couldn't get anything else," said Carrie frankly. "Well, that's an outrage," said Drouet. "You oughtn't to beworking for those people. Have the factory right back of the store,don't they?" "Yes," said Carrie. "That isn't a good house," said Drouet. "You don't want to work atanything like that, anyhow." He chattered on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining thingsabout himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until thewaiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury disheswhich had been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter ofserving. He appeared to great advantage behind the white napery andsilver platters of the table and displaying his arms with a knifeand fork. As he cut the meat his rings almost spoke. His new suitcreaked as he stretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pourthe coffee. He helped Carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed thewarmth of his spirit to her body until she was a new girl. He was asplendid fellow in the true popular understanding of the term, andcaptivated Carrie completely. That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way.She felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and theview of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah,what was it not to have money! What a thing it was to be able tocome in here and dine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains,dressed in such nice clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fineplaces. He seemed quite a figure of a man, and she wondered at hisfriendship and regard for her. "So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?" he said. "What are you going to do now?" "Look around," she said, a thought of the need that hung outsidethis fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into hereyes. "Oh, no," said Drouet, "that won't do. How long have you beenlooking?" "Four days," she answered. "Think of that!" he said, addressing some problematicalindividual. "You oughtn't to be doing anything like that. Thesegirls," and he waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls,"don't get anything. Why, you can't live on it, can you?" He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he hadscouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carriewas really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figurewas evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouetlooked at her and his thoughts reached home. She felt hisadmiration. It was powerfully backed by his liberality andgood-humour. She felt that she liked him- that she could continue tolike him ever so much. There was something even richer than that,running as a hidden strain, in her mind. Every little while her eyeswould meet his, and by that means the interchanging current of feelingwould be fully connected. "Why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?" hesaid, hitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide. "Oh, I can't," she said. "What are you going to do to-night?" "Nothing," she answered, a little drearily. "You don't like out there where you are, do you?" "Oh, I don't know." "What are you going to do if you don't get work?" "Go back home, I guess." There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow,the influence he was exerting was powerful. They came to anunderstanding of each other without words- he of her situation, she ofthe fact that he realised it. "No," he said, "you can't make it!" genuine sympathy filling hismind for the time. "Let me help you. You take some of my money." "Oh, no!" she said, leaning back. "What are you going to do?" he said. She sat meditating, merely shaking her head. He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were someloose bills in his vest pocket- greenbacks. They were soft andnoiseless, and he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up inhis hand. "Come on," he said, "I'll see you through all right. Get yourselfsome clothes." It was the first reference he had made to that subject, and nowshe realised how bad off she was. In his crude way he had struck thekey-note. Her lips trembled a little. She had her hand out on the table before her. They were quitealone in their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it. "Aw, come, Carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? Let me helpyou." He pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. At thishe held it fast, and she no longer protested. Then he slipped thegreenbacks he had into her palm, and when she began to protest, hewhispered: "I'll loan it to you- that's all right. I'll loan it to you." He made her take it. She felt bound to him by a strange tie ofaffection now. They went out, and he walked with her far out southtoward Polk Street, talking. "You don't want to live with those people?" he said in one place,abstractedly. Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression. "Come down and meet me to-morrow," he said, "and we'll go to thematinee. Will you?" Carrie protested a while, but acquiesced. "You're not doing anything. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes anda jacket." She scarcely gave a thought to the complication which wouldtrouble her when he was gone. In his presence, she was of his ownhopeful, easy-way-out mood. "Don't you bother about those people out there," he said at parting."I'll help you." Carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped outbefore her to draw off trouble. The money she had accepted was twosoft, green, handsome ten-dollar bills. Chapter VII. THE LURE OF THE MATERIAL: BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explainedand comprehended. When each individual realises for himself thatthis thing primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moraldue- that it should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and notas a usurped privilege- many of our social, religious, and politicaltroubles will have permanently passed. As for Carrie, herunderstanding of the moral significance of money was the popularunderstanding, nothing more. The old definition: "Money: somethingeverybody else has and I must get," would have expressed herunderstanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she now held in her hand-two soft, green ten-dollar bills- and she felt that she wasimmensely better off for the having of them. It was something that waspower in itself. One of her order of mind would have been content tobe cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of money, and only thelong strain of starvation would have taught her that in some casesit could have no value. Even then she would have had no conceptionof the relative value of the thing; her one thought would,undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and theinability to use it. The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She feltashamed in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but herneed was so dire, she was still glad. Now she would have a nice newjacket! Now she would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. Shewould get stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and- until already, asin the matter of her prospective salary, she had got beyond, in herdesires, twice the purchasing power of her bills. She conceived a true estimate of Drouet. To her, and indeed to allthe world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evilin the fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart- out of arealisation of her want. He would not have given the same amount toa poor young man, but we must not forget that a poor young man couldnot, in the nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor younggirl. Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of aninborn desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "MyGod, mister, I'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out whatwas considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought nomore about it. There would have been no speculation, nophilosophising. He had no mental process in him worthy the dignityof either of those terms. In his good clothes and fine health, hewas a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp. Deprived of his position,and struck by a few of the involved and baffling forces whichsometimes play upon man he would have been as helpless as Carrie- ashelpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if you will, as she. Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm,because he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to holdwith them as being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, tohave them succumb to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded,dark, scheming villain, but because his inborn desire urged him tothat as a chief delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was asdeluded by fine clothes as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyedvillain could have hornswaggled him as readily as he could haveflattered a pretty shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay inhis geniality and the thoroughly reputable standing of his house. Hebobbed about among men, a veritable bundle of enthusiasm- no powerworthy the name of intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjectivenoble, no feelings long continued in one strain. A Madame Sappho wouldhave called him a pig; a Shakespeare would have said "my merry child;"old, drinking Caryoe thought him a clever, successful business man. Inshort, he was as good as his intellect conceived. The best proof that there was something open and commendable aboutthe man was the fact that Carrie took the money. No deep, sinistersoul with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents underthe guise of friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless.Nature has taught the beasts of the field to fly when someunheralded danger threatens. She has put into the small, unwise headof the chipmunk the untutored fear of poisons. "He keepeth Hiscreatures whole," was not, written of beasts alone. Carrie was unwise,and, therefore, like the sheep in its unwisdom, strong in feeling. Theinstinct of self-protection, strong in all such natures, was rousedbut feebly, if at all, by the overtures of Drouet. When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her goodopinion. By George, it was a shame young girls had to be knockedaround like that. Cold weather coming on and no clothes. Tough. Hewould go around to Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar. It made himfeel light of foot as he thought about her. Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcelyconceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points whichperplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when Minnieknew that she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat thanthis point was settled for her. It could not be done. She couldthink of no way of explaining. "How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day. Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thingand say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but itwould be in the line of her feelings at least. So; instead ofcomplaining when she felt so good, she said: "I have the promise of something." "Where?" "At the Boston Store." "Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie. "Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie, disliking todraw out a lie any longer than was necessary. Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought withher. She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the state ofHanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture. "If you shouldn't get it-" she paused, troubled for an easy way. "If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home." Minnie saw her chance. "Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow." The situation flashed on Carrie at once. They were unwilling to keepher any longer, out of work. She did not blame Minnie, she did notblame Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remark,she was glad she had Drouet's money. "Yes," she said after a few moments, "I thought of doing that." She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all theantagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? Sheknew its dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysteriouscity which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen onlysuggested its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live thelittle old life out there- she almost exclaimed against the thought. She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. Whatcould she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. Shewould need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She didnot want to borrow of Minnie for that. And yet, how could sheexplain where she even got that money? If she could only get enough tolet her out easy. She went over the tangle again and again. Here, in the morning,Drouet would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn'tbe. The Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away,and yet she did not want to go home. In the light of the way theywould look on her getting money without work, the taking of it nowseemed dreadful. She began to be ashamed. The whole situationdepressed her. It was all so clear when she was with Drouet. Now itwas all so tangled, so hopeless- much worse than it was before,because she had the semblance of aid in her hand which she could notuse. Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must havehad another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give themoney back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in themorning and hunt for work. At noon she would meet Drouet as agreed andtell him. At this decision her heart sank, until she was the oldCarrie of distress. Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand withoutfeeling some relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, shecould sweep away all thought about the matter and then the twentydollars seemed a wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money,money! What a thing it was to have. How plenty of it would clearaway all these troubles. In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Herdecision to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money inher pocket, after all her troubling over it, made the work questionthe least shade less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district,but as the thought of applying came with each passing concern, herheart shrank. What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet shehad applied so often. It would be the same old story. She walked onand on, and finally did go into one place, with the old result. Shecame out feeling that luck was against her. It was no use. Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was thegreat Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its longwindow display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed herthoughts, she who was so weary of them. It was here that she hadintended to come and get her new things. Now for relief from distress,she thought she would go in and see. She would look at the jackets. There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middlestate in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means,lured by desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision.When Carrie began wandering around the store amid the fine displaysshe was in this mood. Her original experience in this same place hadgiven her a high opinion of its merits. Now she paused at eachindividual bit of finery, where before she had hurried on. Her woman'sheart was warm with desire for them. How would she look in this, howcharming that would make her! She came upon the corset counter andpaused in rich reverie as she noted the dainty concoctions of colourand lace there displayed. If she would only make up her mind, shecould have one of those now. She lingered in the jewelry department.She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins, the chains. Whatwould she not have given if she could have had them all! She wouldlook fine too, if only she had some of these things. The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered thestore, she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tanjacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the ragethat fall. Still she delighted to convince herself that there wasnothing she would like better. She went about among the glass casesand racks where these things were displayed, and satisfied herselfthat the one she thought of was the proper one. All the time shewavered in mind, now persuading herself that she could buy it rightaway if she chose, now recalling to herself the actual condition. Atlast the noon hour was dangerously near, and she had done nothing. Shemust go now and return the money. Drouet was on the corner when she came up. "Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"- looking down- "theshoes?" Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligentway, but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board. "I came to tell you that- that I can't take the money." "Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me.Let's go over here to Partridge's." Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt andimpossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at thepoints that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain tohim. "Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here,"and Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurantsoff State Street, in Monroe. "I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settledin a cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch. "I can't wearthose things out there. They- they wouldn't know where I got them." "What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?" "I think I'll go home," she said, wearily. "Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. I'lltell you what you do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don'tyou rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?" Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object andbe convinced. It was for him to brush the doubts away and clear thepath if he could. "Why are you going home?" he asked. "Oh, I can't get anything here." "They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively. "They can't," said Carrie. "I'll tell you what you do," he said. "You come with me. I'll takecare of you." Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was inmade it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Drouet seemedof her own spirit and pleasing. He was clean, handsome,well-dressed, and sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend. "What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing bythe words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left."There isn't anything down there. Chicago's the place. You can get anice room here and some clothes, and then you can do something." Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. Thereit was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. Anelegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying inits upholstered depths a young lady. "What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was nosubtle undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would havenothing at all of the things he thought worth while. Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she coulddo. They would be expecting her to go home this week. Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy. "Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it.I'll loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You canget yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you." Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She feltmore than ever the helplessness of her case. "If I could only get something to do," she said. "Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if yougo away. They won't let you stay out there. Now, why not let me getyou a nice room? I won't bother you- you needn't be afraid. Then, whenyou get fixed up, maybe you could get something." He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources.She was a sweet little mortal to him- there was no doubt of that.She seemed to have some power back of her actions. She was not likethe common run of store-girls. She wasn't silly. In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he- more taste. Itwas a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression andloneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her headunconsciously in a dainty way. "Do you think I could get something?" she asked. "Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "I'llhelp you." She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly. "Now I'll tell you what well do. We'll go over here to Partridge'sand you pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a roomfor you. You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the showto-night." Carrie shook her head. "Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. Youdon't need to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your thingsthere." She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over. "Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said. Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle ofnew things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's heart. Under theinfluence of a good dinner and Drouet's radiating presence, the schemeproposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket likethe one which she had admired at The Fair. When she got it in her handit seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, byaccident, it fitted perfectly. Drouet's face lightened as he saw theimprovement. She looked quite smart. "That's the thing," he said. Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleasedas she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks. "That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it." "It's nine dollars," said Carrie. "That's all right- take it," said Drouet. She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The womanasked if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes shewas back and the purchase was closed. From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie wasfitted for shoes. Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice theylooked, said, "Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however. She wasthinking of returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for onething, and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy thestockings. "To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt." In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. Thedeeper she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined thatthe thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Sinceshe had not done these, there was a way out. Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. Heshowed Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my sister."He carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to theselection, looking around, criticising, opining. "Her trunk will behere in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was verypleased. When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least. Hetalked in the same general way as if they were out in the street.Carrie left her things. "Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?" "Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Why not?" "I don't want to leave them so." He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warmafternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As hetalked with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere ofthe flat. "Come out of it," he said, "they won't care. I'll help you getalong." She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show herabout a little and then help her get something. He really imaginedthat he would. He would be out on the road and she could be working. "Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and getwhatever you want and come away." She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He wouldcome out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet himat half-past eight. At half-past five she reached home, and at six herdetermination was hardened. "So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's storyof the Boston Store. Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," sheanswered. "I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie. Carrie said nothing. When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. Hewashed in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carriefelt a little nervous. The strain of her own plans was considerable,and the feeling that she was not welcome here was strong. "Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson. "No." He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden tohave her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home, thatwas all. Once she was away, there would be no more coming back inthe spring. Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she wasrelieved to know that this condition was ending. They would notcare. Hanson particularly would be glad when she went. He would notcare what became of her. After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could notdisturb her, and wrote a little note. "Good-bye, Minnie," it read. "I'm not going home. I'm going tostay in Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry. I'll beall right." In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual, she helpedMinnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said: "I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She couldscarcely prevent her voice from trembling. Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance. "Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said. "Doesn't he?" said Carrie. "I won't do it any more after this." She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the littlebedroom, wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it underMinnie's hair-brush. When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment andwondered what they would think. Some thought of the queerness of herdeed affected her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back upthe lighted step, and then affected to stroll up the street. Whenshe reached the corner she quickened her pace. As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife. "Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked. "Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more." He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and beganto poke his finger at it. Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits. "Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drewnear him. "Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car." Chapter VIII. INTIMATIONS BY WINTER: AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe,untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilisation is stillin a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer whollyguided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet whollyguided by reason. On the tiger no responsibility rests. We see himaligned by nature with the forces of life- he is born into theirkeeping and without thought he is protected. We see man far removedfrom the lairs of the jungles, his innate instincts dulled by too nearan approach to free-will, his free-will not sufficiently developedto replace his instincts and afford him perfect guidance. He isbecoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and desires; he isstill too weak to always prevail against them. As a beast, theforces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he has not yetwholly learned to align himself with the forces. In thisintermediate stage he wavers- neither drawn in harmony with natureby his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by hisown free-will. He is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breathof passion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, erringwith one, only to retrieve by the other, falling by one, only torise by the other- a creature of incalculable variability. We have theconsolation of knowing that evolution is ever in action, that theideal is a light that cannot fail. He will not forever balance thusbetween good and evil. When this jangle of free-will and instinctshall have been adjusted, when perfect understanding has given theformer the power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longervary. The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast andunwavering to the distant pole of truth. In Carrie- as in how many of our worldlings do they not?- instinctand reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. Shefollowed whither her craving led. She was as yet more drawn than shedrew. When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingledwonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow,or love, she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of that?" "What?" said Hanson. "Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else." Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usuallydisplayed and looked at the note. The only indication of histhoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by histongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse. "Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughlyaroused. "I don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she hasgone and done it." Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way. "Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done." "Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out beforehim, "what can you do?" Minnie's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured thepossibilities in such cases. "Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!" At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubledsleep in her new room, alone. Carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities init. She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap ofluxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release,wondering whether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouetwould do. That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond aperadventure. He could not help what he was going to do. He couldnot see clearly enough to wish to do differently. He was drawn byhis innate desire to act the old pursuing part. He would need todelight himself with Carrie as surely as he would need to eat hisheavy breakfast. He might suffer the least rudimentary twinge ofconscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil andsinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might have would berudimentary, you may be sure. The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in herchamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul. "Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out tobreakfast. You want to get your other clothes to-day." Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her largeeyes. "I wish I could get something to do," she said. "You'll get that all right," said Drouet. "What's the use worryingright now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won't hurt you." "I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully. "Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick 'em out. George, they lookfine. Put on your jacket." Carrie obeyed. "Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set ofit at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure."What you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast." Carrie put on her hat. "Where are the gloves?" he inquired. "Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer. "Now, come on," he said. Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away. It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her muchalone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled herhours with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie's he bought her a nice skirtand shirt waist. With his money she purchased the little necessariesof toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirrorconvinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She waspretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren't her eyespretty. She caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt herfirst thrill of power. Drouet was so good. They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which washilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off forthe Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, aconsiderable distance from Carrie's room. It was blowing up cold,and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky, still pinkwith the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met thedarkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped likesome island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some deadbranches of trees across the way brought back the picture with whichshe was familiar when she looked from their front window in Decemberdays at home. She paused and wrung her little hands. "What's the matter?" said Drouet. "Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling. He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder,patting her arm. "Come on," he said gently, "you're all right." She turned to slip on her jacket. "Better wear that boa about your throat to-night." They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. Thelights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue.The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were thelighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whippedin and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six o'clock throngbumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up about the ears,hats were pulled down. Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairsand fours, chattering, laughing. It was a spectacle of warm-bloodedhumanity. Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They werelooking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes werefaded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-upshabby. Carrie recognised the glance and the girl. She was one of thosewho worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, notquite sure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as ifsome great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the oldmachine came back. She actually started. Drouet didn't notice untilCarrie bumped into a pedestrian. "You must be thinking," he said. They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrieimmensely. The colour and grace of it caught her eye. She had vainimaginings about place and power, about far-off lands andmagnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and thethrong of fine ladies made her stare. "Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyerwhere ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirtsrustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing throughparted lips. "Let's see." "Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in asort of euphonious cry. "Sixty-seven." "Isn't it fine?" said Carrie. "Great," said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of fineryand gayety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up,her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight.As they were moving out he whispered down to her, "You look lovely!"They were right where the coach-caller was swinging open acoach-door and ushering in two ladies. "You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet. Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch.Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but therewas no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time tofix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiarthings. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed tosay prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim ofhabit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom todo, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritatingsomething which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to bethe prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging himever to righteousness. If the digression is unusual enough, the dragof habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim toreturn and perform the perfunctory thing. "Now, bless me," says such amind, "I have done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it hasmerely done its old, unbreakable trick once again. Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If shehad, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunchwent off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the variedoccurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating fromDrouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard withopen ears. She was again the victim of the city's hypnotic influence. "Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going." They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes hadfrequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration offorce which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. He had a way oftouching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. Hetouched it now as he spoke of going. They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section wasnow bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a fewopen resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue theystrolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of smallinformation. He had Carrie's arm in his, and held it closely as heexplained. Once in a while, after some witticism, he would lookdown, and his eyes would meet hers. At last they came to the steps,and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head now coming even withhis own. He took her hand and held it genially. He looked steadilyat her as she glanced about, warmly musing. At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a longevening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkwardposition under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves,and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied sheand Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine. She could see thetall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. There was adeep pit, into which they were looking; they could see the curious wetstones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. An oldbasket, used for descending, was hanging there, fastened by a wornrope. "Let's get in," said Carrie. "Oh, no," said Minnie. "Yes, come on," said Carrie. She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest,she had swung over and was going down. "Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back;" but Carrie was far downnow and the shadow had swallowed her completely. She moved her arm. Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by watersshe had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or somethingthat reached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They lookedabout, and now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sipof the encroaching water. "Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching fartherout. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her. "Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded faraway, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came awaysuffering as though she had lost something. She was more inexpressiblysad than she had even been in life. It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, thosecurious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes,one with the other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie wasslipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose andshe had seen her falling. "Minnie! What's the matter? Here, wake up," said Hanson,disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder. "Wha- what's the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily. "Wake up," he said, "and turn over. You're talking in your sleep." A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's, sprucein dress and manner. "Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door. Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. "When do you go out on the road again?" he inquired. "Pretty soon," said Drouet. "Haven't seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood. "Well, I've been busy," said Drouet. They talked some few minutes on general topics. "Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you tocome out some evening." "Out where?" inquired Hurstwood. "Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling. Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smilehovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wiseway, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: "Certainly;glad to." "We'll have a nice game of euchre." "May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood. "Certainly," said Drouet. "I'll introduce you." Chapter IX. CONVENTION'S OWN TINDER-BOX: THE EYE THAT IS GREEN Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was abrick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affairwith the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street.It had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and wasgraced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide andten feet deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by thefences of the neighbours and holding a stable where he kept hishorse and trap. The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia,and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica. There were besidesthese a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls ofvarious extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always easy to please. "George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequentsalutation at the dinner table. "All right," was his only reply. He had long since wearied ofdiscussing the rancorous subject. A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, thanwhich there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothingmore calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled andnourished within it. Those who have never experienced such abeneficent influence will not understand wherefore the tear springsglistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in lovely music.The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart of the nation,they will never know. Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with thishome spirit. It lacked that toleration and regard without which thehome is nothing. There was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly asthe artistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were softrugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marblecarving of some unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a numberof small bronzes gathered from heaven knows where, but generallysold by the large furniture houses along with everything else whichgoes to make the "perfectly appointed house." In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decantersand other utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of whichcould not be questioned. Here was something Hurstwood knew about. Hehad studied the subject for years in his business. He took no littlesatisfaction in telling each Mary, shortly after she arrived,something of what the art of the thing required. He was notgarrulous by any means. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve inhis manner toward the entire domestic economy of his life which wasall that is comprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. He wouldnot argue, he would not talk freely. In his manner was something ofthe dogmatist. What he could not correct, he would ignore. There was atendency in him to walk away from the impossible thing. There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of hisJessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in hissuccess. Now, however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica haddeveloped a certain amount of reserve and independence which was notinviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was in the highschool, and had notions of life which were decidedly those of apatrician. She liked nice clothes and urged for them constantly.Thoughts of love and elegant individual establishments were running inher head. She met girls at the high school whose parents were trulyrich and whose fathers had standing locally as partners or owners ofsolid businesses. These girls gave themselves the airs befitting thethriving domestic establishments from whence they issued. They werethe only ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself. Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was alreadyconnected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. Hecontributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but wasthought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had someability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not,as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came inand went out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a fewwords to his mother occasionally, relating some little incident to hisfather, but for the most part confining himself to thosegeneralities with which most conversation concerns itself. He wasnot laying bare his desires for any one to see. He did not find anyone in the house who particularly cared to see. Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of the woman who has ever endeavoured toshine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superiorcapability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extendedto that little conventional round of society of which she was not- butlonged to be- a member. She was not without realisation already thatthis thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For herdaughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica she might rise alittle. Through George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw toherself the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hurstwood was doingwell enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventuresshould prosper. His property holdings, as yet, were rather small,but his income was pleasing and his position with Fitzgerald and Moywas fixed. Both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informalterms with him. The atmosphere which such personalities would create must beapparent to all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, allof which were of the same calibre. "I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George. Jr., atthe dinner table one Friday evening. "What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood. "Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to comeup and see how it works." "How much did it cost him?" asked his mother. "Oh, over two thousand dollars. He says it's a dandy." "Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood. "He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vega-cura toAustralia now- said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week." "Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four yearsago they had that basement in Madison Street." "Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building nextspring in Robey Street." "Just think of that!" said Jessica. On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early. "I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising. "Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood,without rising. "Yes," he said indifferently. They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.Presently the door clicked. "I guess papa's gone," said Jessica. The latter's school news was of a particular stripe. "They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs," shereported one day, "and I'm going to be in it." "Are you?" said her mother. "Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls inthe school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take thepart of Portia." "Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood. "They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she canact." "Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs.Hurstwood sympathetically. "They haven't anything, have they?" "No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice." She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of theschool, many of whom were attracted by her beauty. "What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "thatHerbert Crane tried to make friends with me." "Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood. "Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just astudent there. He hasn't anything." The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son ofBlyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hurstwoodwas on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, andhappened to look out at the time. "Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica cameupstairs. "It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied. "Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,"explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs. "All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Don't be gone long." As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of thewindow. It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, mostsatisfactory. In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, notthinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature totrouble for something better, unless the better was immediately andsharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritatedsometimes by the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased attimes by some show of finery which supposedly made for dignity andsocial distinction. The life of the resort which he managed was hislife. There he spent most of his time. When he went home eveningsthe house looked nice. With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable,being the kind that an ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he wasinterested in the talk of his son and daughter, who always lookedwell. The vanity of Mrs. Hurstwood caused her to keep her personrather showily arrayed, but to Hurstwood this was much better thanplainness. There was no love lost between them. There was no greatfeeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion on any subject was notstartling. They did not talk enough together to come to the argumentof any one point. In the accepted and popular phrase, she had herideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet a woman whoseyouth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seem ratherdeficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which such anencounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social positionand a certain matter of policy. He could not complicate his home life,because it might affect his relations with his employers. Theywanted no scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have a dignifiedmanner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. Therefore he wascircumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in the public waysin the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife, and sometimeshis children. He would visit the local resorts, or those near by inWisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling aboutconventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need of it. When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, whohad money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. Itdidn't do to talk about those things. If it came up for discussionamong such friends as with him passed for close, he would deprecatethe folly of the thing. "It was all right to do it- all men do thosethings- but why wasn't he careful? A man can't be too careful." Helost sympathy for the man that made a mistake and was found out. On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wifeabout- time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had notbeen for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments whichdid not depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her withconsiderable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in a wayand men looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, andthis combination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in awoman of her home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidencein the sex was not great. His wife never possessed the virtues whichwould win the confidence and admiration of a man of his nature. Aslong as she loved him vigorously he could see how confidence could be,but when that was no longer the binding chain- well, something mighthappen. During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed alarge thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood, not tobe outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel.Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured. "Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwoodone morning. Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests beforethe glass at the time. "I thought she just bought one," he said. "That was just something for evening wear," returned his wifecomplacently. "It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a gooddeal for dresses of late." "Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone ofhis voice impressed her as containing something she had not heardthere before. He was not a man who travelled much, but when he did, he had beenaccustomed to take her along. On one occasion recently a localaldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia- a junketthat was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited. "Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face was aslight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always worea silk hat of most imposing proportions. "We can have a good time."His left eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. "You want tocome along, George." The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife. "I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days." "Where?" she asked, looking up. "To Philadelphia, on business." She looked at him consciously, expecting something else. "I'll have to leave you behind this time." "All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinkingthat it was a curious thing. Before he went she asked him a few morequestions, and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was adisagreeable attachment. On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was overhe was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a prevaricator, andhated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The wholeincident was glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs. Hurstwoodgave the subject considerable thought. She drove out more, dressedbetter, and attended theatres freely to make up for it. Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of homelife. It ran along by force of habit, by force of conventionalopinion. With the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer anddryer- must eventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed. Chapter X. THE COUNSEL OF WINTER: FORTUNE'S AMBASSADOR CALLS In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties,the nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration. Actionssuch as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses aconventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men shouldbe good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed? For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modernnaturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception ofmorals. There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a lawof evolution. It is yet deeper than conformity to things of earthalone. It is more involved than we, as yet, perceive. Answer, first,why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some plaintive note goeswandering about the world, undying; make clear the rose's subtlealchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light and rain. In the essence ofthese facts lie the first principles of morals. "Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest." "Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I havelost?" Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals- the trueanswer to what is right. In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie wascomfortably established- in the eyes of the starveling, beaten byevery wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour.Drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden Place, facingUnion Park, on the West Side. That was a little, green-carpetedbreathing spot, than which, to-day, there is nothing more beautiful inChicago. It afforded a vista pleasant to contemplate. The best roomlooked out upon the lawn of the park, now sear and brown, where alittle lake lay sheltered. Over the bare limbs of the trees, which nowswayed in the wintry wind, rose the steeple of the Union ParkCongregational Church, and far off the towers of several others. The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a goodBrussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, andrepresenting large jardinieres filled with gorgeous, impossibleflowers. There was a large pier-glass mirror between the twowindows. A large, soft, green, plush-covered couch occupied onecorner, and several rocking-chairs were set about. Some pictures,several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-a-brac, and the tale ofcontents is told. In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought byDrouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array ofclothing- more than she had ever possessed before, and of verybecoming designs. There was a third room for possible use as akitchen, where Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas stovefor the preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rarebits, and thelike, of which he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. The wholeplace was cosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnaceregisters, possessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, amethod of cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. Byher industry and natural love of order, which now developed, the placemaintained an air pleasing in the extreme. Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free ofcertain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden withmany new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turnedabout in all of her earthly relationships that she might well havebeen a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and sawa prettier Carrie than she had seen before; she looked into hermind, a mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw aworse. Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which tobelieve. "My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to her. She would look at him with large, pleased eyes. "You know it, don't you?" he would continue. "Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the factthat one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she reallydid, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself. Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise.There she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded,excused. It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its lastanalysis. It was only an average little conscience, a thing whichrepresented the world, her past environment, habit, convention, in aconfused way. With it, the voice of the people was truly the voiceof God. "Oh, thou failure!" said the voice. "Why?" she questioned. "Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those whoare good. How would they scorn to do what you have done. Look at thegood girls; how will they draw away from such as you when they knowyou have been weak. You had not tried before you failed." It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, thatshe would be listening to this. It would come infrequently- whensomething else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not tooapparent, when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear inutterance at first, but never wholly convincing. There was always ananswer, always the December days threatened. She was alone; she wasdesireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of wantmade answer for her. Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on thatsombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours duringthe long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky and itsstreets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees andwind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity ofcolour. There seems to be something in the chill breezes whichscurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares productive of ruefulthoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, nor that superior order ofmind which arrogates to itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs andall men. These feel as much as the poet, though they have not the samepower of expression. The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in thedoorway, the dray horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keenbreaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of all life, animate andinanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, therush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; ifthe various merchants failed to make the customary display withinand without their establishments; if our streets were not strungwith signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers,we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter laysupon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sunwithholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We aremore dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are insectsproduced by heat, and pass without it. In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassertitself, feebly and more feebly. Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by anymeans a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm holdupon a definite truth. When she could not find her way out of thelabyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, shewould turn away entirely. Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way forone of his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her,and when he travelled took her with him. There were times when shewould be alone for two or three days, while he made the shortercircuits of his business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him. "Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had soestablished themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to comeout some day and spend the evening with us." "Who is he?" asked Carrie, doubtfully. "Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's." "What's that?" said Carrie. "The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place." Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told him,what her attitude would be. "That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn'tknow anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now." There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightlyinconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the keenestsensibilities. "Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the volublepromises he had made. "Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal ofmine closed up." He was referring to some property which he said he had, and whichrequired so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehowor other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions. "Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'lldo it." Carrie accepted this as basis for hope- it was a sort of salve toher conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances, thingswould be righted. Her actions would be justified. She really was not enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than he.In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. If it hadnot been for this, if she had not been able to measure and judge himin a way, she would have been worse off than she was. She would haveadored him. She would have been utterly wretched in her fear of notgaining his affection, of losing his interest, of being swept away andleft without an anchorage. As it was, she wavered a little, slightlyanxious, at first, to gain him completely, but later feeling at easein waiting. She was not exactly sure what she thought of him- what shewanted to do. When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than Drouetin a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to women whichevery member of the sex appreciates. He was not overawed, he was notoverbold. His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning thosebirds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants andprofessionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tactwhen endeavouring to prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In apretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found hisgreatest incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving theimpression that he wished to be of service only- to do something whichwould make the lady more pleased. Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worththe candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polishwhich Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life,too assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in theart of love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightlyexperienced and possessed innate refinement. In the case of Carriehe found a woman who was all of the latter, but none of the former. Hewas lucky in the fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as itwere. A few years later, with a little more experience, theslightest tide of success, and he had not been able to approach Carrieat all. "You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling atCarrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could play." Drouet had not thought of that. "So we ought," he observed readily. "Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie. "It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood. "You could do verywell in a few weeks." He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clotheswere particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapels stoodout with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. Thevest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a double row of roundmother-of-pearl buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination ofsilken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous. What he wore did notstrike the eye so forcibly as that which Drouet had on, but Carriecould see the elegance of the material. Hurstwood's shoes were ofsoft, black calf, polished only to a dull shine. Drouet wore patentleather, but Carrie could not help feeling that there was adistinction in favour of the soft leather, where all else was so rich.She noticed these things almost unconsciously. They were thingswhich would naturally flow from the situation. She was used toDrouet's appearance. "Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood,after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous inavoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything ofCarrie's past. He kept away from personalities altogether, andconfined himself to those things which did not concern individualsat all. By his manner, he put Carrie at her ease, and by his deferenceand pleasantries he amused her. He pretended to be seriouslyinterested in all she said. "I don't know how to play," said Carrie. "Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed toDrouet most affably. "Between us, though," he went on, "we can showyou." By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice. Therewas something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to bethere. Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. It gavehim more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a new light,under Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably. "Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shouldervery deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment."That's rather good," he said. "You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband. Youtake my advice." "Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, Iwon't stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp." "No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she win?" Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. Theformer took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoyhimself. Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more. "There," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and givingCarrie a chance to take a trick. "I count that clever playing for abeginner." The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way.It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her. He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mildlight in his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save geniality andkindness. He took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced itwith one of innocence. Carrie could not guess but that it was pleasurewith him in the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she wasdoing a great deal. "It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something," hesaid after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocketof his coat. "Let's play for dimes." "All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills. Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces."Here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little stack. "Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie. "It's bad." "No," said Drouet, "only fun. If you never play for more thanthat, you will go to Heaven." "Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, "until yousee what becomes of the money." Drouet smiled. "If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is." Drouet laughed loud. There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, theinsinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of it. "When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet. "On Wednesday," he replied. "It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that,isn't it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie. "She's going along with me this time," said Drouet. "You must both go with me to the theatre before you go." "Certainly," said Drouet, "Eh, Carrie?" "I'd like it ever so much," she replied. Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He rejoicedin her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered andput them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which heserved the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going. "Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with hiseyes, "you must be ready at 7:30. I'll come and get you." They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, itsred lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow. "Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship,"when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around alittle. It will break up her loneliness." "Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown. "You're so kind," observed Carrie. "Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your husband to do asmuch for me." He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly impressed.She had never come in contact with such grace. As for Drouet, he wasequally pleased. "There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as they returned totheir cosey chamber. "A good friend of mine, too." "He seems to be," said Carrie. Chapter XI. THE PERSUASION OF FASHION: FEELING GUARDS O'ER ITS OWN Carrie was an apt student of fortune's ways- of fortune'ssuperficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set toinquiring how she would look, properly related to it. Be it known thatthis is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are notso afflicted; and, on the contrary the lowest order of mind is notso disturbed. Fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoketenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came within earshotof their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. The voice ofthe so-called inanimate! Who shall translate for us the language ofthe stones? "My dear," said the lace collar she secured from Partridge's, "I fityou beautifully; don't give me up." "Ah, such little feet," said the leather of the soft new shoes; "howeffectively I cover them. What a pity they should ever want my aid." Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dreamof giving them up; the method by which they came might intrudeitself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it,but she would not give them up. "Put on the old clothes- that tornpair of shoes," was called to her by her conscience in vain. She couldpossibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; thethought of hard work and a narrow round of suffering would, underthe last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil herappearance?- be old-clothed and poor-appearing?- never! Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in sucha manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is soeasy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what wedesire. In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. Helooked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full value. Under thecircumstances, she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do.She picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. Drouet had ahabit, characteristic of his kind, of looking after stylishlydressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. Hehad just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge-not of intellect, but of clothes. He saw how they set their littlefeet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity theyswung their bodies. A dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips bya woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper.He would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his eyes. Hewould thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him.He loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. At this,their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee. "Did you see that woman who went by just now?" he said to Carrieon the first day they took a walk together. "Fine stepper, wasn'tshe?" Carrie looked, and observed the grace commended. "Yes, she is," she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion ofpossible defect in herself awakening in her mind. If that was so fine,she must look at it more closely. Instinctively, she felt a desireto imitate it. Surely she could do that too. When one of her mind sees many things emphasized and reemphasizedand admired, she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly.Drouet was not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. Hecould not see that it would be better to make her feel that she wascompeting with herself, not others better than herself. He would nothave done it with an older, wiser woman, but in Carrie he saw only thenovice. Less clever than she, he was naturally unable to comprehendher sensibility. He went on educating and wounding her, a thing ratherfoolish in one whose admiration for his pupil and victim was apt togrow. Carrie took the instructions affably. She saw what Drouet liked;in a vague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's opinionof a man when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly andgenerously distributed. She sees but one object of supremecompliment in this world, and that is herself. If a man is tosucceed with many women, he must be all in all to each. In her own apartments Carrie saw things which were lessons in thesame school. In the same house with her lived an official of one of the theatres,Mr. Frank A. Hale, manager of the Standard, and his wife, apleasing-looking brunette of thirty-five. They were people of a sortvery common in America today, who live respectably from hand to mouth.Hale received a salary of forty-five dollars a week. His wife, quiteattractive, affected the feeling of youth, and objected to that sortof home life which means the care of a house and the raising of afamily. Like Drouet and Carrie, they also occupied three rooms onthe floor above. Not long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relationswith her, and together they went about. For a long time this was heronly companionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife formed themedium through which she saw the world. Such trivialities, suchpraises of wealth, such conventional expression of morals as siftedthrough this passive creature's mind, fell upon Carrie and for thewhile confused her. On the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence. Theconstant drag to something better was not to be denied. By thosethings which address the heart was she steadily recalled. In theapartments across the hall were a young girl and her mother. They werefrom Evansville, Indiana, the wife and daughter of a railroadtreasurer. The daughter was here to study music, the mother to keepher company. Carrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughtercoming in and going out. A few times she had seen her at the pianoin the parlour, and not infrequently had heard her play. This youngwoman was particularly dressy for her station, and wore a jewelledring or two which flashed upon her white fingers as she played. Now Carrie was affected by music. Her nervous compositionresponded to certain strains, much as certain strings of a harpvibrate when a corresponding key of a piano is struck. She wasdelicately moulded in sentiment, and answered with vague ruminationsto certain wistful chords. They awoke longings for those thingswhich she did not have. They caused her to cling closer to thingsshe possessed. One short song the young lady played in a mostsoulful and tender mood. Carrie heard it through the open door fromthe parlour below. It was at that hour between afternoon and nightwhen, for the idle, the wanderer, things are apt to take on awistful aspect. The mind wanders forth on far journeys and returnswith sheaves of withered and departed joys. Carrie sat at her windowlooking out. Drouet had been away since ten in the morning. She hadamused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M. Clay which Drouethad left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and bychanging her dress for the evening. Now she sat looking out across thepark as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety andlife can be under such circumstances. As she contemplated her newstate, the strain from the parlour below stole upward. With it herthoughts became coloured and enmeshed. She reverted to the thingswhich were best and saddest within the small limit of herexperience. She became for the moment a repentant. While she was in this mood Drouet came in, bringing with him anentirely different atmosphere. It was dusk and Carrie had neglected tolight the lamp. The fire in the grate, too, had burned low. "Where are you, Cad?" he said, using a pet name he had given her. "Here," she answered. There was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he couldnot hear it. He had not the poetry in him that would seek a womanout under such circumstances and console her for the tragedy oflife. Instead, he struck a match and lighted the gas. "Hello," he exclaimed, "you've been crying." Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears. "Pshaw," he said, "you don't want to do that." He took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it wasprobably lack of his presence which had made her lonely. "Come on, now," he went on; "it's all right. Let's waltz a little tothat music." He could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. It madeclear to Carrie that he could not sympathise with her. She could nothave framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or madeclear the difference between them, but she felt it. It was his firstgreat mistake. What Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out eveningsaccompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive the nature andvalue of those little modish ways which women adopt when they wouldpresume to be something. She looked in the mirror and pursed up herlips, accompanying it with a little toss of the head, as she hadseen the railroad treasurer's daughter do. She caught up her skirtswith an easy swing, for had not Drouet remarked that in her andseveral others, and Carrie was naturally imitative. She began to getthe hang of those little things which the pretty woman who hasvanity invariably adopts. In short, her knowledge of grace doubled,and with it her appearance changed. She became a girl ofconsiderable taste. Drouet noticed this. He saw the new bow in her hair and the newway of arranging her locks which she affected one morning. "You look fine that way, Cad," he said. "Do I?" she replied, sweetly. It made her try for other effects thatselfsame day. She used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about byher attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's gracefulcarriage. How much influence the presence of that young woman in thesame house had upon her it would be difficult to say. But, becauseof all these things, when Hurstwood called he had found a youngwoman who was much more than the Carrie to whom Drouet had firstspoken. The primary defects of dress and manner had passed. She waspretty, graceful, rich in the timidity born of uncertainty, and with asomething childlike in her large eyes which captured the fancy of thisstarched and conventional poser among men. It was the ancientattraction of the fresh for the stale. If there was a touch ofappreciation left in him for the bloom and unsophistication which isthe charm of youth, it rekindled now. He looked into her pretty faceand felt the subtle waves of young life radiating therefrom. In thatlarge clear eye he could see nothing that his blase nature couldunderstand as guile. The little vanity, if he could have perceivedit there, would have touched him as a pleasant thing. "I wonder," he said, as he rode away in his cab, "how Drouet came towin her." He gave her credit for feelings superior to Drouet at the firstglance. The cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps oneither hand. He folded his gloved hands and saw only the lightedchamber and Carrie's face. He was pondering over the delight ofyouthful beauty. "I'll have a bouquet for her," he thought. "Drouet won't mind." He never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction forhimself. He troubled himself not at all about Drouet's priority. Hewas merely floating those gossamer threads of thought which, likethe spider's, he hoped would lay hold somewhere. He did not know, hecould not guess, what the result would be. A few weeks later Drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered oneof his well-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return from ashort trip to Omaha. He had intended to hurry out to Ogden Place andsurprise Carrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversationand soon modified his original intention. "Let's go to dinner," he said, little recking any chance meetingwhich might trouble his way. "Certainly," said his companion. They visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. It wasfive in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty before thelast bone was picked. Drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and hisface was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught hisown. The latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing Drouetand some woman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion. "Ah, the rascal," he thought, and then, with a touch of righteoussympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl." Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caughtHurstwood's eye. He felt but very little misgiving, until he sawthat Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see. Then some ofthe latter's impression forced itself upon him. He thought of Carrieand their last meeting. By George, he would have to explain this toHurstwood. Such a chance half-hour with an old friend must not haveanything more attached to it than it really warranted. For the first time he was troubled. Here was a moral complication ofwhich he could not possibly get the ends. Hurstwood would laugh at himfor being a fickle boy. He would laugh with Hurstwood. Carrie wouldnever hear, his present companion at table would never know, and yethe could not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it- therewas some faint stigma attached, and he was not guilty. He broke up thedinner by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car. Then hewent home. "He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames," thoughtHurstwood to himself. "He thinks I think he cares for the girl outthere." "He ought not to think I'm knocking around, since I have justintroduced him out there," thought Drouet. "I saw you," Hurstwood said, genially, the next time Drouetdrifted in to his polished resort, from which he could not stayaway. He raised his forefinger indicatively, as parents do tochildren. "An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming upfrom the station," explained Drouet. "She used to be quite a beauty." "Still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting tojest. "Oh, no," said Drouet, "just couldn't escape her this time." "How long are you here?" asked Hurstwood. "Only a few days." "You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me," he said."I'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there. I'll get a box for JoeJefferson." "Not me," answered the drummer. "Sure I'll come." This pleased Hurstwood immensely. He gave Drouet no credit for anyfeelings toward Carrie whatever. He envied him, and now, as helooked at the well-dressed, jolly salesman, whom he so much liked, thegleam of the rival glowed in his eye. He began to "size up" Drouetfrom the standpoints of wit and fascination. He began to look to seewhere he was weak. There was no disputing that, whatever he mightthink of him as a good fellow, he felt a certain amount of contemptfor him as a lover. He could hood-wink him all right. Why, if he wouldjust let Carrie see one such little incident as that of Thursday, itwould settle the matter. He ran on in thought, almost exulting, thewhile he laughed and chatted, and Drouet felt nothing. He had no powerof analysing the glance and the atmosphere of a man like Hurstwood. Hestood and smiled and accepted the invitation while his friend examinedhim with the eye of a hawk. The object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking ofeither. She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newerconditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs fromeither quarter. One evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the glass. "Cad," said he, catching her, "I believe you're getting vain." "Nothing of the kind," she returned, smiling. "Well, you're mighty pretty," he went on, slipping his arm aroundher. "Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I'll take you to theshow." "Oh, I've promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Expositionto-night," she returned, apologetically. "You did, eh?" he said, studying the situation abstractedly. "Iwouldn't care to go to that myself." "Well, I don't know," answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering tobreak her promise in his favour. Just then a knock came at their door and the maid-serveant handeda letter in. "He says there's an answer expected," she explained. "It's from Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the superscription ashe tore it open. "You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me tonight," it ranin part. "It's my turn, as we agreed the other day. All other bets areoff." "Well, what do you say to this?" asked Drouet, innocently, whileCarrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies. "You had better decide, Charlie," she said, reservedly. "I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagementupstairs," said Drouet. "Oh, I can," returned Carrie without thinking. Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress.She hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed toher most. "Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?" she asked, as she cameout with several articles of apparel pending. "Sure," he returned, pleasantly. She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit herwillingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemedthat the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself was moreagreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayedherself most carefully and they started off, extending excusesupstairs. "I say," said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, "weare exceedingly charming this evening." Carrie fluttered under his approving glance. "Now, then," he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre. If ever there was dressiness it was here. It was the personificationof the old term spick and span. "Did you ever see Jefferson?" he questioned, as he leaned towardCarrie in the box. "I never did," she returned. "He's delightful, delightful," he went on, giving the commonplacerendition of approval which such men know. He sent Drouet after aprogramme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson as hehad heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and wasreally hypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, theelegance of her companion. Several times their eyes accidentallymet, and then there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as shehad never before experienced. She could not for the moment explain it,for in the next glance or the next move of the hand there wasseeming indifference, mingled only with the kindest attention. Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull incomparison. Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driveninto Carrie's mind that here was the superior man. She instinctivelyfelt that he was stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. By theend of the third act she was sure that Drouet was only a kindlysoul, but otherwise defective. He sank every moment in herestimation by the strong comparison. "I have had such a nice time," said Carrie, when it was all over andthey were coming out. "Yes, indeed," added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that abattle had been fought and his defences weakened. He was like theEmperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that hisfairest provinces were being wrested from him. "Well, you have saved me a dreary evening," returned Hurstwood."Good-night." He took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept fromone to the other. "I'm so tired," said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouetbegan to talk. "Well, you rest a little while I smoke," he said, rising, and thenhe foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the gameas it stood. Chapter XII. OF THE LAMPS OF THE MANSIONS: THE AMBASSADOR'S PLEA Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moraldefections, though she might readily have suspected his tendencies,which she well understood. She was a woman upon whose action underprovocation you could never count. Hurstwood, for one, had not theslightest idea of what she would do under certain circumstances. Hehad never seen her thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a womanwho would fly into a passion. She had too little faith in mankindnot to know that they were erring. She was too calculating tojeopardise any advantage she might gain in the way of information byfruitless clamour. Her wrath would never wreak itself in one fellblow. She would wait and brood, studying the details and adding tothem until her power might be commensurate with her desire forrevenge. At the same time, she would not delay to inflict anyinjury, big or little, which would wound the object of her revenge andstill leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. She was acold, self-centered woman, with many a thought of her own whichnever found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye. Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did notactually perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace and somesatisfaction. He did not fear her in the least- there was no cause forit. She still took a faint pride in him, which was augmented by herdesire to have her social integrity maintained. She was secretlysomewhat pleased by the fact that much of her husband's property wasin her name, a precaution which Hurstwood had taken when his homeinterests were somewhat more alluring than at present. His wife hadnot the slightest reason to feel that anything would ever go amisswith their household, and yet the shadows which run before gave hera thought of the good of it now and then. She was in a position tobecome refractory with considerable advantage, and Hurstwood conductedhimself circumspectly because he felt that he could not be sure ofanything once she became dissatisfied. It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, andDrouet were in the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the sixthrow of the parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael, the thirdpartner of a wholesale drygoods house of that city. Hurstwood didnot see his son, for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible,leaving himself just partially visible, when he bent forward, to thosewithin the first six rows in question. It was his wont to sit this wayin every theatre- to make his personality as inconspicuous as possiblewhere it would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise. He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conductbeing misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about himand counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity. The next morning at breakfast his son said: "I saw you, Governor, last night." "Were you at McVickar's?" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in theworld. "Yes," said young George. "Who with?" "Miss Carmichael." Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, butcould not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than acasual look into the theatre which was referred to. "How was the play?" she inquired. "Very good," returned Hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing, 'RipVan Winkle'." "Whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed indifference. "Charlie Drouet and his wife. They are friends of Moy's, visitinghere." Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure asthis would ordinarily create no difficulty. His wife took it forgranted that his situation called for certain social movements inwhich she might not be included. But of late he had pleaded officeduty on several occasions when his wife asked for his company to anyevening entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening inquestion only the morning before. "I thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very carefully. "So I was," he exclaimed. "I couldn't help the interruption, but Imade up for it afterward by working until two." This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was aresidue of opinion which was not satisfactory. There was no time atwhich the claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorilypushed. For years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonialdevotion, and found her company dull. Now that a new light shoneupon the horizon, this older luminary paled in the west. He wassatisfied to turn his face away entirely, and any call to look backwas irksome. She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anythingless than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship,though the spirit might be wanting. "We are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few dayslater. "I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr. Phillips andhis wife. They're stopping at the Tremont, and we're going to showthem around a little." After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though thePhillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance couldmake them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry whenhe left the house. "I'll put a stop to this," he thought. "I'm not going to be botheredfooling around with visitors when I have work to do." Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similarproposition, only it was to a matinee this time. "My dear," he returned, "I haven't time. I'm too busy." "You find time to go with other people, though," she replied, withconsiderable irritation. "Nothing of the kind," he answered. "I can't avoid businessrelations, and that's all there is to it." "Well, never mind," she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feelingof mutual antagonism was increased. On the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew inan almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under thestress of her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changedeffectively. She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeksemancipation. The glow of a more showy life was not lost upon her. Shedid not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter ofdesire. Mrs. Hale's extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth andposition taught her to distinguish between degrees of wealth. Mrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it wasfine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and lawnswhich she could not afford. On the North Side had been erected anumber of elegant mansions along what is now known as the NorthShore Drive. The present lake wall of stone and granitoid was not thenin place, but the road had been well laid out, the intermediate spacesof lawn were lovely to look upon, and the houses were thoroughly newand imposing. When the winter season had passed and the first finedays of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for anafternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first through Lincoln Park andon far out towards Evanston, turning back at four and arriving atthe north end of the Shore Drive at about five o'clock. At this timeof year the days are still comparatively short, and the shadows of theevening were beginning to settle down upon the great city. Lampswere beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which seems almostwatery and translucent to the eye. There was a softness in the airwhich speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh as wellas to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely day. She wasripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they drove alongthe smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. She saw one stopand the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman whoseemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure.Across the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lampsfaintly glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now atable, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to heras almost nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had hadof fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imaginedthat across these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed andcrystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained anddesigned panes of glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire.She was perfectly certain that here was happiness. If she could butstroll up yon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to herwas of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury topossession and command- oh! how quickly would sadness flee; how, in aninstant, would the heartache end. She gazed and gazed, wondering,delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of theunrestful was whispering in her ear. "If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly, "howdelightful it would be." "And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy." She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapelessfox. "I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard,though, to take their misery in a mansion." When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparativeinsignificance. She was not so dull but that she could perceive theywere but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnishedboarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she hadhad, but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doorswas still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in herears. What, after all, was Drouet? What was she? At her window, shethought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across thelamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and Ashlandavenues. She was too wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensiveto do aught but rock and sing. Some old tunes crept to her lips,and, as she sang them, her heart sank. She longed and longed andlonged. It was now for the old cottage room in Columbia City, nowthe mansion upon the Shore Drive, now the fine dress of some lady, nowthe elegance of some scene. She was sad beyond measure, and yetuncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally, it seemed as if all her statewas one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could scarce refrainfrom trembling at the lip. She hummed and hummed as the moments wentby, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy,though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be. While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servantbrought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlourasking to see Mr. and Mrs. Drouet. "I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town," thoughtCarrie. She had seen comparatively little of the manager during thewinter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing andanother, principally by the strong impression he had made. She wasquite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soonsatisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below. Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard thatDrouet was out of town. He was but slightly affected by theintelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics whichwould interest Carrie. It was surprising- the ease with which heconducted a conversation. He was like every man who has had theadvantage of practice and knows he has sympathy. He knew that Carrielistened to him pleasurably, and, without the least effort, he fellinto a train of observation which absorbed her fancy. He drew up hischair and modulated his voice to such a degree that what he saidseemed wholly confidential. He confined himself almost exclusivelyto his observation of men and pleasures. He had been here and there,he had seen this and that. Somehow he made Carrie wish to seesimilar things, and all the while kept her aware of himself. She couldnot shut out the consciousness of his individuality and presence for amoment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis ofsomething, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would draw out,with the easiest grace, her approval. Once he touched her hand foremphasis and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere whichsuffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and seemed to makeher clever. At least, she brightened under his influence until all herbest side was exhibited. She felt that she was more clever with himthan with others. At least, he seemed to find so much in her toapplaud. There was not the slightest touch of patronage. Drouet wasfull of it. There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meetingbetween them, both when Drouet was present and when he was absent,that Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense ofdifficulty. She was no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts influent order. It was always a matter of feeling with her, strong anddeep. Each time there had been no sentence of importance which shecould relate, and as for the glances and sensations, what womanwould reveal them? Such things had never been between her andDrouet. As a matter of fact, they could never be. She had beendominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces of relief whichDrouet represented at an opportune moment when she yielded to him. Nowshe was persuaded by secret current feelings which Drouet had neverunderstood. Hurstwood's glance was as effective as the spoken words ofa lover, and more. They called for no immediate decision, and couldnot be answered. People in general attach too much importance to words. They areunder the illusion that talking effects great results. As a matterof fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all theargument. They but dimly represent the great surging feelings anddesires which lie behind. When the distraction of the tongue isremoved, the heart listens. In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voicesof the things which he represented. How suave was the counsel of hisappearance! How feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! Thegrowing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand.She did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; shedid not need to worry over what other people would say- what sheherself would say- because it had no tangibility. She was beingpleaded with, persuaded, led into denying old rights and assumingnew ones, and yet there were no words to prove it. Such conversationas was indulged in held the same relationship to the actual mentalenactments of the twain that the low music of the orchestra does tothe dramatic incident which it is used to cover. "Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the NorthSide?" asked Hurstwood. "Why, I was just over there this afternoon- Mrs. Hale and I.Aren't they beautiful?" "They're very fine," he answered. "Oh, me," said Carrie, pensively. "I wish I could live in such aplace." "You're not happy," said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause. He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. Heassumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance tosay a word in his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued hissteady gaze. He felt the critical character of the period. Sheendeavoured to stir, but it was useless. The whole strength of a man'snature was working. He had good cause to urge him on. He looked andlooked, and the longer the situation lasted the more difficult itbecame. The little shop-girl was getting into deep water. She wasletting her few supports float away from her. "Oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that." "I can't help it," he answered. She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving himstrength. "You are not satisfied with life, are you?" "No," she answered, weakly. He saw he was the master of the situation- he felt it. He reachedover and touched her hand. "You mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up. "I didn't intend to," he answered, easily. She did not run away, as she might have done. She did notterminate the interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field ofthought with the readiest grace. Not long after he rose to go, and shefelt that he was in power. "You mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will straighten outin the course of time." She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say. "We are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand. "Yes," she answered. "Not a word, then, until I see you again." He retained a hold on her hand. "I can't promise," she said, doubtfully. "You must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple waythat she was touched. "Let's not talk about it any more," she returned. "All right," he said, brightening. He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the doorand ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before themirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recentlybought. "I'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feelingof trouble and shame. "I don't seem to do anything right." She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brownwaves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening. "I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do." "Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right;that I know." The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to hisoffice an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years. Chapter XIII. HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED: A BABEL OF TONGUES It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie andHurstwood in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in hisappearance. He had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. Herleniency had, in a way, inflamed his regard. He felt that he mustsucceed with her, and that speedily. The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper thanmere desire. It was a flowering out of feelings which had beenwithering in dry and almost barren soil for many years. It is probablethat Carrie represented a better order of woman than had everattracted him before. He had had no love affair since that whichculminated in his marriage, and since then time and the world hadtaught him how raw and erroneous was his original judgment. Wheneverhe thought of it, he told himself that, if he had it to do over again,he would never marry such a woman. At the same time, his experiencewith women in general had lessened his respect for the sex. Hemaintained a cynical attitude, well grounded on numerousexperiences. Such women as he had known were of nearly one type,selfish, ignorant, flashy. The wives of his friends were not inspiringto look upon. His own wife had developed a cold, commonplace naturewhich to him was anything but pleasing. What he knew of thatunder-world where grovel the beast-men of society (and he knew a greatdeal) had hardened his nature. He looked upon most women withsuspicion- a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. Hefollowed them with a keen, suggestive glance. At the same time, he wasnot so dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. Personally,he did not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. Hewould take off his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and thevicious in her presence- much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery hallwill humble himself before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll tocharity with a willing and reverent hand. But he would not thinkmuch upon the question of why he did so. A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless orhardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul,is apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness,or to draw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery.It is only by a roundabout process that such men ever do draw nearsuch a girl. They have no method, no understanding of how toingratiate themselves in youthful favour, save when they find virtuein the toils. If, unfortunately, the fly has got caught in the net,the spider can come forth and talk business upon its own terms. Sowhen maidenhood has wandered into the moil of the city, when it isbrought within the circle of the "rounder" and the roue, even thoughit be at the outermost rim, they can come forth and use their alluringarts. Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage offine clothes and pretty features. He entered, expecting to indulgein an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomerforever. Instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attractedhim. In the mild light of Carrie's eye was nothing of thecalculation of the mistress. In the diffident manner was nothing ofthe art of the courtesan. He saw at once that a mistake had been made,that some difficult conditions had pushed this troubled creatureinto his presence, and his interest was enlisted. Here sympathy sprangto the rescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness. He wanted towin Carrie because he thought her fate mingled with his was betterthan if it were united with Drouet's. He envied the drummer hisconquest as he had never envied any man in all the course of hisexperience. Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior,mentally, to Drouet. She came fresh from the air of the village, thelight of the country still in her eye. Here was neither guile norrapacity. There were slight inherited traits of both in her, butthey were rudimentary. She was too full of wonder and desire to begreedy. She still looked about her upon the great maze of the citywithout understanding. Hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth. Hepicked her as he would the fresh fruit of a tree. He felt as freshin her presence as one who is taken out of the flash of summer tothe first cool breath of spring. Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no onewith whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mentalconclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up. Sheowed something to Drouet, she thought. It did not seem more thanyesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed.She had the kindliest feelings for him in every way. She gave himcredit for his good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact,failed to recollect his egotism when he was absent; but she couldnot feel any binding influence keeping her for him as against allothers. In fact, such a thought had never had any grounding, even inDrouet's desires. The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of allenduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy.He went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affectionfollowed tenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchanginglyfor his pleasure. When he missed some old face, or found some doorfinally shut to him, it did not grieve him deeply. He was too young,too successful. He would remain thus young in spirit until he wasdead. As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerningCarrie. He had no definite plans regarding her, but he wasdetermined to make her confess an affection for him. He thought he sawin her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, thesymptoms of a budding passion. He wanted to stand near her and makeher lay her hand in his- he wanted to find out what her next stepwould be- what the next sign of feeling for him would be. Such anxietyand enthusiasm had not affected him for years. He was a youth again infeeling- a cavalier in action. In his position opportunity for taking his evenings out wasexcellent. He was a most faithful worker in general, and a man whocommanded the confidence of his employers in so far as thedistribution of his time was concerned. He could take such hours offas he chose, for it was well known that he fulfilled his managerialduties successfully, whatever time he might take. His grace, tact, andornate appearance gave the place an air which was most essential,while at the same time his long experience made him a most excellentjudge of its stock necessities. Bartenders and assistants might comeand go, singly or in groups, but, so long as he was present, thehost of old-time customers would barely notice the change. He gave theplace the atmosphere to which they were used. Consequently, hearranged his hours very much to suit himself, taking now an afternoon,now an evening, but invariably returning between eleven and twelveto witness the last hour or two of the day's business and look afterthe closing details. "You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when yougo home, George," Moy had once remarked to him, and he never once,in all the period of his long service, neglected to do this. Neitherof the owners had for years been in the resort after five in theafternoon, and yet their manager as faithfully fulfilled thisrequest as if they had been there regularly to observe. On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previousvisit, he made up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay awaylonger. "Evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any onecalls, I will be back between four and five." He hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, whichcarried him to Ogden Place in half an hour. Carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a lightgrey woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. She had outher hat and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about herthroat when the housemaid brought up the information that Mr.Hurstwood wished to see her. She started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to saythat she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten herdressing. Carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she wasglad or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her presence.She was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks, but it wasmore nervousness than either fear or favour. She did not try toconjecture what the drift of the conversation would be. She onlyfelt that she must be careful, and that Hurstwood had an indefinablefascination for her. Then she gave her tie its last touch with herfingers and went below. The deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the nervesby the thorough consciousness of his mission. He felt that he mustmake a strong play on this occasion, but now that the hour was come,and he heard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his nerve failed him. Hesank a little in determination, for he was not so sure, after all,what her opinion might be. When she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him courage.She looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the daring ofany lover. Her apparent nervousness dispelled his own. "How are you?" he said, easily. "I could not resist the temptationto come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant." "Yes," said Carrie, halting before him, "I was just preparing togo for a walk myself." "Oh, were you?" he said. "Supposing, then, you get your hat and weboth go?" They crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard,beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame housesset back from the sidewalks. It was a street where many of the moreprosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood could nothelp feeling nervous over the publicity of it. They had gone but a fewblocks when a livery stable sign in one of the side streets solved thedifficulty for him. He would take her to drive along the newBoulevard. The Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road.The part he intended showing her was much farther out on this sameWest Side, where there was scarcely a house. It connected Douglas Parkwith Washington or South Park, and was nothing more than a neatly maderoad, running due south for some five miles over an open, grassyprairie, and then due east over the same kind of prairie for thesame distance. There was not a house to be encountered anywherealong the larger part of the route, and any conversation would bepleasantly free of interruption. At the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out ofrange of either public observation or hearing. "Can you drive?" he said, after a time. "I never tried," said Carrie. He put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms. "You see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly. "Not when you have a gentle horse," said Carrie. "You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a littlepractice," he added, encouragingly. He had been looking for some time for a break in the conversationwhen he could give it a serious turn. Once or twice he had held hispeace, hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the colour ofhis own, but she had lightly continued the subject. Presently,however, his silence controlled the situation. The drift of histhoughts began to tell. He gazed fixedly at nothing in particular,as if he were thinking of something which concerned her not at all.His thoughts, however, spoke for themselves. She was very much awarethat a climax was pending. "Do you know," he said, "I have spent the happiest evenings in yearssince I have known you?" "Have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited bythe conviction which the tone of his voice carried. "I was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "butsomehow the opportunity slipped away." Carrie was listening without attempting to reply. She could think ofnothing worth while to say. Despite all the ideas concerning rightwhich had troubled her vaguely since she had last seen him, she wasnow influenced again strongly in his favour. "I came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you justhow I feel- to see if you wouldn't listen to me." Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. He wascapable of strong feelings- often poetic ones- and under a stress ofdesire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent. That is, hisfeelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repressionand pathos which is the essence of eloquence. "You know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping astrange silence while he formulated words, "that I love you?" Carrie did not stir at the words. She was bound up completely in theman's atmosphere. He would have church-like silence in order toexpress his feelings, and she kept it. She did not move her eyesfrom the flat, open scene before her. Hurstwood waited for a fewmoments, and then repeated the words. "You must not say that," she said, weakly. Her words were not convincing at all. They were the result of afeeble thought that something ought to be said. He paid no attentionto them whatever. "Carrie," he said, using her first name with sympatheticfamiliarity, "I want you to love me. You don't know how much I needsome one to waste a little affection on me. I am practically alone.There is nothing in my life that is pleasant or delightful. It's allwork and worry with people who are nothing to me." As he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state waspitiful. He had the ability to get off at a distance and viewhimself objectively- of seeing what he wanted to see in the thingswhich made up his existence. Now, as he spoke, his voice trembled withthat peculiar vibration which is the result of tensity. It wentringing home to his companion's heart. "Why, I should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes whichwere full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very happy.You know so much of the world." "That is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "I knowtoo much of the world." It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positionedand powerful speaking in this manner. She could not help feeling thestrangeness of her situation. How was it that, in so little a while,the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, andthe city, with all its mystery, taken its place? Here was thisgreatest mystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her,appealing to her. Behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength wasgreat, his position high, his clothing rich, and yet he wasappealing to her. She could formulate no thought which would be justand right. She troubled herself no more upon the matter. She onlybasked in the warmth of his feeling, which was as a grateful blazeto one who is cold. Hurstwood glowed with his own intensity, and theheat of his passion was already melting the wax of his companion'sscruples. "You think," he said, "I am happy; that I ought not to complain?If you were to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothingabout you, if you went day after day to a place where there wasnothing but show and indifference, if there was not one person inall those you knew to whom you could appeal for sympathy or talk towith pleasure, perhaps you would be unhappy too." He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response inher own situation. She knew what it was to meet with people who wereindifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothingabout you. Had not she? Was not she at this very moment quite alone?Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal forsympathy? Not one. She was left to herself to brood and wonder. "I could be content," went on Hurstwood, "if I had you to love me.If I had you to go to; you for a companion. As it is, I simply moveabout from place to place without any satisfaction. Time hangs heavilyon my hands. Before you came I did nothing but idle and drift intoanything that offered itself. Since you came- well, I've had you tothink about." The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid beganto grow in Carrie's mind. She truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. Tothink that all his fine state should be so barren for want of her;that he needed to make such an appeal when she herself was lonelyand without anchor. Surely, this was too bad. "I am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it toher to explain on this score. "You think, probably, that I roamaround, and get into all sorts of evil? I have been rather reckless,but I could easily come out of that. I need you to draw me back, if mylife ever amounts to anything." Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feelsin its hope of reclaiming vice. How could such a man needreclaiming? His errors, what were they, that she could correct?Small they must be, where all was so fine. At worst, they weregilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed. He put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved. "Is it that way?" she mused. He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heartto draw away. With his free hand he seized upon her fingers. Abreath of soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling somebrown twigs of the previous autumn before it. The horse pacedleisurely on, unguided. "Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me." Her eyes fell consciously. "Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?" She made no answer, but he felt his victory. "Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lipswere near together. He pressed her hand warmly, and then released itto touch her cheek. "You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own. For answer, her lips replied. "Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own girl,aren't you?" By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder. Chapter XIV. WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING: ONE INFLUENCE WANES Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physicallyand mentally. She was deeply rejoicing in her affection forHurstwood and his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to theirnext meeting Sunday night. They had agreed, without any feeling ofenforced secrecy, that she should come down town and meet him, though,after all, the need of it was the cause. Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in. "Um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man whenher husband is out of the city. He had better keep an eye on her." The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a thoughton this score. The house-maid who had welcomed Hurstwood had heropinion also. She had no particular regard for Carrie, whom she tookto be cold and disagreeable. At the same time, she had a fancy for themerry and easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark nowand then, and in other ways extended her the evidence of that regardwhich he had for all members of the sex. Hurstwood was more reservedand critical in his manner. He did not appeal to this bodicedfunctionary in the same pleasant way. She wondered that he came sofrequently, that Mrs. Drouet should go out with him this afternoonwhen Mr. Drouet was absent. She gave vent to her opinions in thekitchen where the cook was. As a result, a hum of gossip was set goingwhich moved about the house in that secret manner common to gossip. Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood toconfess her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towardshim. Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet, thinking only ofthe dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affectionfor her. On the first evening, she did little but go over thedetails of the afternoon. It was the first time her sympathies hadever been thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on hercharacter. She had some power of initiative, latent before, whichnow began to exert itself. She looked more practically upon herstate and began to see glimmerings of a way out. Hurstwood seemed adrag in the direction of honour. Her feelings were exceedinglycreditable, in that they constructed out of these recentdevelopments something which conquered freedom from dishonour. She hadno idea what Hurstwood's next word would be. She only took hisaffection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more generousresults accordingly. As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure withoutresponsibility. He did not feel that he was doing anything tocomplicate his life. His position was secure, his home-life, if notsatisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty ratheruntrammelled. Carrie's love represented only so much added pleasure.He would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowanceof pleasure. He would be happy with her and his own affairs would goon as they had, undisturbed. On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had selectedin East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to what wasthen a pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove Avenue near 39thStreet. In the process of his declaration he soon realised that Carrietook his love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. She kepthim at a distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to thosetender tokens of affection which better become the inexperiencedlover. Hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for theasking, and deferred pressing his suit too warmly. Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that hehad to carry out the part. His triumph, he saw, was still at alittle distance. How far he could not guess. They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked: "When will I see you again?" "I don't know," she answered, wondering herself. "Why not come down to The Fair," he suggested, "next Tuesday?" She shook her head. "Not so soon," she answered. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he added. "I'll write you, care ofthis West Side Post-office. Could you call next Tuesday?" Carrie assented. The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call. "Good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away. Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouetreturned. Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the nextafternoon when he saw Drouet enter. "Why, hello, Charles," he called affably; "back again?" "Yes," smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door. Hurstwood arose. "Well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?" They began talking of the people they knew and things that hadhappened. "Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood. "No, I am going, though," said Drouet. "I remembered the little girl out there," said Hurstwood, "andcalled once. Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone." "Right you are," agreed Drouet. "How is she?" "Very well," said Hurstwood. "Rather anxious about you, though.You'd better go out now and cheer her up." "I will," said Drouet, smilingly. "Like to have you both come down and go to the show with meWednesday," concluded Hurstwood at parting. "Thanks, old man," said his friend, "I'll see what the girl says andlet you know." They separated in the most cordial manner. "There's a nice fellow," Drouet thought to himself as he turnedthe corner towards Madison. "Drouet is a good fellow," Hurstwood thought to himself as he wentback into his office, "but he's no man for Carrie." The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein,and he wondered how he would get ahead of the drummer. When Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his armsas usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition. "Well," he said, "I had a great trip." "Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you weretelling me about?" "Oh, fine; sold him a complete line. There was another fellow there,representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn'tin it. I made him look like nothing at all." As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory towashing his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip.Carrie could not help listening with amusement to his animateddescriptions. "I tell you," he said, "I surprised the people at the office. I'vesold more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house onthe road. I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La Crosse." He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as herubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed upon himwith mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. He wasstill wiping his face, when he continued: "I'm going to strike for a raise in June. They can afford to pay it,as much business as I turn in. I'll get it too, don't you forget." "I hope you do," said Carrie. "And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goesthrough, we'll get married," he said with a great show of earnestness,the while he took his place before the mirror and began brushing hishair. "I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie," Carriesaid ruefully. The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given hercourage to say this. "Oh, yes I do- course I do- what put that into your head?" He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed overto her. For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move away fromhim. "But you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with herpretty face upturned into his. "Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want to.Now, when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing thingsall right, and I'll do it. Now, don't you worry, girlie." He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt howreally futile had been her hopes. She could clearly see that thiseasy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. He was simplyletting things drift because he preferred the free round of hispresent state to any legal trammellings. In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. He had no easymanner of putting her off. He sympathised with her and showed her whather true value was. He needed her, while Drouet did not care. "Oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her ownsuccess and more of her helplessness, "you never will." "Well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded. "I'll marryyou all right." Carrie looked at him and felt justified. She was looking forsomething which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light,airy disregard of her claims upon his justice. He had faithfullypromised to marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise. "Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposedof the marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants usto go to the theatre with him." Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoidnotice. "When?" she asked, with assumed indifference. "Wednesday. We'll go, won't we?" "If you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedlyreserved as to almost excite suspicion. Drouet noticed something,but he thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talkabout marriage. "He called once, he said." "Yes," said Carrie, "he was out here Sunday evening." "Was he?" said Drouet. "I thought from what he said that he hadcalled a week or so ago." "So he did," answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of whatconversation her lovers might have held. She was all at seamentally, and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from whatshe would answer. "Oh, then he called twice?" said Drouet, the first shade ofmisunderstanding showing in his face. "Yes," said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood musthave mentioned but one call. Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. He didnot attach particular importance to the information, after all. "What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increasedcuriosity. "He said he came because he thought I might be lonely. You hadn'tbeen in there so long he wondered what had become of you." "George is a fine fellow," said Drouet, rather gratified by hisconception of the manager's interest. "Come on and we'll go out todinner." When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once toCarrie, saying: "I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away. I did notsay how often, but he probably thought once. Let me know of anythingyou may have said. Answer by special messenger when you get this, and,darling, I must see you. Let me know if you can't meet me at Jacksonand Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. I want to speakwith you before we meet at the theatre." Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the WestSide branch of the post-office, and answered at once. "I said you called twice," she wrote. "He didn't seem to mind. Iwill try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes. I seem to begetting very bad. It's wrong to act as I do, I know." Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score. "You mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said. "Just as soon as he goeson the road again we will arrange something. We'll fix it so thatyou won't have to deceive any one." Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had notdirectly said so, and her spirits rose. She proposed to make thebest of the situation until Drouet left again. "Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have," Hurstwoodcounselled concerning the evening at the theatre. "You mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of thepower of his eyes. "I won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving theglance she had just cautioned against. "There," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him. "The show hasn't begun yet," he returned. He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. Such youthand prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine. At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favour. Ifhe had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he now.His grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium.Carrie watched his every movement with pleasure. She almost forgotpoor Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host. Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of achange. He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend thanusual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which alover in favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of hisheart. If anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, andwas not cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt. Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due toDrouet alone. The scene was one in "The Covenant," in which the wife listened tothe seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband. "Served him right," said Drouet afterward, even in view of herkeen expiation of her error. "I haven't any pity for a man who wouldbe such a chump as that." "Well, you never can tell," returned Hurstwood gently. "Heprobably thought he was right." "Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife ifhe wants to keep her." They had come out of the lobby and made their way through theshowy crush about the entrance way. "Say, mister," said a voice at Hurstwood's side, "would you mindgiving me the price of a bed?" Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie. "Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep." The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who lookedthe picture of privation and wretchedness. Drouet was the first tosee. He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in hisheart. Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. Carrie quickly forgot. Chapter XV. THE IRK OF THE OLD TIES: THE MAGIC OF YOUTH The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with thegrowth of his affection for Carrie. His actions, in all that relatedto his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. He sat atbreakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies,which reached far without the realm of their interests. He read hispaper, which was heightened in interest by the shallowness of thethemes discussed by his son and daughter. Between himself and his wiferan a river of indifference. Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again.There was delight in going down town evenings. When he walked forth inthe short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. He began toexperience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover'sfeet. When he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes-and her eyes were young. When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, whenthe insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stalepractice, how it grated. He then knew that this was a chain whichbound his feet. "George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which hadlong since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we wantyou to get us a season ticket to the races." "Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a risinginflection. "Yes," she answered. The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on theSouth Side, and were considered quite society affairs among thosewho did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism. Mrs.Hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before, but thisyear certain considerations decided her to get a box. For one thing,one of her neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, who werepossessors of money, made out of the coal business, had done so. Inthe next place, her favourite physician, Dr. Beale, a gentlemaninclined to horses and betting, had talked with her concerning hisintention to enter a two-year-old in the Derby. In the third place,she wished to exhibit Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty,and whom she hoped to marry to a man of means. Her own desire to beabout in such things and parade among her acquaintances and the commonthrong was as much an incentive as anything. Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments withoutanswering. They were in the sitting-room on the second floor,waiting for supper. It was the evening of his engagement with Carrieand Drouet to see "The Covenant," which had brought him home to makesome alterations in his dress. "You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked,hesitating to say anything more rugged. "No," she replied impatiently. "Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't getmad about it. I'm just asking you." "I'm not mad," she snapped. "I'm merely asking you for a seasonticket." "And I'm telling you," be returned, fixing a clear, steady eye onher, "that it's no easy thing to get. I'm not sure whether the managerwill give it to me." He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with therace-track magnates. "We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply. "You talk easy," he said. "A season family ticket costs onehundred and fifty dollars." "I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "I wantthe ticket and that's all there is to it." She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room. "Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified toneof voice. As usual, the table was one short that evening. The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later theticket was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. He did notmind giving his family a fair share of all that he earned, but hedid not like to be forced to provide against his will. "Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencersare getting ready to go away?" "No. Where, I wonder?" "Europe," said Jessica. "I met Georgine yesterday and she told me.She just put on more airs about it." "Did she say when?" "Monday, I think. They'll get a notice in the papers again- theyalways do." "Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one ofthese days." Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing. "'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed,mocking her acquaintance. "'Expect to spend most of the "summah" inFrance,'- vain thing. As if it was anything to go to Europe." "It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood. It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed. "Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day,thus revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about. "Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. He had never beforebeen kept in ignorance concerning departures. "He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight putupon her father. "What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined tothink that he should be made to pump for information in this manner. "A tennis match," said Jessica. "He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding itdifficult to refrain from a bitter tone. "I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly. In the past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect,which was a compound of appreciation and awe. The familiarity which inpart still existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. Asit was, it did not go beyond the light assumption of words. The tonewas always modest. Whatever had been, however, had lacked affection,and now he saw that he was losing track of their doings. His knowledgewas no longer intimate. He sometimes saw them at table, andsometimes did not. He heard of their doings occasionally, more oftennot. Some days he found that he was all at sea as to what they weretalking about- things they had arranged to do or that they had done inhis absence. More affecting was the feeling that there were littlethings going on of which he no longer heard. Jessica was beginningto feel that her affairs were her own. George, Jr., flourished aboutas if he were a man entirely and must needs have private matters.All this Hurstwood could see, and it left a trace of feeling, for hewas used to being considered- in his official position, at least-and felt that his importance should not begin to wane here. Todarken it all, he saw the same indifference and independence growingin his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills. He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, hewas not without affection. Things might go as they would at his house,but he had Carrie outside of it. With his mind's eye he looked intoher comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had spent several suchdelightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be whenDrouet was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings incosey little quarters for him. That no cause would come up wherebyDrouet would be led to inform Carrie concerning his married state,he felt hopeful. Things were going so smoothly that he believed theywould not change. Shortly now he would persuade Carrie and all wouldbe satisfactory. The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly-a letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. Hewas not literary by any means, but experience of the world and hisgrowing affection gave him somewhat of a style. This he exercised athis office desk with perfect deliberation. He purchased a box ofdelicately coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which hekept locked in one of the drawers. His friends now wondered at thecleric and very official-looking nature of his position. The fivebartenders viewed with respect the duties which could call a man to doso much desk-work and penmanship. Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. By the natural lawwhich governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. He beganto feel those subtleties which he could find words to express. Withevery expression came increased conception. Those inmost breathingswhich there found words took bold upon him. He thought Carrie worthyof all the affection he could there express. Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are tocommand that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom.Experience had not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit whichis the charm of the body. Her soft eyes contained in their liquidlustre no suggestion of the knowledge of disappointment. She hadbeen troubled in a way by doubt and longing, but these had made nodeeper impression than could be traced in a certain open wistfulnessof glance and speech. The mouth had the expression at times, intalking and in repose, of one who might be upon the verge of tears. Itwas not that grief was thus ever present. The pronunciation of certainsyllables gave to her lips this peculiarity of formation- aformation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself. There was nothing bold in her manner. Life had not taught herdomination- superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power ofsome women. Her longing for consideration was not sufficientlypowerful to move her to demand it. Even now she lacked self-assurance,but there was that in what she had already experienced which lefther a little less than timid. She wanted pleasure, she wantedposition, and yet she was confused as to what these things might be.Every hour the kaleidoscope of human affairs threw a new lustre uponsomething, and therewith it became for her the desired- the all.Another shift of the box, and some other had become the beautiful, theperfect. On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such anature well might be. Sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle-an uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. Shewas constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged menwho slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor.The poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings,hurrying home from some of the shops of the West Side, she pitied fromthe depths of her heart. She would stand and bite her lips as theypassed, shaking her little head and wondering. They had so little, shethought. It was so sad to be ragged and poor. The hang of fadedclothes pained her eyes. "And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment. On the street sometimes she would see men working- Irishmen withpicks, coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy aboutsome work which was a mere matter of strength- and they touched herfancy. Toil, now that she was free of it, seemed even a moredesolate thing than when she was part of it. She saw it through a mistof fancy- a pale, sombre half-light, which was the essence of poeticfeeling. Her old father, in his flour-dusted miller's suit,sometimes returned to her in memory, revived by a face in a window.A shoemaker pegging at his last, a blastman seen through a narrowwindow in some basement where iron was being melted, a bench-workerseen high aloft in some window, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up;these took her back in fancy to the details of the mill. She felt,though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts upon this score. Hersympathies were ever with that under-world of toil from which shehad so recently sprung, and which she best understood. Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whosefeelings were as tender and as delicate as this. He did not know,but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. He neverattempted to analyse the nature of his affection. It was sufficientthat there was tenderness in her eye, weakness in her manner,good-nature and hope, in her thoughts. He drew near this lily, whichhad sucked its waxen beauty and perfume from below a depth of waterswhich he had never penetrated, and out of ooze and mould which hecould not understand. He drew near because it was waxen and fresh.It lightened his feelings for him. It made the morning worth while. In a material way, she was considerably improved. Her awkwardnesshad all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which wasas pleasing as perfect grace. Her little shoes now fitted hersmartly and had high heels. She had learned much about laces and thoselittle neck-pieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. Her formhad filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded. Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in JeffersonPark, Monroe Street. He did not consider it policy to call any more,even when Drouet was at home. The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, andhad found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bushwhich bordered one of the paths. It was at that season of the yearwhen the fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. At a littlepond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvasboats. In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of thelaw was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. An oldgardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, lookingafter some bushes. High overhead was the clear blue sky of the newsummer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the treeshopped and twittered the busy sparrows. Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling muchof the same old annoyance. At his store he had idled, there being noneed to write. He had come away to this place with the lightness ofheart which characterises those who put weariness behind. Now, inthe shade of this cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancyof the lover. He heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouringstreets, but they were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. Thehum of the surrounding city was faint, the clang of an occasional bellwas as music. He looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure whichconcerned his present fixed condition not at all. He got back in fancyto the old Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solidposition for life. He remembered the light spirit in which he oncelooked after the girls- how he had danced, escorted them home, hungover their gates. He almost wished he was back there again- here inthis pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly free. At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy andclean. She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with ahand of pretty white-dotted blue silk. Her skirt was of a rich bluematerial, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin stripe of blueupon a snow-white ground- stripes that were as fine as hairs. Herbrown shoes peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. She carriedher gloves in her hand. Hurstwood looked up at her with delight. "You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her andtaking her hand. "Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?" "I didn't know," he replied. He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. Thenhe took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs andtouched her face here and there. "Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right." They were happy in being near one another- in looking into eachother's eyes. Finally, when the long flush of delight had subsided, hesaid: "When is Charlie going away again?" "I don't know," she answered. "He says he has some things to dofor the house here now." Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. Helooked up after a time to say: "Come away and leave him." He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the requestwere of little importance. "Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rollingher gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree. "Where do you want to go?" he enquired. There was something in the tone in which he said this which made herfeel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation. "We can't stay in Chicago," she replied. He had no thought that this was in her mind- that any removalwould be suggested. "Why not?" he asked softly. "Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to." He listened to this, with but dull perception of what it meant. Ithad no serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediatedecision. "I would have to give up my position," he said. The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved onlyslight consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoyingthe pretty scene. "I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said,thinking of Drouet. "It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered. "It would be as goodas moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side." He had fixed upon that region as an objective point. "Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long ashe is here. I wouldn't want to run away." The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearlythat this was her idea- he felt that it was not to be gotten overeasily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for amoment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out.He could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard.When he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing itwas to have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increasedin, value in his eyes because of her objection. She was something tostruggle for, and that was everything. How different from the womenwho yielded willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind. "And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood, quietly. She shook her head. He sighed. "You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after afew moments, looking up into her eyes. She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride atwhat seemed his admiration- affection for the man who could feelthis concerning her. "No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?" Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into thestreet. "I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. I don'tlike to be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting?You're not any happier, are you?" "Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that." "Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting ourdays. If you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write toyou the biggest part of the time. I'll tell you what, Carrie," heexclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into his voice andfixing her with his eyes, "I can't live without you, and that's allthere is to it. Now," he concluded, showing the palm of one of hiswhite hands in a sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall Ido?" This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblanceof the load without the weight touched the woman's heart. "Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "I'll tryand find out when he's going." "What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain offeeling. "Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere." She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she wasgetting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a womanyields. Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to bepersuaded- what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began towonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He wasthinking of some question which would make her tell. Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions whichoften disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding ofthe difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us away. It had not the slightest connection with anything intended on hispart, and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment'sserious thought. "Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious lookwhich he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next week, orthis week for that matter- tonight say- and tell you I had to go away-that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more-would you come with me?" His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, heranswer ready before the words were out of his mouth. "Yes," she said. "You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?" "Not if you couldn't wait." He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thoughtwhat a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week ortwo. He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brushaway her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful.He let it stand. "Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, anafterthought striking him. "If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journeyit would be all right." "I meant that," he said. "Yes." The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wonderedwhatever could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as itwas, he could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how sheloved him. There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a wayto win her. "Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of theseevenings," and then he laughed. "I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," Carrieadded reflectively. "I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand. She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him themore for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, themarriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that withsuch affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness. "Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all thelovely park. "All right," said Carrie. They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with enviouseyes. "'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "They must be rich." Chapter XVI. A WITLESS ALADDIN: THE GATE TO THE WORLD In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid someslight attention to the secret order to which he belonged. Duringhis last trip he had received a new light on its importance. "I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. Lookat Hazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a goodhouse behind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree.He's a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secretsign that stands for something." Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest insuch matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to hislocal lodge headquarters. "I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who wasvery prominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the manthat can help us out." It was after the business meeting and things were going sociallywith a hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a scoreof individuals whom he knew. "What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling faceupon his secret brother. "We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks fromto-day, and we want to know if you don't know some young lady whocould take a part- it's an easy part." "Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to rememberthat he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. Hisinnate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply. "Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr.Quincel. "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge.There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and wethought we would raise it by a little entertainment." "Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea." "Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's HarryBurbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right atheavy dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?" "Never did." "Well, I tell you, he does it fine." "And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questionedDrouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else."What are you going to play?" "'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly'sfamous production, which had worn from a great public success downto an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesomeaccessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to thesmallest possible number. Drouet had seen this play some time in the past. "That's it," he said; "that's a fine play. It will go all right. Youought to make a lot of money out of that." "We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied. "Don't youforget now," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; "someyoung woman to take the part of Laura." "Sure, I'll attend to it." He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincelhad ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place. Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receiptof a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for thefollowing Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the younglady's address at once, in order that the part might be delivered toher. "Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively,scratching his rosy ear. "I don't know any one that knows anythingabout amateur theatricals." He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, andfinally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location ofher home on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came outthat evening he would see her. When, however, he started west on thecar he forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an itemin the "Evening News"- a small three-line affair under the head ofSecret Society Notes- which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order ofElks would give a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th,when "Under the Gaslight" would be produced. "George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that." "What?" inquired Carrie. They were at their little table in the room which might have beenused for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal.To-night the fancy had caught her, and the little table was spreadwith a pleasing repast. "Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and theywanted me to get them some young lady to take a part." "What is it they're going to play?" "'Under the Gaslight.'" "When?" "On the 16th." "Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie. "I don't know any one," he replied. Suddenly he looked up. "Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?" "Me?" said Carrie. "I can't act." "How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively. "Because," answered Carrie, "I never did." Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyesbrightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathiesit was the art of the stage. True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out. "That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there." "No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward theproposition and yet fearful. "Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, andit will be lots of fun for you." "Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously. "You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing aroundhere and giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're cleverenough, all right." "No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly. "Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'llbe fun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good.They haven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?" He frowned as he thought of their ignorance. "Hand me the coffee," he added. "I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly."You don't think I could, do you?" "Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, Iknow you do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you." "What is the play, did you say?" "'Under the Gaslight.'" "What part would they want me to take?" "Oh, one of the heroines- I don't know." "What sort of a play is it?" "Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not thebest, "it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks- aman and a woman that live in the slums. She had some money orsomething and they wanted to get it. I don't know now how it did goexactly." "Don't you know what part I would have to take?" "No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment. "Yes, I do,too. Laura, that's the thing- you're to be Laura." "And you can't remember what the part is like?" "To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered. "I ought to, too; I've seenthe play enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she wasan infant- was picked off the street or something- and she's the onethat's hounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about." Hestopped with a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face."She comes very near getting drowned- no, that's not it. I'll tell youwhat I'll do," he concluded hopelessly, "I'll get you the book. Ican't remember now for the life of me." "Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, herinterest and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidityfor the mastery. "I might go if you thought I'd do all right." "Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts toenthuse Carrie, had interested himself. "Do you think I'd come homehere and urge you to do something that I didn't think you would make asuccess of? You can act all right. It'll be good for you." "When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively. "The first rehearsal is Friday night. I'll get the part for youto-night." "All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make afailure now it's your fault." "You won't fail," assured Drouet. "Just act as you do around here.Be natural. You're all right. I've often thought you'd make acorking good actress." "Did you really?" asked Carrie. "That's right," said the drummer. He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secretflame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. Carriewas possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, everin the most developed form, has been the glory of the drama. She wascreated with that passivity of soul which is always the mirror ofthe active world. She possessed an innate taste for imitation and nosmall ability. Even without practice, she could sometimes restoredramatic situations she had witnessed by re-creating, before hermirror, the expressions of the various faces taking part in the scene.She loved to modulate her voice after the conventional manner of thedistressed heroine, and repeat such pathetic fragments as appealedmost to her sympathies. Of late, seeing the airy grace of theingenue in several well-constructed plays, she had been moved tosecretly imitate it, and many were the little movements andexpressions of the body in which she indulged from time to time in theprivacy of her chamber. On several occasions, when Drouet had caughther admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror, she was doingnothing more than recalling some little grace of the mouth or the eyeswhich she had witnessed in another. Under his airy accusation shemistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with a faint sense oferror, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing more than the firstsubtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring to re-createthe perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed to her. Insuch feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of desire toreproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art. Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramaticability, her body tingled with satisfaction. Like the flame whichwelds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united thosefloating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed,concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred ofhope. Like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. She feltthat she could do things if she only had a chance. How often had shelooked at the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how shewould look, how delightful she would feel if only she were in theirplace. The glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, theapplause, these had lured her until she felt that she, too, could act-that she, too, could compel acknowledgment of power. Now she wastold that she really could- that little things she had done aboutthe house had made even him feel her power. It was a delightfulsensation while it lasted. When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by thewindow to think about it. As usual, imagination exaggerated thepossibilities for her. It was as if he had put fifty cents in her handand she had exercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. She sawherself in a score of pathetic situations in which she assumed atremulous voice and suffering manner. Her mind delighted itself withscenes of luxury and refinement, situations in which she was thecynosure of all eyes, the arbiter of all fates. As she rocked to andfro she felt the tensity of woe in abandonment, the magnificence ofwrath after deception, the languour of sorrow after defeat. Thoughtsof all the charming women she had seen in plays- every fancy, everyillusion which she had concerning the stage- now came back as areturning tide after the ebb. She built up feelings and adetermination which the occasion did not warrant. Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashedaround with a great air, as Quincel met him. "Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked thelatter. "I've got her," said Drouet. "Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness;"that's good. What's her address?" and he pulled out his note-bookin order to be able to send her part to her. "You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer. "Yes." "Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the morning." "What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we haveany information to send her." "Twenty-nine Ogden Place." "And her name?" "Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. The lodgemembers knew him to be single. "That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said Quincel. "Yes, it does." He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the mannerof one who does a favour. "He says that's the best part. Do you think you can do it?" "I don't know until I look it over. You know I'm afraid, now thatI've said I would." "Oh, go on. What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap company.The rest of them aren't as good as you are." "Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all hermisgivings. He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged tomake his next remark. "They were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and Igave them the name of Carrie Madenda. Was that all right?" "Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. She wasthinking it was slightly strange. "If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on. "Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. It wasclever for Drouet. "I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worsethen if you didn't go. They all know me so well. But you'll go allright. Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again." "Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately. She was determinednow to have a try at the fascinating game. Drouet breathed a sigh of relief. He had been afraid that he wasabout to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question. The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine it,was one of suffering and tears. As delineated by Mr. Daly, it was trueto the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when hebegan his career. The sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, thelong, explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there. "Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing hervoice out pathetically. "Martin, be sure and give him a glass ofwine before he goes." She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowingthat she must be on the stage while others were talking, and notonly be there, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramaticmovement of the scenes. "I think I can do that, though," she concluded. When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied withher day's study. "Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said. "All right," she laughed. "I think I have it memorised nearly." "That's good," he said. "Let's hear some of it." "Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," shesaid bashfully. "Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. It'll be easier here thanit will there." "I don't know about that," she answered. Eventually she took off the ball-room episode with considerablefeeling, forgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about Drouet,and letting herself rise to a fine state of feeling. "Good," said Drouet; "fine; out o' sight! You're all right,Caddie, I tell you." He was really moved by her excellent representation and thegeneral appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed andfinally fainted to the floor. He had bounded up to catch her, andnow held her laughing in his arms. "Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked. "Not a bit." "Well, you're a wonder. Say, I never knew you could do anything likethat." "I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed withdelight. "Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You cantake my word for that. You won't fail." Chapter XVII. A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY: HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to takeplace at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthythan was at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had writtento Hurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she wasgoing to take part in a play. "I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest;"I have my part now, honest, truly." Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this. "I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that." He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability."I haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You mustcome to the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it." Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of theundertaking as she understood it. "Well," he said, "that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, youwill do well, you're so clever." He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Hertendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared.As she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated muchof the pleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all hermisgivings- and they were as plentiful as the moments of the day-she was still happy. She could not repress her delight in doing thislittle thing which, to an ordinary observer, had no importance at all. Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girlhad capabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sightof a legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour,force, and beauty to the possessor. Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. Shedrew to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had notearned. Their affection for her naturally heightened theirperception of what she was trying to do and their approval of what shedid. Her inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ranriot with every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden diviningrod whereby the treasure of life was to be discovered. "Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys inthe lodge. I'm an Elk myself." "Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you." "That's so," said the manager. "I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don'tsee how you can unless he asks you." "I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately. "I can fix it sohe won't know you told me. You leave it to me." This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for theperformance, for his standing among the Elks was something worthtalking about. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, andflowers for Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and givethe little girl a chance. Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort,and he was at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoonand the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers,politicians, a goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted,starchy-bosomed, beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. JohnL. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar,surrounded by a company of loudly dressed sports, who were holding amost animated conversation. Drouet came across the floor with afestive stride, a new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at hisprogress. "Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become ofyou. I thought you had gone out of town again." Drouet laughed. "If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off thelist." "Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy." They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting companyof notables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three timesin as many minutes. "I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observedHurstwood, in the most offhand manner. "Yes, who told you?" "No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of tickets,which I can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?" "I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to getme to get some woman to take a part." "I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "I'llsubscribe, of course. How are things over there?" "All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds." "Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it. Haveanother?" He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on thescene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged tocome along. Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility ofconfusion. "I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he saidabruptly, after thinking it over. "You don't say so! How did that happen?" "Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I toldCarrie, and she seems to want to try." "Good for her," said the manager. "It'll be a real nice affair. Doher good, too. Has she ever had any experience?" "Not a bit." "Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious." "She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputationagainst Carrie's ability. "She picks up her part quick enough." "You don't say so!" said the manager. "Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if shedidn't." "We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "I'lllook after the flowers." Drouet smiled at his good-nature. "After the show you must come with me and we'll have a littlesupper." "I think she'll do all right," said Drouet. "I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her,"and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was acompound of good-nature and shrewdness. Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performanceMr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had somequalifications of past experience, which were not exactly understoodby any one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however,that he came very near being rude- failing to remember, as he did,that the individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteerplayers and not salaried underlings. "Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in onepart uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to standlike that. Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubledover the intrusion of the stranger. Walk so," and he struck out acrossthe Avery stage in a most drooping manner. Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty ofthe situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous,and the desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made hertimid. She walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardlyfeeling that there was something strangely lacking. "Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman whowas to take the part of Pearl, "you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger,you stand here, so. Now, what is it you say?" "Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray,Laura's lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughtsof marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody bybirth. "How is that- what does your text say?" "Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part. "Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are tolook shocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked." "Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously. "No, no, that won't do! Say it this way- explain." "Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation. "That's better. Now go on." "One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father andmother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway,the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms-" "Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended."Put more feeling into what you are saying." Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Hereye lightened with resentment. "Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifyinghis manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are nowsupposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. It requiresfeeling, repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accostedthem for alms.'" "All right," said Mrs. Morgan. "Now, go on." "As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched acold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse." "Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his headsignificantly. "A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the linesthat here fell to him. "No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not thatway. 'A pickpocket- well?' so. That's the idea." "Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not beenproved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, letalone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we justwent through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick upsome points." "A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at theside of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions whichthe director did not heed. "All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well todo it." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose we runright through, putting in as much expression as we can." "Good," said Mr. Quincel. "This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger anddown at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in herown, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation ofpain. Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little raggedgirl." "Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle. "The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger. "Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible tokeep his hands off. "The thief!" roared poor Bamberger. "Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's.'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?' "'Trying to steal,' said the child. "'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father. "'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.' "'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother. "'She- there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in adoorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is oldJudas,' said the girl." Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was indespair. He fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel. "What do you think of them?" he asked. "Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said thelatter, with an air of strength under difficulties. "I don't know," said the director. "That fellow Bamberger strikes meas being a pretty poor shift for a lover." "He's all we've got," said! Quincel, rolling up his eyes."Harrison went back on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?" "I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick up." At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking withme." "Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand."My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence likethat?" "Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly. The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie,as Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearingPearl's statement about her birth, had written the letterrepudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger wasjust concluding the words of Ray, "I must go before she returns. Herstep! Too late," and was cramming the letter in his pocket, when shebegan sweetly with: "Ray!" "Miss- Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly. Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the companypresent. She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smileto her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, asif he were not present. She did it with a grace which wasfascinating to look upon. "Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in herlittle scene with Bamberger. "Miss Madenda," said Quincel. "I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?" "I don't know," said Quincel. "She's a friend of one of ourmembers." "Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far-seems to take an interest in what she's doing." "Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel. The director strolled away without answering. In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company inthe ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director,who volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come overand speak with her. "Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly. "No," said Carrie. "You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience." Carrie only smiled consciously. He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spoutingsome ardent line. Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie withenvious and snapping black eyes. "She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfactionof thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly. The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling thatshe had acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the directorwere ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tellHurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet,too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until heshould ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up.The drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and herlittle experience did not appeal to him as important. He let theconversation drop, save for what she chose to recite withoutsolicitation, and Carrie was not good at that. He took it forgranted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of furtherworry. Consequently he threw Carrie into repression, which wasirritating. She felt his indifference keenly and longed to seeHurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friend she had onearth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but the damagehad been done. She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the timeshe got it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came,he shone upon her as the morning sun. "Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?" "Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet. "Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?" Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as sheproceeded. "Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I mustget over there to see you. When is the next rehearsal?" "Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors." "I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly. She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration,but she made him promise not to come around. "Now you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly."Just remember that I want you to succeed. We will make theperformance worth while. You do that now." "I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm. "That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember," shakingan affectionate finger at her, "your best." "I will," she answered, looking back. The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She trippedalong, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessedare the children of endeavour in this, that they try and arehopeful. And blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve. Chapter XVIII. JUST OVER THE BORDER: A HAIL AND FAREWELL By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had madeitself apparent. He had given the word among his friends- and theywere many and influential- that here was something which they ought toattend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by Mr. Quincel,acting for the lodge, had been large. Small four-line notes hadappeared in all of the daily newspapers. These he had arranged forby the aid of one of his newspaper friends on the "Times," Mr. HarryMcGarren, the managing editor. "Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stoodat the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, "youcan help the boys out, I guess." "What is it?" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by theopulent manager. "The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their owngood, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. You know what I mean-a squib or two saying that it's going to take place." "Certainly," said McGarren, "I can fix that for you, George." At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background.The members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their littleaffair was taking so well. Mr. Harry Quincel was looked upon asquite a star for this sort of work. By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had ralliedlike Romans to a senator's call. A well-dressed, good-natured,flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment hethought of assisting Carrie. That little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction,much as she trembled for her fate when she should once face thegathered throng, behind the glare of the footlights. She tried toconsole herself with the thought that a score of other persons, menand women, were equally tremulous concerning the outcome of theirefforts, but she could not disassociate the general danger from herown individual liability. She feared that she would forget herlines, that she might be unable to master the feeling which she nowfelt concerning her own movements in the play. At times she wishedthat she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembledlest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and gasping,not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire performance. In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared. Thathopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director'scriticism. Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious anddetermined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as Carrie atleast. A loafing professional had been called in to assume the role ofRay, and, while he was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubledby any of those qualms which attack the spirit of those who have neverfaced an audience. He swashed about (cautioned though he was tomaintain silence concerning his past theatrical relationships) in sucha self-confident manner that he was like to convince every one ofhis identity by mere matter of circumstantial evidence. "It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected stagevoice. "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me. It's thespirit of the part, you know, that is difficult." Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress notto swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she mustsuffer his fictitious love for the evening. At six she was ready to go. Theatrical paraphernalia had beenprovided over and above her care. She had practised her make-up in themorning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening byone o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at her part,waiting for the evening to come. On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. Drouet rode with heras far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores,looking for some good cigars. The little actress marched nervouslyinto her dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matterof make-up which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to Laura,The Belle of Society. The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel anddisplay, the scattered contents of the make-up box- rouge, pearlpowder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the eyelids, wigs,scissors, looking-glasses, drapery- in short, all the namelessparaphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of theirown. Since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, butalways in a far-removed manner. This new atmosphere was more friendly.It was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved hercoldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder. This took herby the hand kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened forher as if for its own. She had wondered at the greatness of thenames upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in thepapers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere ofcarriages, flowers, refinement. Here was no illusion. Here was an opendoor to see all of that. She had come upon it as one who stumbles upona secret passage, and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamondsand delight! As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing thevoices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there, notingMrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of preparation,seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worryingover what the result would be, she could not help thinking what adelight this would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, ifshe could only do well now, and then some time get a place as a realactress. The thought had taken a mighty hold upon her. It hummed inher ears as the melody of an old song. Outside in the little lobby another scene was being enacted. Withoutthe interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably have beencomfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderatelyinterested in its welfare. Hurstwood's word, however, had gone therounds. It was to be a full-dress affair. The four boxes had beentaken. Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were to occupy one. Thiswas quite a card. C. R. Walker, drygoods merchant and possessor ofat least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-knowncoal merchant had been induced to take the third, and Hurstwood andhis friends the fourth. Among the latter was Drouet. The people whowere now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even localnotabilities, in a general sense. They were the lights of a certaincircle- the circle of small fortunes and secret order distinctions.These gentlemen Elks knew the standing of one another. They had regardfor the ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home,keep a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, andmaintain a good mercantile position. Naturally, Hurstwood, who was alittle above the order of mind which accepted this standard asperfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who heldan imposing and authoritative position, and commanded friendship byintuitive tact in handling people, was quite a figure. He was moregenerally known than most others in the same circle, and was lookedupon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of influence and solidfinancial prosperity. To-night he was in his element. He came with several friendsdirectly from Rector's in a carriage. In the lobby he met Drouet,who was just returning from a trip for more cigars. All five nowjoined in an animated conversation concerning the company presentand the general drift of lodge affairs. "Who's here?" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, wherethe lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing andtalking in the open space back of the seats. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?" came from the firstindividual recognised. "Glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly. "Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?" "Yes, indeed," said the manager. "Custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed thefriend. "So it should," said the knowing manager. "I'm glad to see it." "Well, George," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupoismade necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom,"how goes it with you?" "Excellent," said the manager. "What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer." "Good-nature," returned the manager. "Like to see the boys, youknow." "Wife here?" "She couldn't come to-night. She's not well." "Sorry to hear it- nothing serious, I hope." "No, just feeling a little ill." "I remember Mrs. Hurstwood when she was travelling once with youover to St. Joe-" and here the newcomer launched off in a trivialrecollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more friends. "Why, George, how are you?" said another genial West Side politicianand lodge member. "My, but I'm glad to see you again; how arethings, anyhow?" "Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman." "Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble." "What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?" "Oh, he'll go back to his brick business. He has a brick-yard, youknow." "I didn't know that," said the manager. "Felt pretty sore, Isuppose, over his defeat." "Perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly. Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited beganto roll up in carriages now. They came shuffling in with a greatshow of finery and much evident feeling of content and importance. "Here we are," said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whomhe was talking. "That's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of aboutforty-five. "And say," he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by theshoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a goodshow, I'll punch your head." "You ought to pay for seeing your old friends. Bother the show!" To another who inquired, "Is it something really good?" themanager replied: "I don't know. I don't suppose so." Then, lifting his handgraciously, "For the lodge." "Lots of boys out, eh?" "Yes, look up Shanahan. He was just asking for you a moment ago." It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble ofsuccessful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace ofgood-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding. Look athim any time within the half hour before the curtain was up, he wasa member of an eminent group- a rounded company of five or morewhose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins bespokethe character of their success. The gentlemen who brought theirwives called him out to shake hands. Seats clicked, ushers bowed whilehe looked blandly on. He was evidently a light among them,reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those who greetedhim. He was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised. Through itall one could see the standing of the man. It was greatness in away, small as it was. Chapter XIX. AN HOUR IN ELFLAND: A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD At last the curtain was ready to go up. All the details of themake-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leaderof the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rackwith his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. Hurstwoodceased talking, and went with Drouet and his friend Sagar Morrisonaround to the box. "Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in atone which no one else could hear. On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in theopening parlour scene. Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance thatCarrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. Mrs.Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken Bamberger's partwere representing the principal roles in this scene. The professional,whose name was Patton, had little to recommend him outside of hisassurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed.Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was stiff with fright. Mrs. Hoagland washusky in the throat. The whole company was so weak-kneed that thelines were merely spoken, and nothing more. It took all the hope anduncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pityby that unrest which is the agony of failure. Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. He took it for granted thatit would be worthless. All he cared for was to have it endurableenough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward. After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over thedanger of collapse. They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all theexpression which was intended, and making the thing dull in theextreme, when Carrie came in. One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly thatshe also was weak-kneed. She came faintly across the stage, saying: "And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock,"but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it waspositively painful. "She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood. The manager made no answer. She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny. "Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill." It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. Drouetfidgeted. Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit. There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a senseof impending disaster, say, sadly: "I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl. You know the old proverb, 'Calla maid by a married name.'" The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. Carrie did notget it at all. She seemed to be talking in her sleep. It looked asif she were certain to be a wretched failure. She was more hopelessthan Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying herlines clearly at least. Drouet looked away from the stage at theaudience. The latter held out silently, hoping for a general change,of course. Hurstwood fixed his eye on Carrie, as if to hypnotise herinto doing better. He was pouring determination of his own in herdirection. He felt sorry for her. In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in bythe strange villain. The audience had been slightly diverted by aconversation between the professional actor and a character calledSnorky, impersonated by a short little American, who reallydeveloped some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turnedmessenger for a living. He bawled his lines out with such defiancethat, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, theywere funny. Now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, withCarrie as the chief figure. She did not recover. She wanderedthrough the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain,straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much totheir relief. "She's too nervous," said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of theremark that he was lying for once. "Better go back and say a word to her." Drouet was glad to do anything for relief. He fairly hustledaround to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendlydoor-keeper. Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her nextcue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her. "Say, Cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous. Wakeup. Those guys out there don't amount to anything. What are you afraidof?" "I don't know," said Carrie. "I just don't seem to be able to doit." She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. She had foundthe company so nervous that her own strength had gone. "Come on," said Drouet. "Brace up. What are you afraid of? Go on outthere now, and do the trick. What do you care?" Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervouscondition. "Did I do so very bad?" "Not a bit. All you need is a little more ginger. Do it as youshowed me. Get that toss of your head you had the other night." Carrie remembered her triumph in the room. She tried to think shecould do it. "What's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had beenstudying. "Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him." "Well, now you do that lively," said the drummer. "Put in snap,that's the thing. Act as if you didn't care." "Your turn next, Miss Madenda," said the prompter. "Oh, dear," said Carrie. "Well, you're a chump for being afraid," said Drouet. "Come onnow, brace up. I'll watch you from right here." "Will you?" said Carrie. "Yes, now go on. Don't be afraid." The prompter signalled her. She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partiallyreturned. She thought of Drouet looking. "Ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm thanwhen she had last appeared. It was the scene which had pleased thedirector at the rehearsal. "She's easier," thought Hurstwood to himself. She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better.The audience was at least not irritated. The improvement of the workof the entire company took away direct observation from her. They weremaking very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would bepassable, in the less trying parts at least. Carrie came off warm and nervous. "Well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?" "Well, I should say so. That's the way. Put life into it. You didthat about a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene.Now go on and fire up. You can do it. Knock 'em." "Was it really better?" "Better, I should say so. What comes next?" "That ballroom scene." "Well, you can do that all right," he said. "I don't know," answered Carrie. "Why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! Now you go out thereand do it. It'll be fun for you. Just do as you did in the room. Ifyou'll reel it off that way, I'll bet you make a hit. Now, what'll youbet? You do it." The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the betterof his speech. He really did think that Carrie had acted thisparticular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it inpublic. His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion. When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually. He beganto make her feel as if she had done very well. The old melancholy ofdesire began to come back as he talked at her, and by the time thesituation rolled around she was running high in feeling. "I think I can do this." "Sure you can. Now you go ahead and see." On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuationagainst Laura. Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something- she didnot know what. Her nostrils sniffed thinly. "It means," the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, "thatsociety is a terrible avenger of insult. Have you ever heard of theSiberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness, theothers devour him. It is not an elegant comparison, but there issomething wolfish in society. Laura has mocked it with a pretence, andsociety, which is made up of pretence, will bitterly resent themockery." At the sound of her stage name Carrie started. She began to feel thebitterness of the situation. The feelings of the outcast descendedupon her. She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her own mountingthoughts. She hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood. "Come, girls," said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, "let us look after ourthings. They are no longer safe when such an accomplished thiefenters." "Cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear.Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born ofinspiration. She dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud,shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold, white,helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her scornfully. Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. The radiatingwaves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against thefarthest walls of the chamber. The magic of passion, which will yetdissolve the world, was here at work. There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling,heretofore wandering. "Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of Pearl. Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful. Theymoved as she moved. Their eyes were with her eyes. Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her. "Let us go home," she said. "No," answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time apenetrating quality which it had never known. "Stay with him!" She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. Then, with apathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "He shallnot suffer long." Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarilygood. It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as thecurtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie. He thought now thatshe was beautiful. She had done something which was above hissphere. He felt a keen delight in realising that she was his. "Fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose andwent about to the stage door. When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet. Hisfeelings for her were most exuberant. He was almost swept away bythe strength and feeling she exhibited. His desire was to pour forthhis praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but here wasDrouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. The latter was morefascinated, if anything, than Hurstwood. At least, in the nature ofthings, it took a more ruddy form. "Well, well," said Drouet, "you did out of sight. That was simplygreat. I knew you could do it. Oh, but you're a little daisy!" Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement. "Did I do all right?" "Did you? Well, I guess. Didn't you hear the applause?" There was some faint sound of clapping yet. "I thought I got it something like- I felt it." Just then Hurstwood came in. Instinctively he felt the change inDrouet. He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousyleaped alight in his bosom. In a flash of thought, he reproachedhimself for having sent him back. Also, he hated him as an intruder.He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where he would haveto congratulate Carrie as a friend. Nevertheless, the man masteredhimself, and it was a triumph. He almost jerked the old subtle lightto his eyes. "I thought," he said, looking at Carrie, "I would come around andtell you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet. It was delightful." Carrie took the cue, and replied: "Oh, thank you." "I was just telling her," put in Drouet, now delighted with hispossession, "that I thought she did fine." "Indeed you did," said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes inwhich she read more than the words. Carrie laughed luxuriantly. "If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us allthink you are a born actress." Carrie smiled again. She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's position,and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did notunderstand the change in Drouet. Hurstwood found that he could nottalk, repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet every moment of hispresence, he bowed himself out with the elegance of a Faust. Outsidehe set his teeth with envy. "Damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" He wasmoody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinkingof his wretched situation. As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back. He was verymuch enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but Hurstwoodpretended interest. He fixed his eyes on the stage, although Carriewas not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding herentrance. He did not see what was going on, however. He was thinkinghis own thoughts, and they were wretched. The progress of the play did not improve matters for him. Carrie,from now on, was easily the centre of interest. The audience, whichhad been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after the firstgloomy impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power whereit was not. The general feeling reacted on Carrie. She presented herpart with some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which hadaroused the feeling at the end of the long first act. Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with risingfeelings. The fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, thatthey should see it set forth under such effective circumstances,framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lightsof sentiment and personality, heightened her charm for them. She wasmore than the old Carrie to Drouet. He longed to be at home with heruntil he could tell her. He awaited impatiently the end, when theyshould go home alone. Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her newattractiveness his miserable predicament. He could have cursed the manbeside him. By the Lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as hewould. For once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth. It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her loversassumed its most effective character. Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would comeon. He had not long to wait. The author had used the artifice ofsending all the merry company for a drive, and now Carrie came inalone. It was the first time that Hurstwood had had a chance to seeher facing the audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she beenwithout a foil of some sort. He suddenly felt, as she entered, thather old strength- the power that had grasped him at the end of thefirst act- had come back. She seemed to be gaining feeling, now thatthe play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great actionwas passing. "Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "It is a sadthing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see anothergroping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp." She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm restinglistlessly upon the polished door-post. Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself.He could almost feel that she was talking to him. He was, by acombination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by thatquality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music,seems ever a personal and intimate thing. Pathos has this quality,that it seems ever addressed to one alone. "And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the littleactress. "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home." She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. There was somuch simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. Thenshe found a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting athought to them. "With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed inconclusion- and it was almost a sigh- "my existence hidden from allsave two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of thatinnocent girl who will soon be his wife." Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom,interrupted her. He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on.He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearlgrey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat. Carrie had the airof one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under thefascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until hewas ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery byadding to his own delight. In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation: "I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here.I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must." There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voicesaying: "No, I shall not ride again. Put him up." He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do withthe creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything inhis peculiar and involved career. For Carrie had resolved to makesomething of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began totake a feeling hold upon her. Both Hurstwood and Drouet noted therising sentiment as she proceeded. "I thought you had gone with Pearl," she said to her lover. "I did go part of the way, but I left the party a mile down theroad." "You and Pearl had no disagreement?" "No- yes; that is, we always have. Our social barometers alwaysstand at 'cloudy' and 'overcast.' "And whose fault is that?" she said, easily. "Not mine," he answered, pettishly. "I know I do all I can- I sayall I can- but she-" This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it witha grace which was inspiring. "But she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention uponthe stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it wasagain low and musical. "Ray, my friend, courtship is the text fromwhich the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. Do not letyours be discontented and unhappy." She put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly. Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. Drouet was fidgeting withsatisfaction. "To be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was weakby comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmospherewhich Carrie had created and maintained. She did not seem to feel thathe was wretched. She would have done nearly as well with a block ofwood. The accessories she needed were within her own imagination.The acting of others could not affect them. "And you repent already?" she said, slowly. "I lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and I was at themercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. It wasyour fault- you know it was- why did you leave me?" Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulsein silence. Then she turned back. "Ray," she said, "the greatest happiness I have ever felt has beenthe thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon avirtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments.What a revelation do you make to me now! What is it makes youcontinually war with your happiness?" The last question was asked so simply that it came to the audienceand the lover as a personal thing. At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "Be to meas you used to be." Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "I cannot be that to you,but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to youforever." "Be it as you will," said Patton. Hurstwood leaned forward. The whole audience was silent and intent. "Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said Carrie, her eyesbent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, "beautiful orhomely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give orrefuse- her heart," Drouet felt a scratch in his throat. "Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you;but her love is the treasure without money and without price." The manager suffered this as a personal appeal. It came to him as ifthey were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrowover the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whomhe loved. Drouet also was beside himself. He was resolving that hewould be to Carrie what he had never been before. He would marryher, by George! She was worth it. "She asks only in return," said Carrie, scarcely hearing thesmall, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even morein harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra,"that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that whenyou address her your voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that youshall not despise her because she cannot understand all at once yourvigorous thoughts and ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evilhave defeated your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you.You look to the trees," she continued, while Hurstwood restrainedhis feelings only by the grimmest repression, "for strength andgrandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is allthey have to give. Remember," she concluded, tenderly, "love is alla woman has to give," and she laid a strange, sweet accent on the all,"but it is the only thing which God permits us to carry beyond thegrave." The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. Theyscarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded.They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace,continuing a power which to them was a revelation. Hurstwood resolved a thousand things, Drouet as well. They joinedequally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out. Drouetpounded his hands until they ached. Then he jumped up again andstarted out. As he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing an immensebasket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward her, she waited.They were Hurstwood's. She looked toward the manager's box for amoment, caught his eye, and smiled. He could have leaped out of thebox to enfold her. He forgot the need of circumspectness which hismarried state enforced. He almost forgot that he had with him in thebox those who knew him. By the Lord, he would have that lovely girl ifit took his all. He would act at once. This should be the end ofDrouet, and don't you forget it. He would not wait another day. Thedrummer should not have her. He was so excited that he could not stay in the box. He went intothe lobby, and then into the street, thinking. Drouet did notreturn. In a few minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy tohave Carrie alone. He cursed the luck that could keep him smiling,bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, whenhe wanted to whisper to her alone. He groaned as he saw that his hopeswere futile. He must even take her to supper, shamming. He finallywent about and asked how she was getting along. The actors were alldressing, talking, hurrying about. Drouet was palavering himselfwith the looseness of excitement and passion. The manager masteredhimself only by a great effort. "We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice thatwas a mockery of his heart. "Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling. The little actress was in fine feather. She was realising now whatit was to be petted. For once she was the admired, the sought-for. Theindependence of success now made its first faint showing. With thetables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover. Shedid not fully realise that this was so, but there was something incondescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. When she wasready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once,only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that waswhen the manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her.Before Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in agentle, impulsive manner. The manager was beside himself withaffection. He could have sold his soul to be with her alone. "Ah,"he thought, "the agony of it." Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. The dinner was spoiledby his enthusiasm. Hurstwood went home feeling as if he should dieif he did not find affectionate relief. He whispered "to-morrow"passionately to Carrie, and she understood. He walked away from thedrummer and his prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him andnot regret. Carrie also felt the misery of it. "Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness. "Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly. "The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet. "The idiot! I'll do him yet,and that quick! We'll see to-morrow." "Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently,squeezing Carrie's arm. "You are the dandiest little girl on earth." Chapter XX. THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. Itis no musing, dreamy thing. There is none of the tendency to singoutside of my lady's window- to languish and repine in the face ofdifficulties. In the night he was long getting to sleep because of toomuch thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing withalacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. Hewas out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for didhe not delight in a new manner in his Carrie, and was not Drouet inthe way? Never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of hislove being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. He would havegiven anything, it seemed to him, to have the complication ended- tohave Carrie acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose ofDrouet effectually and forever. What to do. He dressed thinking. He moved about in the samechamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence. At breakfast he found himself without an appetite. The meat to whichhe helped himself remained on his plate untouched. His coffee grewcold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. Here and there he reada little thing, but remembered nothing. Jessica had not yet come down.His wife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her ownin silence. A new servant had been recently installed and had forgotthe napkins. On this account the silence was irritably broken by areproof. "I've told you about this before, Maggie," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "I'mnot going to tell you again." Hurstwood took a glance at his wife. She was frowning. Just nowher manner irritated him excessively. Her next remark was addressed tohim. "Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take yourvacation?" It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing atthis season of the year. "Not yet," he said, "I'm very busy just now." "Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you, ifwe're going?" she returned. "I guess we have a few days yet," he said. "Hmff," she returned. "Don't wait until the season's over." She stirred in aggravation as she said this. "There you go again," he observed. "One would think I never didanything, the way you begin." "Well, I want to know about it," she reiterated. "You've got a few days yet," he insisted. "You'll not want tostart before the races are over." He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished tohave his thoughts for other purposes. "Well, we may. Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of theraces." "What did you want with a season ticket, then?" "Uh!" she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust,"I'll not argue with you," and therewith arose to leave the table. "Say," he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his voicewhich caused her to delay her departure, "what's the matter with youof late? Can't I talk with you any more?" "Certainly, you can talk with me," she replied, laying emphasis onthe word. "Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. Now, you want toknow when I'll be ready- not for a month yet. Maybe not then." "We'll go without you." "You will, eh?" he sneered. "Yes, we will." He was astonished at the woman's determination, but it onlyirritated him the more. "Well, we'll see about that. It seems to me you're trying to runthings with a pretty high hand of late. You talk as though you settledmy affairs for me. Well, you don't. You don't regulate anything that'sconnected with me. If you want to go, go, but you won't hurry me byany such talk as that." He was thoroughly aroused now. His dark eyes snapped, and hecrunched his paper as he laid it down. Mrs. Hurstwood said nothingmore. He was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went outinto the hall and upstairs. He paused for a moment, as ifhesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafterarose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor. His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. She hadcome down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts withherself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. Jessicahad called her attention to the fact that the races were not what theywere supposed to be. The social opportunities were not what they hadthought they would be this year. The beautiful girl found goingevery day a dull thing. There was an earlier exodus this year ofpeople who were anybody to the watering places and Europe. In herown circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she wasinterested had gone to Waukesha. She began to feel that she would liketo go too, and her mother agreed with her. Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject. She wasthinking this over when she came down to the table, but for somereason the atmosphere was wrong. She was not sure, after it was allover, just how the trouble had begun. She was determined now, however,that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances,would she let this go by unsettled. She would have more lady-liketreatment or she would know why. For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this newargument until he reached his office and started from there to meetCarrie. Then the other complications of love, desire, and oppositionpossessed him. His thoughts fled on before him upon eagles' wings.He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie face to face. Whatwas the night, after all, without her- what the day? She must andshould be his. For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feelingsince she had left him, the night before. She had listened to Drouet'senthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part whichconcerned herself, with very little for that which affected his owngain. She kept him at such lengths as she could, because herthoughts were with her own triumph. She felt Hurstwood's passion asa delightful background to her own achievement, and she wonderedwhat he would have to say. She was sorry for him, too, with thatpeculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in themisery of another. She was now experiencing the first shades offeeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks ofthe suppliants into the lines of the dispensers of charity. She was,all in all, exceedingly happy. On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerningthe event, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday thingsabout, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. Drouethimself was not talking so much of as for her. He felt instinctivelythat, for some reason or other, he needed reconstruction in herregard. "I think," he said, as he spruced around their chambers the nextmorning, preparatory to going down town, "that I'll straighten outthat little deal of mine this month and then we'll get married. Iwas talking with Mosher about that yesterday." "No, you won't," said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faintpower to jest with the drummer. "Yes, I will," he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, withthe tone of one who pleads, "Don't you believe what I've told you?" Carrie laughed a little. "Of course I do," she answered. Drouet's assurance now misgave him. Shallow as was his mentalobservation, there was that in the things which had happened whichmade his little power of analysis useless. Carrie was still withhim, but not helpless and pleading. There was a lilt in her voicewhich was new. She did not study him with eyes expressive ofdependence. The drummer was feeling the shadow of something whichwas coming. It coloured his feelings and made him develop those littleattentions and say those little words which were mere forefendationsagainst danger. Shortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her meetingwith Hurstwood. She hurried at her toilet, which was soon made, andhastened down the stairs. At the corner she passed Drouet, but theydid not see each other. The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn intohis house. He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room, butfound only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up. "Hello," he exclaimed, half to himself, "has Carrie gone?" "Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago." "That's strange," thought Drouet. "She didn't say a word to me. Iwonder where she went?" He hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted, andfinally pocketing it. Then he turned his attention to his fairneighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards him. "What are you up to?" he said, smiling. "Just cleaning," she replied, stopping and winding a dusting towelabout her hand. "Tired of it?" "Not so very." "Let me show you something," he said, affably, coming over andtaking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had beenissued by a wholesale tobacco company. On this was printed a pictureof a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the colours of whichcould be changed by means of a revolving disk in the back, whichshowed red, yellow, green, and blue through little interstices made inthe ground occupied by the umbrella top. "Isn't that clever?" he said, handing it to her and showing herhow it worked. "You never saw anything like that before." "Isn't it nice?" she answered. "You can have it if you want it," he remarked. "That's a pretty ring you have," he said, touching a commonplacesetting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her. "Do you think so?" "That's right," he answered, making use of a pretence at examinationto secure her finger. "That's fine." The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation,pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his.She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to restagainst the window-sill. "I didn't see you for a long time," she said, coquettishly,repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. "You must have been away." "I was," said Drouet. "Do you travel far?" "Pretty far- yes." "Do you like it?" "Oh, not very well. You get tired of it after a while." "I wish I could travel," said the girl, gazing idly out of thewindow. "What has become of your friend, Hurstwood?" she suddenly asked,bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation,seemed to contain promising material. "He's here in town. What makes you ask about him?" "Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back." "How did you come to know him?" "Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?" "Get out," said the drummer, lightly. "He hasn't called more thanhalf a dozen times since we've been here." "He hasn't, eh?" said the girl, smiling. "That's all you knowabout it." Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. He was uncertain asto whether she was joking or not. "Tease," he said, "what makes you smile that way?" "Oh, nothing." "Have you seen him recently?" "Not since you came back," she laughed. "Before?" "Certainly." "How often?" "Why, nearly every day." She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering whatthe effect of her words would be. "Who did he come to see?" asked the drummer, incredulously. "Mrs. Drouet." He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted tocorrect himself so as not to appear a dupe. "Well," he said, "what of it?" "Nothing," replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on oneside. "He's an old friend," he went on, getting deeper into the mire. He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but thetaste for it was temporarily removed. He was quite relieved when thegirl's name was called from below. "I've got to go," she said, moving away from him airily. "I'll see you later," he said, with a pretence of disturbance atbeing interrupted. When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. His face,never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity anddisturbance which he felt. Could it be that Carrie had received somany visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood lying? Whatdid the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had thought there wassomething odd about Carrie's manner at the time. Why did she look sodisturbed when he had asked her how many times Hurstwood had called?By George! he remembered now. There was something strange about thewhole thing. He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up oneleg on his knee and frowning mightily. His mind ran on at a greatrate. And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. It couldn't be,by George, that she was deceiving him. She hadn't acted that way. Why,even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, andHurstwood too. Look how they acted! He could hardly believe they wouldtry to deceive him. His thoughts burst into words. "She did act sort of funny at times. Here she had dressed and goneout this morning and never said a word." He scratched his head and prepared to go down town. He was stillfrowning. As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who wasnow looking after another chamber. She had on a white dusting cap,beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. Drouet almostforgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him. He put hishand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing. "Got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined. "I'm not mad," he answered. "I thought you were," she said, smiling. "Quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way. "Wereyou serious?" "Certainly," she answered. Then, with an air of one who did notintentionally mean to create trouble, "He came lots of times. Ithought you knew." The game of deception was up with Drouet. He did not try to simulateindifference further. "Did he spend the evenings here?" he asked. "Sometimes. Sometimes they went out." "In the evening?" "Yes. You mustn't look so mad, though." "I'm not," he said. "Did any one else see him?" "Of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing inparticular. "How long ago was this?" "Just before you came back." The drummer pinched his lip nervously. "Don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm agentle squeeze. "Certainly not," she returned. "I wouldn't worry over it." "All right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, andyet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a mostexcellent impression upon the chambermaid. "I'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately, feelingthat he had been unduly wronged. "I'll find out, b'George, whethershe'll act that way or not." Chapter XXI. THE LURE OF THE SPIRIT: THE FLESH IN PURSUIT When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. Hisblood was warm; his nerves wrought up. He was anxious to see the womanwho had stirred him so profoundly the night before. "Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in hislimbs and an elation which was tragic in itself. "Yes," said Carrie. They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while Hurstwooddrank in the radiance of her presence. The rustle of her prettyskirt was like music to him. "Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did thenight before. "Are you?" He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him. "It was wonderful." Carrie laughed ecstatically. "That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," headded. He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the eveningbefore, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now. Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created forher. Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. She felthis drawing toward her in every sound of his voice. "Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a momentor two. "They were beautiful." "Glad you liked them," he answered, simply. He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire wasbeing delayed. He was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings.All was ripe for it. His Carrie was beside him. He wanted to plunge inand expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for wordsand feeling for a way. "You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tonemodifying itself to one of self-commiseration. "Yes," said Carrie, easily. He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace andfixing her with his eye. She felt the flood of feeling. "How about me?" he asked. This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the floodgateswere open. She didn't know exactly what to answer. "I don't know," she answered. He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then letit go. He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with histoe. He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance. "Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely. "I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting andfinding nothing at which to catch. As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. Here was aman whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her,sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessedof a lively passion for him. She was still the victim of his keeneyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. She looked and saw beforeher a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward herwith a feeling that was a delight to observe. She could not resist theglow of his temperament, the light of his eye. She could hardly keepfrom feeling what he felt. And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. What didhe know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his eyes, orwhat? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she softened,and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herselfif Drouet had told him they were not married. There was never anythingat all convincing about what Drouet said. And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love. No strain ofbitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. He was evidentlysincere. His passion was real and warm. There was power in what hesaid. What should she do? She went on thinking this, answeringvaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, untilshe was on a borderless sea of speculation. "Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "I will arrange foryou whatever-" "Oh, don't," said Carrie. "Don't what?" he asked. "What do you mean?" There was a look of confusion and pain in her face. She waswondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. She wasstruck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outsidethe pale of marriage. He himself realised that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in.He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. Hewent beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened,intensely enlisted in his plan. "Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more reverentfeeling. "You know I can't do without you- you know it- it can't go onthis way- can it?" "I know," said Carrie. "I wouldn't ask if I- I wouldn't argue with you if I could helpit. Look at me, Carrie. Put yourself in my place. You don't want tostay away from me, do you?" She shook her head as if in deep thought. "Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?" "I don't know," said Carrie. "Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't tormentme. Be serious." "I am," said Carrie, softly. "You can't be, dearest, and say that. Not when you know how I loveyou. Look at last night." His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. His faceand body retained utter composure. Only his eyes moved, and theyflashed a subtle, dissolving fire. In them the whole intensity ofthe man's nature was distilling itself. Carrie made no answer. "How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time. "Youlove me, don't you?" He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed.For the moment all doubts were cleared away. "Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly. "Well, then you'll come, won't you- come to-night?" Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress. "I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood. "If that is too soon,come Saturday." "When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in herdifficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be Drouet'swife. The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was moredifficult than hers. He gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed likemessages to his mind. "Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour hispresent delight with this miserable problem. "Saturday?" asked Carrie. He nodded his head. "Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go." The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, sodifficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. His passion hadgotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured withreason. He did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in theface of so much loveliness. He would accept the situation with all itsdifficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which coldtruth thrust upon him. He would promise anything, everything, andtrust to fortune to disentangle him. He would make a try for Paradise,whatever might be the result. He would be happy, by the Lord, if itcost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth. Carrie looked at him tenderly. She could have laid her head upon hisshoulder, so delightful did it all seem. "Well," she said, "I'll try and get ready then." Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadowsof wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything morelovely. "I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll talkover the plans." He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had beenthe result. He impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her,though there was but here and there a word. After a half-hour he beganto realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is theworld. "To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner addingwonderfully to his brave demeanour. "Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away. There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she wasbelieving herself deeply in love. She sighed as she thought of herhandsome adorer. Yes, she would get ready by Saturday. She would go,and they would be happy. Chapter XXII. THE BLAZE OF THE TINDER: FLESH WARS WITH THE FLESH The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact thatjealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. Mrs.Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influencescould transform it into hate. Hurstwood was still worthy, in aphysical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed uponhim, but in a social sense he fell short. With his regard died hispower to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greaterthan outright crime toward another. Our self-love dictates ourappreciation of the good or evil in another. In Mrs. Hurstwood itdiscoloured the very hue of her husband's indifferent nature. Shesaw design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from a fadedappreciation of her presence. As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. The jealousythat prompted her to observe every falling away from the littleamenities of the married relation on his part served to give hernotice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. She couldsee from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of hispersonal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot.Every motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he feltin Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to hisdays. Mrs. Hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals dodanger, afar off. This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potentnature on the part of Hurstwood. We have seen with what irritationhe shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusementor satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, morerecently, he resented her irritating goads. These little rows werereally precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged withdissension. That it would shower, with a sky so full of blackeningthunder-clouds, would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. Thus,after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at hisblank declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwoodencountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely arranging herhair. Hurstwood had already left the house. "I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she said,addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket. "Now here thethings are quite cold, and you haven't eaten." Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed tofeel the fag end of the storm. "I'm not hungry," she answered. "Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,instead of keeping her waiting all morning?" "She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly. "Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow, Idon't like you to talk that way to me. You're too young to put on suchan air with your mother." "Oh, mamma, don't row," answered Jessica. "What's the matter thismorning, anyway?" "Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing. You mustn't think becauseI indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. Iwon't have it." "I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply,stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. "I said Iwasn't hungry. I don't want any breakfast." "Mind how you address me, missy. I'll not have it. Hear me now; I'llnot have it!" Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a tossof her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of theindependence and indifference she felt. She did not propose to bequarrelled with. Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of agrowth of natures which were largely independent and selfish.George, Jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration inthe matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all feelthat he was a man with a man's privileges- an assumption which, of allthings, is most groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen. Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and itirritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and moreby a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had alessening understanding. Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier startto Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. He wasbeing made to follow, was not leading. When, in addition, a sharptemper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out ofhis authority was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneeror a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. He flew intohardly repressed passion, and wished himself clear of the wholehousehold. It seemed a most irritating drag upon all his desires andopportunities. For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership andcontrol, even though his wife was straining to revolt. Her displayof temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothingmore than the feeling that she could do it. She had no specialevidence wherewith to justify herself- the knowledge of somethingwhich would give her both authority and excuse. The latter was allthat was lacking, however, to give a solid foundation to what, in away, seemed groundless discontent. The clear proof of one overt deedwas the cold breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicioninto a rain of wrath. An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come.Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood,met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after Hurstwood andCarrie had taken the drive west on Washington Boulevard. Dr. Beale,coming east on the same drive, had recognised Hurstwood, but notbefore he was quite past him. He was not so sure of Carrie- did notknow whether it was Hurstwood's wife or daughter. "You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving,do you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood. "If I see them, I do. Where was I?" "On Washington Boulevard," he answered, expecting her eye to lightwith immediate remembrance. She shook her head. "Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue. You were with your husband." "I guess you're mistaken," she answered. Then, remembering herhusband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host ofyoung suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign. "I know I saw your husband," he went on. "I wasn't so sure aboutyou. Perhaps it was your daughter." "Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that suchwas not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for weeks. She hadrecovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details. "Was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air ofacquaintanceship with the matter. "Yes, about two or three." "It must have been Jessica," said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing toseem to attach any importance to the incident. The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed thematter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least. Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thoughtduring the next few hours, and even days. She took it for granted thatthe doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding,most likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as busyto her. As a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how oftenhe had refused to go to places with her, to share in little visits,or, indeed, take part in any of the social amenities which furnishedthe diversion of her existence. He had been seen at the theatre withpeople whom he called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and,most likely, would have an excuse for that. Perhaps there wereothers of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, soindifferent, of late? In the last six weeks he had become strangelyirritable- strangely satisfied to pick up and go out, whether thingswere right or wrong in the house. Why? She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at hernow with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in hiseye. Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to begetting old and uninteresting. He saw her wrinkles, perhaps. She wasfading, while he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth.He was still an interested factor in the merry-makings of the world,while she- but she did not pursue the thought. She only found thewhole situation bitter, and hated him for it thoroughly. Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it didnot seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. Only theatmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitatingevery now and then little sprinklings of irritable conversation,enlivened by flashes of wrath. The matter of the Waukesha outing wasmerely a continuation of other things of the same nature. The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs. Hurstwoodvisited the races with Jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, Mr.Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishingestablishment. They had driven out early, and, as it chanced,encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all Elks, and two of whomhad attended the performance the evening before. A thousand chancesthe subject of the performance had never been brought up had Jessicanot been so engaged by the attentions of her young companion, whousurped as much time as possible. This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the moodto extend the perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into shortconversations, and the short conversations of friends into longones. It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily thatthis interesting intelligence came. "I see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the mostattractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder,"that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening." "No?" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why heshould be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had notbeen to something she knew nothing about. It was on her lips to say,"What was it?" when he added, "I saw your husband." Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality ofsuspicion. "Yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? He did not tell memuch about it." "Very. Really one of the best private theatricals I ever attended.There was one actress who surprised us all." "Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood. "It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. I was sorry tohear you weren't feeling well." Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after himopen-mouthed. As it was, she extricated herself from her mingledimpulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly: "Yes, it is too bad." "Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?"the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic. The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw noopportunity. She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to thinkfor herself, and wondering what new deception was this which causedhim to give out that she was ill when she was not. Another case of hercompany not wanted, and excuses being made. She resolved to find outmore. "Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next ofHurstwood's friends who greeted her, as she sat in her box. "Yes. You didn't get around." "No," she answered, "I was not feeling very well." "So your husband told me," he answered. "Well, it was really veryenjoyable. Turned out much better than I expected." "Were there many there?" "The house was full. It was quite an Elk night. I saw quite a numberof your friends- Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs. Collins." "Quite a social gathering." "Indeed it was. My wife enjoyed it very much." Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip. "So," she thought, "that's the way he does. Tells my friends I amsick and cannot come." She wondered what could induce him to go alone. There wassomething back of this. She rummaged her brain for a reason. By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herselfinto a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. Shewanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported. She wascertain there was more behind it all than what she had heard, and evilcuriosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of her wrathof the morning. She, impending disaster itself, walked about withgathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary muscles of savageryfixing the hard lines of her mouth. On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came homein the sunniest mood. His conversation and agreement with Carrie hadraised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one whosings joyously. He was proud of himself, proud of his success, proudof Carrie. He could have been genial to all the world, and he boreno grudge against his wife. He meant to be pleasant, to forget herpresence, to live in the atmosphere of youth and pleasure which hadbeen restored to him. So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing andcomfortable appearance. In the hall he found an evening paper, laidthere by the maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood. In thedining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and shinywith glasses and decorated china. Through an open door he saw into thekitchen, where the fire was crackling in the stove and the eveningmeal already well under way. Out in the small back yard was George,Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had recently purchased, and in theparlour Jessica was playing at the piano, the sound of a merry waltzfilling every nook and corner of the comfortable home. Every one, likehimself, seemed to have regained his good spirits, to be in sympathywith youth and beauty, to be inclined to joy and merry-making. He feltas if he could say a good word all around himself, and took a mostgenial glance at the spread table and polished sideboard beforegoing upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable arm-chair of thesitting-room which looked through the open windows into the street.When he entered there, however, he found his wife brushing her hairand musing to herself the while. He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that mightstill exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs. Hurstwoodsaid nothing. He seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly inmaking himself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. Ina few moments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account ofa baseball game which had taken place between the Chicago andDetroit teams. The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing himcasually though the medium of the mirror which was before her. Shenoticed his pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace andsmiling humour, and it merely aggravated her the more. She wonderedhow he could think to carry himself so in her presence after thecynicism, indifference, and neglect he had heretofore manifested andwould continue to manifest so long as she would endure it. She thoughthow she should like to tell him- what stress and emphasis she wouldlend her assertions, how she could drive over this whole affairuntil satisfaction should be rendered her. Indeed, the shining swordof her wrath was but weakly suspended by a thread of thought. In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerninga stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with abunco-steerer. It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred andchuckled to himself. He wished that he might enlist his wife'sattention and read it to her. "Ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny." Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as deigning aglance. He stirred again and went on to another subject. At last he feltas if his good-humour must find some outlet. Julia was probablystill out of humour over that affair of this morning, but that couldeasily be straightened. As a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, buthe didn't care. She could go to Waukesha right away if she wantedto. The sooner the better. He would tell her that as soon as he gota chance, and the whole thing would blow over. "Did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerninganother item which he had found, "that they have entered suit tocompel the Illinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?" heasked. She could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say "No,"sharply. Hurstwood pricked up his ears. There was a note in her voice whichvibrated keenly. "It would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to himself,half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in thatquarter. He withdrew his attention to his paper very circumspectly,listening mentally for the little sounds which should show him whatwas on foot. As a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood- as observant andsensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his ownplane of thought- would have made the mistake which he did in regardto his wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been occupiedmentally with a very different train of thought. Had not the influenceof Carrie's regard for him, the elation which her promise aroused inhim, lasted over, he would not have seen the house in so pleasant amood. It was not extraordinarily bright and merry this evening. He wasmerely very much mistaken, and would have been much more fitted tocope with it had he come home in his normal state. After he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that heought to modify matters in some way or other. Evidently his wife wasnot going to patch up peace at a word. So he said: "Where did George get the dog he has there in the yard?" "I don't know," she snapped. He put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the window.He did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be persistent andagreeable, and by a few questions bring around a mild understanding ofsome sort. "Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning?" he said,at last. "We needn't quarrel about that. You know you can go toWaukesha if you want to." "So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" sheexclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which wasdrawn a sharp and wrathful sneer. He stopped as if slapped in the face. In an instant hispersuasive, conciliatory manner fled. He was on the defensive at awink and puzzled for a word to reply. "What do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself andgazing at the cold, determined figure before him, who paid noattention, but went on arranging herself before the mirror. "You know what I mean," she said, finally, as if there were aworld of information which she held in reserve- which she did not needto tell. "Well, I don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for whatshould come next. The finality of the woman's manner took away hisfeeling of superiority in battle. She made no answer. "Hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. It wasthe weakest thing he had ever done. It was totally unassured. Mrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. She turned uponhim, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow. "I want the Waukesha money to-morrow morning," she said. He looked at her in amazement. Never before had he seen such a cold,steely determination in her eye- such a cruel look of indifference.She seemed a thorough master of her mood- thoroughly confident anddetermined to wrest all control from him. He felt that all hisresources could not defend him. He must attack. "What do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "You want! I'd like to knowwhat's got into you to-night." "Nothing's got into me," she said, flaming. "I want that money.You can do your swaggering afterwards." "Swaggering, eh! What! You'll get nothing from me. What do youmean by your insinuations, anyhow?" "Where were you last night?" she answered. The words were hot asthey came. "Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard? Whowere you with at the theatre when George saw you? Do you think I'm afool to be duped by you? Do you think I'll sit at home here and takeyour 'too busys' and 'can't come,' while you parade around and makeout that I'm unable to come? I want you to know that lordly airshave come to an end so far as I am concerned. You can't dictate tome nor my children. I'm through with you entirely." "It's a lie," he said, driven to a corner and knowing no otherexcuse. "Lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "youmay call it a lie if you want to, but I know." "It's a lie, I tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice. "You'vebeen searching around for some cheap accusation for months, and nowyou think you have it. You think you'll spring something and get theupper hand. Well, I tell you, you can't. As long as I'm in thishouse I'm master of it, and you or any one else won't dictate to me-do you hear?" He crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous.Something in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as ifshe were already master, caused him to feel for the moment as if hecould strangle her. She gazed at him- a pythoness in humour. "I'm not dictating to you," she returned; "I'm telling you what Iwant." The answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took thewind out of his sails. He could not attack her, he could not ask herfor proofs. Somehow he felt evidence, law, the remembrance of allhis property which she held in her name, to be shining in herglance. He was like a vessel, powerful and dangerous, but rollingand floundering without sail. "And I'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recoveringhimself, "what you'll not get." "We'll see about it," she said. "I'll find out what my rights are.Perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me." It was a magnificent play, and had its effect. Hurstwood fell backbeaten. He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to contendwith. He felt that he was face to face with a dull proposition. Whatto say he hardly knew. All the merriment had gone out of the day. Hewas disturbed, wretched, resentful. What should he do? "Do as you please," he said, at last. "I'll have nothing more todo with you," and out he strode. Chapter XXIII. A SPIRIT IN TRAVAIL: ONE RUNG PUT BEHIND When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey tothose doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack ofdecision. She could not persuade herself as to the advisability of herpromise, or that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. Shewent over the whole ground in Hurstwood's absence, and discoveredlittle objections that had not occurred to her in the warmth of themanager's argument. She saw where she had put herself in a peculiarlight, namely, that of agreeing to marry when she was alreadysupposedly married. She remembered a few things Drouet had done, andnow that it came to walking away from him without a word, she feltas if she were doing wrong. Now, she was comfortably situated, andto one who is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgentmatter, and one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments. "You donot know what will come. There are miserable things outside. People goa-begging. Women are wretched. You never can tell what will happen.Remember the time you were hungry. Stick to what you have." Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not taken afirm hold on her understanding. She was listening, smiling, approving,and yet not finally agreeing. This was due to a lack of power on hispart, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind fromits seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangledmass, and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. Thismajesty of passion is possessed by nearly every man once in hislife, but it is usually an attribute of youth and conduces to thefirst successful mating. Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retainthe fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm andunreasoning. It was strong enough to induce the leaning toward himwhich, on Carrie's part, we have seen. She might have been said tobe imagining herself in love, when she was not. Women frequently dothis. It flows from the fact that in each exists a bias towardsaffection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved. The longing tobe shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is one of the attributes ofthe sex. This, coupled with sentiment and a natural tendency toemotion, often makes refusing difficult. It persuades them that theyare in love. Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms forherself. In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she nevertook the house-maid's opinion. That young woman invariably put oneof the rocking-chairs in the corner, and Carrie as regularly movedit out. To-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, soabsorbed was she in her own thoughts. She worked about the roomuntil Drouet put in appearance at five o'clock. The drummer wasflushed and excited and full of determination to know all about herrelations with Hurstwood. Nevertheless, after going over the subjectin his mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wishedit over with. He did not foresee serious consequences of any sort, andyet he rather hesitated to begin. Carrie was sitting by the windowwhen he came in, rocking and looking out. "Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussionand wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makesyou hurry so?" Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as towhat course to pursue. He was no diplomat. He could neither read norsee. "When did you get home?" he asked foolishly. "Oh, an hour or so ago. What makes you ask that?" "You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and Ithought you had gone out." "So I did," said Carrie simply. "I went for a walk." Drouet looked at her wonderingly. For all his lack of dignity insuch matters he did not know how to begin. He stared at her in themost flagrant manner until at last she said: "What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?" "Nothing," he answered. "I was just thinking." "Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by hisattitude. "Oh, nothing- nothing much." "Well, then, what makes you look so?" Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner.He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with thelittle toilet pieces which were nearest him. He hesitated to believethat the pretty woman before him was involved in anything sounsatisfactory to himself. He was very much inclined to feel that itwas all right, after all. Yet the knowledge imparted to him by thechambermaid was rankling in his mind. He wanted to plunge in with astraight remark of some sort, but he knew not what. "Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly. "Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie. "Sure you did?" he asked. "Yes, what makes you ask?" She was beginning to see now that he knew something. Instantly shedrew herself into a more reserved position. Her cheeks blanchedslightly. "I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in themost useless manner. Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted.She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuitionrealised that there was no occasion for great alarm. "What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her prettyforehead. "You act so funny to-night." "I feel funny," he answered. They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plungeddesperately into his subject. "What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked. "Me and Hurstwood- what do you mean?" "Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?" "A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily. "No, but what do youmean?" "Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he camehere every night." "No such thing," answered Carrie. "It isn't true. Who told youthat?" She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet didnot catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of theroom. He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended herself withdenials. "Well, some one," he said. "You're sure you didn't?" "Certainly," said Carrie. "You know how often he came." Drouet paused for a moment and thought. "I know what you told me," he said finally. He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly. "Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that," saidCarrie, recovering herself. "If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "Iwouldn't have anything to do with him. He's a married man, you know." "Who- who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word. "Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that hewas delivering a telling blow. "Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising. Her face had changedseveral shades since this announcement was made. She looked within andwithout herself in a half-dazed way. "Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was outof order and exceedingly incriminating. "Why, I know it. I've always known it," said Drouet. Carrie was feeling about for a right thought. She was making amost miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within herwhich were anything but crumbling cowardice. "I thought I told you," he added. "No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice."You didn't do anything of the kind." Drouet listened to her in astonishment. This was something new. "I thought I did," he said. Carrie looked around her very solemnly and then went over to thewindow. "You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet inan injured tone, "after all I've done for you." "You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?" Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings- shameat exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at Drouet'sdeception, the mockery he had made of her. Now one clear idea cameinto her head. He was at fault. There was no doubt about it. Why didhe bring Hurstwood out- Hurstwood, a married man, and never say a wordto her? Never mind now about Hurstwood's perfidy- why had he donethis? Why hadn't he warned her? There he stood now, guilty of thismiserable breach of confidence and talking about what he had donefor her! "Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire hisremark had generated. "I think I've done a good deal." "You have, eh?" she answered. "You've deceived me- that's whatyou've done. You've brought your friends out here under falsepretences. You've made me out to be- Oh," and with this her voicebroke and she pressed her two little hands together tragically. "I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummerquaintly. "No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth."No, of course you don't see. There isn't anything you see. Youcouldn't have told me in the first place, could you? You had to makeme out wrong until it was too late. Now you come sneaking aroundwith your information and your talk about what you have done." Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature. She wasalive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her wholebody sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath. "Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part,but certain that he was wronged. "You are," stamped Carrie. "You're a horrid, conceited coward,that's what you are. If you had any sense of manhood in you, youwouldn't have thought of doing any such thing." The drummer stared. "I'm not a coward," he said. "What do you mean by going with othermen, anyway?" "Other men!" exclaimed Carrie. "Other men- you know better thanthat. I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it? Didn'tyou bring him here? You told him yourself that he should come out hereand take me out. Now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that Ioughtn't to go with him and that he's a married man." She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands.The knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife. "Oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping hereyes dry. "Oh, oh!" "Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I wasaway," insisted Drouet. "Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man'speculiar attitude. "Of course not. You thought only of what would beto your satisfaction. You thought you'd make a toy of me- a plaything.Well, I'll show you that you won't. I'll have nothing more to dowith you at all. You can take your old things and keep them," andunfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorouslyupon the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the thingswhich belonged to her. By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. Helooked at her in amazement, and finally said: "I don't see where your wrath comes in. I've got the right of thisthing. You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right afterall I did for you." "What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head thrownback and her lips parted. "I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around."I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I? I've takenyou everywhere you wanted to go. You've had as much as I've had, andmore too." Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. In sofar as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received.She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was notplacated. She felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably. "Did I ask you to?" she returned. "Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it." "You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie. "Youstand there and throw up what you've done. I don't want your oldthings. I'll not have them. You take them to-night and do what youplease with them. I'll not stay here another minute." "That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of hisown approaching loss. "Use everything and abuse me and then walkoff. That's just like a woman. I take you when you haven't gotanything, and then when some one else comes along, why I'm no good.I always thought it'd come out that way." He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as ifhe saw no way of obtaining justice. "It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else.You have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. I hateyou, I tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another minute. You're abig, insulting"- here she hesitated and used no word at all- "or youwouldn't talk that way." She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on overher little evening dress. Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened fromthe bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot,red cheeks. She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. Her large eyeswere full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet.She was distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without anaim or conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how thewhole difficulty would end. "Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet. "Pack up and pull out,eh? You take the cake. I bet you were knocking around with Hurstwoodor you wouldn't act like that. I don't want the old rooms. You needn'tpull out for me. You can have them for all I care, but b'George, youhaven't done me right." "I'll not live with you," said Carrie. "I don't want to live withyou. You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here." "Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered. Carrie walked over to the door. "Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off. "Let me out," she said. "Where are you going?" he repeated. He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wanderingout, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance. Carrie merely pulled at the door. The strain of the situation was too much for her, however. Shemade one more vain effort and then burst into tears. "Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently. "What do you wantto rush out for this way? You haven't any place to go. Why not stayhere now and be quiet? I'll not bother you. I don't want to stayhere any longer." Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. She was soovercome she could not speak. "Be reasonable now," he said. "I don't want to hold you. You cango if you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord knows, Idon't want to stop you." He received no answer. Carrie was quieting, however, under theinfluence of his plea. "You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last. Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. Her mind was shakenloose from the little mooring of logic that it had. She was stirred bythis thought, angered by that- her own injustice, Hurstwood's,Drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and favour, thethreat of the world outside, in which she had failed once before,the impossibility of this state inside, where the chambers were nolonger justly hers, the effect of the argument upon her nerves, allcombined to make her a mass of jangling fibres- an anchorless,storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift. "Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with anew idea, and putting his hand upon her. "Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing herhandkerchief from her eyes. "Never mind about this quarrel now. Let it go. You stay here untilthe month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want todo. Eh?" Carrie made no answer. "You'd better do that," he said. "There's no use your packing upnow. You can't go anywhere." Still he got nothing for his words. "If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll getout." Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of thewindow. "Will you do that?" he asked. Still no answer. "Will you?" he repeated. She only looked vaguely into the street. "Aw! come on," he said, "tell me. Will you?" "I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer. "Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talkingabout it. It'll be the best thing for you." Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answerreasonably. She felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest inher had not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. She wasin a most helpless plight. As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover.Now his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow atlosing Carrie, misery at being defeated. He wanted his rights insome way or other, and yet his rights included the retaining ofCarrie, the making her feel her error. "Will you?" he urged. "Well, I'll see," said Carrie. This left the matter as open as before, but it was something. Itlooked as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only getsome way of talking to one another. Carrie was ashamed, and Drouetaggrieved. He pretended to take up the task of packing some thingsin a valise. Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certainsound thoughts came into her head. He had erred, true, but what hadshe done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism.Throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh. On theother hand there was Hurstwood- a greater deceiver than he. He hadpretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was lying toher all the while. Oh, the perfidy of men! And she had loved him.There could be nothing more in that quarter. She would see Hurstwoodno more. She would write him and let him know what she thought.Thereupon what would she do? Here were these rooms. Here was Drouet,pleading for her to remain. Evidently things could go on here somewhatas before, if all were arranged. It would be better than the street,without a place to lay her head. All this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for collarsand laboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. He was inno hurry to rush this matter. He felt an attraction to Carrie whichwould not down. He could not think that the thing would end by hiswalking out of the room. There must be some way round, some way tomake her own up that he was right and she was wrong- to patch up apeace and shut out Hurstwood for ever. Mercy how he turned at theman's shameless duplicity. "Do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "thatyou'll try and get on the stage?" He was wondering what she was intending. "I don't know what I'll do yet," said Carrie. "If you do, maybe I can help you. I've got a lot of friends inthat line." She made no answer to this. "Don't go and try to knock around now without any money. Let me helpyou," he said. "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook here." Carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair. "I don't want you to go up against a hard game that way." He bestirred himself about some other details and Carrie rocked on. "Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time,"and let's call it off? You don't really care for Hurstwood, do you?" "Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie. "You wereto blame." "No, I wasn't," he answered. "Yes, you were, too," said Carrie. "You shouldn't have ever toldme such a story as that." "But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went onDrouet, anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denialfrom her. "I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical turnthe peace arrangement had taken. "What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the drummer,stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "You mightlet me know where I stand, at least." "I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "Whateverhas happened is your own fault." "Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely andexperiencing a rush of feeling. "Oh, stop!" said Carrie. "Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed Drouet. "You maytrifle around with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. Youcan tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any longer!" He shoved the last few remaining things. he had laid out into hisvalise and snapped it with a vengeance. Then he grabbed his coat,which he had laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out. "You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as hereached the door. "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with ajerk and closed it equally vigorously. Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anythingelse at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. She could hardlybelieve her senses- so good-natured and tractable had he invariablybeen. It was not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. Areal flame of love is a subtle thing. It burns as awill-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to fairy lands of delight. It roarsas a furnace. Too often jealousy is the quality upon which it feeds. Chapter XXIV. ASHES OF TINDER: A FACE AT THE WINDOW That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to thePalmer House for a bed after his work was through. He was in a feveredstate of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened tocast upon his entire future. While he was not sure how muchsignificance might be attached to the threat she had made, he was surethat her attitude, if long continued, would cause him no end oftrouble. She was determined, and had worsted him in a very importantcontest. How would it be from now on? He walked the floor of hislittle office, and later that of his room, putting one thing andanother together to no avail. Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose heradvantage by inaction. Now that she had practically cowed him, shewould follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of whichwould make her word law in the future. He would have to pay her themoney which she would now regularly demand or there would betrouble. It did not matter what he did. She really did not carewhether he came home any more or not. The household would move alongmuch more pleasantly without him, and she could do as she wishedwithout consulting any one. Now she proposed to consult a lawyer andhire a detective. She would find out at once just what advantagesshe could gain. Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points ofhis situation. "She has that property in her name," he kept sayingto himself. "What a fool trick that was. Curse it! What a fool movethat was." He also thought of his managerial position. "If she raises a row nowI'll lose this thing. They won't have me around if my name gets in thepapers. My friends, too!" He grew more angry as he thought of the talkany action on her part would create. How would the papers talk aboutit? Every man he knew would be wondering. He would have to explain anddeny and make a general mark of himself. Then Moy would come andconfer with him and there would be the devil to pay. Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplatedthis, and his brow moistened. He saw no solution of anything- not aloophole left. Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and theapproaching affair of Saturday. Tangled as all his matters were, hedid not worry over that. It was the one pleasing thing in this wholerout of trouble. He could arrange that satisfactorily, for Carriewould be glad to wait, if necessary. He would see how things turnedout to-morrow, and then he would talk to her. They were going tomeet as usual. He saw only her pretty face and neat figure andwondered why life was not arranged so that such joy as he found withher could be steadily maintained. How much more pleasant it wouldbe. Then he would take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinklesand moisture would return. In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail,but there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. For somereason he felt as if something might come that way, and was relievedwhen all the envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspiciousnoticed. He began to feel the appetite that had been wanting before hehad reached the office, and decided before going out to the park tomeet Carrie to drop in at the Grand Pacific and have a pot of coffeeand some rolls. While the danger had not lessened, it had not as yetmaterialised, and with him no news was good news. If he could only getplenty of time to think, perhaps something would turn up. Surely,surely, this thing would not drift along to catastrophe and he notfind a way out. His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waitedand waited and Carrie did not come. He held his favourite post foran hour or more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly.Could something have happened out there to keep her away? Could shehave been reached by his wife? Surely not. So little did he considerDrouet that it never once occurred to him to worry about his findingout. He grew restless as he ruminated, and then decided that perhapsit was nothing. She had not been able to get away this morning. Thatwas why no letter notifying him had come. He would get one today. Itwould probably be on his desk when he got back. He would look for itat once. After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for theMadison car. To add to his distress, the bright blue sky becameovercast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. The windveered to the east, and by the time he reached his office it wasthreatening to drizzle all afternoon. He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing fromCarrie. Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. Hethanked his stars that he did not have to confront that propositionjust now when he needed to think so much. He walked the floor again,pretending to be in an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond theexpression of words. At one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returneda messenger was waiting for him. He looked at the little chap with afeeling of doubt. "I'm to bring an answer," said the boy. Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing. He tore it open and readwithout a show of feeling. It began in the most formal manner andwas sharply and coldly worded throughout. "I want you to send the money I asked for at once. I need it tocarry out my plans. You can stay away if you want to. It doesn'tmatter in the least. I must have some money. So don't delay, butsend it by the boy." When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. Theaudacity of the thing took his breath. It roused his ire also- thedeepest element of revolt in him. His first impulse was to write butfour words in reply- "Go to the devil!"- but he compromised by tellingthe boy that there would be no reply. Then he sat down in his chairand gazed without seeing, contemplating the result of his work. Whatwould she do about that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to tryto bulldoze him into submission? He would go up there and have itout with her, that's what he would do. She was carrying things withtoo high a hand. These were his first thoughts. Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. Something had tobe done. A climax was near and she would not sit idle. He knew herwell enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she wouldfollow it up. Possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once. "Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make ithot for her if she causes me trouble. I'll make her change her tone ifI have to use force to do it!" He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. Thelong drizzle had begun. Pedestrians had turned up collars, andtrousers at the bottom. Hands were hidden in the pockets of theumbrellaless; umbrellas were up. The street looked like a sea of roundblack cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. Trucks and vans wererattling in a noisy line and everywhere men were shieldingthemselves as best they could. He scarcely noticed the picture. He wasforever confronting his wife, demanding of her to change herattitude toward him before he worked her bodily harm. At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if themoney was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid beforeFitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken toget it. Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.Yes, he would send her the money. He'd take it to her- he would goup there and have a talk with her, and that at once. He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. He wouldhave some arrangement of this thing. He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to theNorth Side. On the way his temper cooled as he thought of thedetails of the case. What did she know? What had she done? Maybe she'dgot hold of Carrie, who knows- or Drouet. Perhaps she really hadevidence, and was prepared to fell him as a man does another fromsecret ambush. She was shrewd. Why should she taunt him this wayunless she had good grounds? He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other-that he had sent the money. Perhaps he could do it up here. He wouldgo in and see, anyhow. He would have no row. By the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to thedifficulties of his situation and wished over and over that somesolution would offer itself, that he could see his way out. Healighted and went up the steps to the front door, but it was with anervous palpitation of the heart. He pulled out his key and tried toinsert it, but another key was on the inside. He shook at the knob,but the door was locked. Then he rang the bell. No answer. He rangagain- this time harder. Still no answer. He jangled it fiercelyseveral times in succession, but without avail. Then he went below. There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard againstburglars. When he reached this he noticed that it also was boltedand that the kitchen windows were down. What could it mean? He rangthe bell and then waited. Finally, seeing that no one was coming, heturned and went back to his cab. "I guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the individualwho was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin rain-coat. "I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby. Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. He climbedmoodily into the cab, relieved and distressed. So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay. Well,by the Lord, that did beat all! Chapter XXV. ASHES OF TINDER: THE LOOSING OF STAYS When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greaterquandary than ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into?How could things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? Hecould hardly realise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous,unnatural, unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon himwithout his let or hindrance. Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could bethe trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of anykind, and yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed tomeet him that morning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off-where? He saw that in the excitement of recent events he had notformulated a plan upon that score. He was desperately in love, andwould have taken great chances to win her under ordinarycircumstances, but now- now what? Supposing she had found outsomething? Supposing she, too, wrote him and told him that she knewall- that she would have nothing more to do with him? It would be justlike this to happen as things were going now. Meanwhile he had notsent the money. He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, hishands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was gettingsome vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea forthe ill which affected him. Every once in a while he would clinchhis fingers and tap his foot- signs of the stirring mental processhe was undergoing. His whole nature was vigorously and powerfullyshaken up, and he was finding what limits the mind has to endurance.He drank more brandy and soda than he had any evening in months. Hewas altogether a fine example of great mental perturbation. For all his study nothing came of the evening except this- he sentthe money. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours ofthe most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he gotan envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed itup. Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place. "You take this to this address," he said, handing him theenvelope, "and give it to Mrs. Hurstwood." "Yes, sir," said the boy. "If she isn't there bring it back." "Yes, sir." "You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as theboy turned to go. "Oh, yes, sir. I know her." "All right, now. Hurry right back." "Any answer?" "I guess not." The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now hehad done it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten forto-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, thewretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting theboy at the door and smiling sardonically. She would take theenvelope and know that she had triumphed. If he only had that letterback he wouldn't send it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisturefrom his face. For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friendswho were drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him,but it was not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to hishome and see the scene being therein enacted. All the time he waswondering what she would say when the boy handed her the envelope. In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He hadevidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no signof taking anything out of his pocket. "Well?" said Hurstwood. "I gave it to her." "My wife?" "Yes, sir." "Any answer?" "She said it was high time." Hurstwood scowled fiercely. There was no more to be done upon that score that night. He wenton brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repairedagain to the Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bringforth, and slept anything but soundly upon it. Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspiciousand hopeful of its contents. No word from Carrie. Nothing from hiswife, which was pleasant. The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received itworked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had doneit receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. Hefancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for aweek or two. Meanwhile, he would have time to think. This process of thinking began by a reversion to Carrie and thearrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet. How aboutthat now? His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidlyincreased as he devoted himself to this subject. He decided to writeher care of the West Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, aswell as to have her meet him. The thought that this letter wouldprobably not reach her until Monday chafed him exceedingly. He mustget some speedier method- but how? He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger ora cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but findingthat time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter andthen began to think again. The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the unionhe had contemplated. He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie bynow in the task of joining her interests to his, and here it wasafternoon and nothing done. Three o'clock came, four, five, six, andno letter. The helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured thegloom of defeat. He saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in,and nothing done. All day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone,shut out from home, from the excitement of his resort, from Carrie,and without the ability to alter his condition one iota. It was theworst Sunday he had spent in his life. In Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letterwhich held his interest for some time. It bore the imprint of thelaw offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal "DearSir," and "We beg to state," went on to inform him briefly that theyhad been retained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood to adjust certain matterswhich related to her sustenance and property rights, and would hekindly call and see them about the matter at once. He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shookhis head. It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning. "Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know." Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket. To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie. He was quitecertain now that she knew he was married and was angered at hisperfidy. His loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed hermost. He thought he would go out and insist on seeing her if she didnot send him word of some sort soon. He was really affected mostmiserably of all by this desertion. He had loved her earnestly enough,but now that the possibility of losing her stared him in the faceshe seemed much more attractive. He really pined for a word, andlooked out upon her with his mind's eye in the most wistful manner. Hedid not propose to lose her, whatever she might think. Come whatmight, he would adjust this matter, and soon. He would go to her andtell her all his family complications. He would explain to her justwhere he stood and how much he needed her. Surely she couldn't go backon him now? It wasn't possible. He would plead until her anger wouldmelt- until she would forgive him. Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there- suppose she hasgone?" He was forced to take his feet. It was too much to think of andsit still. Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing. On Tuesday it was the same way. He did manage to bring himselfinto the mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place hethought he saw a man watching him and went away. He did not gowithin a block of the house. One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came backon a Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost oppositethe building of the concern with which his son was connected. Thissent a pang through his heart. He had called on his boy thereseveral times. Now the lad had not sent him a word. His absence didnot seem to be noticed by either of his children. Well, well,fortune plays a man queer tricks. He got back to his office and joinedin a conversation with friends. It was as if idle chatter deadened thesense of misery. That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to hisoffice. In the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. Hetroubled over many little details and talked perfunctorily toeverybody. He stayed at his desk long after all others had gone, andonly quitted it when the night watchman on his round pulled at thefront door to see if it was safely locked. On Wednesday, he received another polite note from McGregor, Jamesand Hay. It read: Dear Sir: We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait until tomorrow(Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit against you, on behalfof Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and alimony. If we do not hearfrom you before that time we shall consider that you do not wish tocompromise the matter in any way and act accordingly. Very truly yours, etc. "Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly. "Compromise!" Again heshook his head. So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew whatto expect. If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly.If he did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil.He folded the letter and put it with the other one. Then he put on hishat and went for a turn about the block. Chapter XXVI. THE AMBASSADOR FALLEN: A SEARCH FOR THE GATE Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps,scarcely realising what had happened. She knew that he had stormedout. It was some moments before she questioned whether he wouldreturn, not now exactly, but ever. She looked around her upon therooms, out of which the evening light was dying, and wondered whyshe did not feel quite the same towards them. She went over to thedresser and struck a match, lighting the gas. Then she went back tothe rocker to think. It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when shedid, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone.Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hearanything more of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not lastlong. She would have to quit them. To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood.She could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret.For a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence ofhuman depravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash.She would have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yetshe could not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Onlythis one deed seemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply withall she felt and knew concerning the man. But she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. Howabout that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to lookaround in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spokenabout that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deepand varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fellcompletely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat,thinking it over. She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboardin the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts.She looked at these things with certain misgivings. Thecontemplation of food had more significance than usual. While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had.It struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went tolook for her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were sevendollars in bills and some change. She quailed as she thought of theinsignificance of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paiduntil the end of the month. She began also to think what she wouldhave done if she had gone out into the street when she firststarted. By the side of that situation, as she looked at it now, thepresent seemed agreeable. She had a little time at least, and then,perhaps, everything would come out all right, after all. Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. Heonly acted as if he were hurry. He would come back- of course hewould. There was his cane in the corner. Here was one of hiscollars. He had left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She lookedabout and tried to assure herself with the sight of a dozen suchdetails, but, alas, the secondary thought arrived. Supposing he didcome back. Then what? Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing.She would have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her toadmit that he was right. It would be impossible for her to live withhim. On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, andthe passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, havebeen in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen herexceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind shefelt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown streetdress, and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portiononce again. She must look for work. The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, servedequally well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doorsas it did to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day. The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters,and besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grassshining exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When shewent out the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses.She could not help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, thatlife was a joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and shewished over and over that something might interfere now to preservefor her the comfortable state which she had occupied. She did not wantDrouet or his money when she thought of it, nor anything more to dowith Hurstwood, but only the content and ease of mind she hadexperienced, for, after all, she had been happy- happier, at least,than she was now when confronted by the necessity of making her wayalone. When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock,and the business had little longer to run. She did not realise this atfirst, being affected by some of the old distress which was a resultof her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. Shewandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind tolook for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it wasnot necessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult toencounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure thatshe was really face to face again with the bitter problem ofself-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knewthat she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed.Her clothes were becoming, and men- well-dressed men, some of the kindwho before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polishedrailings and imposing office partitions- now gazed into her facewith a soft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power andsatisfaction of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. Shelooked for nothing save what might come legitimately and without theappearance of special favour. She wanted something, but no manshould buy her by false protestations or favour. She proposed toearn her living honestly. "This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing andsatisfactory legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought toenter and inquire for work. It gave her an excuse, and afterencountering quite a number of them, and noting that the clockregistered 12.15, she decided that it would be no use to seekfurther to-day, so she got on a car and went to Lincoln Park. Therewas always something to see there- the flowers, the animals, the lake-and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be up betimes andsearching. Besides, many things might happen between now and Monday. Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heavenknows what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day thethought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishingwhip, that action- immediate action- was imperative. At other timesshe would look about her and assure herself that things were not sobad- that certainly she would come out safe and sound. At such timesshe would think of Drouet's advice about going on the stage, and sawsome chance for herself in that quarter. She decided to take up thatopportunity on the morrow. Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herselfcarefully. She did not know just how such applications were made,but she took it to be a matter which related more directly to thetheatre buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some oneabout the theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there wasanything, you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how. She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever,and did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe.She only knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of allthings, she did not wish to encounter that personage, on account ofher intimacy with his wife. There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago OperaHouse, which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager,David A. Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen oneor two elaborate performances there and had heard of several others.She knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, butshe instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, andaccordingly strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravelyenough to the showy entrance way, with the polished and begildedlobby, set with framed pictures out of the current attraction, leadingup to the quiet box-office, but she could get no further. A notedcomic opera comedian was holding forth that week, and the air ofdistinction and prosperity overawed her. She could not imagine thatthere would be anything in such a lofty sphere for her. She almosttrembled at the audacity which might have carried her on to a terriblerebuff. She could find heart only to look at the pictures which wereshowy and then walk out. It seemed to her as if she had made asplendid escape and that it would be foolhardy to think of applying inthat quarter again. This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She lookedaround elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location ofseveral playhouses fixed in her mind- notably the Grand Opera Houseand McVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions- and thencame away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newlyrestored sense of magnitude of the great interests and theinsignificance of her claims upon society, such as she understood themto be. That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter andprotracted stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament orthe fortune of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down tothink, and gave herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouethad not put in an appearance. She had had no word from any quarter,she had spent a dollar of her precious sum in procuring food andpaying car fare. It was evident that she would not endure long.Besides, she had discovered no resource. In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van BurenStreet, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and toher home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something thatcould not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction.Nothing but sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, whichwould return. That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready amanner seemed a cruel thing. Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation.She was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hastenforth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself forwhat she considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly shestarted out to revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcelyenough courage to approach. She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however. "Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressedindividual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressedby Carrie's looks. "I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question. "You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow,"volunteered the young man. "He's out of town." He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish tosee about?" "I want to see about getting a position," she answered. "You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "buthe isn't here now." "When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by thisinformation. "Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's hereafter two o'clock." Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazedafter her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop. "Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions ofcondescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering tohimself. One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing anengagement at the Grand opera House. Here Carrie asked to see themanager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority ofthis individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor wouldhave been sent on from New York to fill it. "His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office. Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near awindow, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk-the manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear thatshe should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, twoof whom- the occupants of the window- were already observing hercarefully. "I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr.Frohman's never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!" Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no onemotioned her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had beentalking went away quite crest-fallen. That luminary gazed earnestly atsome papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern. "Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,Harris?" "No," said the person addressed. "What was it?" "Made quite a curtain address at Hooley's last night. Better look itup." Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "Herald." "What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing herfor the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for freetickets. Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. Sherealised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff werecertain. Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretendshe had called for advice. "Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?" It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She wasinteresting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and thesimplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, asdid the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort toconceal their humour. "I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have youever had any experience upon the stage?" "A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateurperformances." She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order toretain his interest. "Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intendedas much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie. "No, sir." "Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in hischair while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on thestage?" She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answerto his engaging smirk, and say: "I need to make a living." "Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, andfeeling as if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "That's agood reason, isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for whatyou want to do. You ought to be in New York. There's more chancethere. You could hardly expect to get started out here." Carrie smiled genially, grateful that he should condescend to adviseher even so much. He noticed the smile, and put a slightly differentconstruction on it. He thought he saw an easy chance for a littleflirtation. "Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of hisdesk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should nothear. Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink. "Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and soaddressing the manager. "See you this afternoon." "All right," said the manager. The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read. "Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?"asked the manager softly. "Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with." "I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?" "Yes, sir." The manager smiled most blandly. "Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuminga more confidential air. Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant andunnatural in his manner. "No," she said. "That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage.It's a good way to get experience." He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasivemanner. "I didn't know that," said Carrie. "It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always achance, you know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled outhis watch and consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he said,"and I've got to go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine withme? We can talk it over there." "Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on herat once. "I have an engagement myself." "That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a littlebeforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. "Come inlater. I may know of something." "Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation, and went out. "She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion,who had not caught all the details of the game he had played. "Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had beenlost. "She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorusgirl-that's all." This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call uponthe manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so aftera time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once thatthere was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her searchfoolish. "Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be inNew York." Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could notfind any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the person towhom she was referred was not to be found. These little expeditions took up her time until quite fouro'clock, when she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if sheought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far weretoo dispiriting. She took the car and arrived at Ogden Place inthree-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the West Sidebranch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to receiveHurstwood's letters. There was one there now, written Saturday,which she tore open and read with mingled feelings. There was somuch warmth in it and such tense complaint at her having failed tomeet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied theman. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished anddared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if thething deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she wouldwrite and let him know that she knew of his married state and wasjustly incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was allover between them. At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time,for she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult. "You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," shewrote in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me tohave anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any circumstances.Oh, how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "Youhave caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will getover your infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye." She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped itreluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether sheshould do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town. This was the dull season with the department stores, but she waslistened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to youngwomen applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She wasasked the same old questions with which she was already familiar. "What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Areyou experienced?" At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was muchthe same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later,possibly they would like to have her. When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary anddisheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. Hisumbrella and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed otherthings, but could not be sure. Everything had not been taken. So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within aday or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands togetherin her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tearsgathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,very much alone. Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind fromthat which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justifyhis return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion ofhis wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace. Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrieout. He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in theneighbourhood and would soon return. He constantly listened, expectingto hear her foot on the stair. When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he hadjust come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he wouldexplain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood. Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From potteringaround among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival,he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to restinghimself in the rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to growrestless and lit a cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then helooked out of the window and saw clouds gathering. He remembered anappointment at three. He began to think that it would be useless towait, and got hold of his umbrella and light coat, intending to takethese things, any way. It would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow hewould come back for the others. He would find out how things stood. As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her.There was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayedin the little jacket he had first bought her- her face a little morewistful than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, andlooked into the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him. "You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing herin the flesh. Then he went to the door, took a good look around, and went out. Chapter XXVII. WHEN WATERS ENGULF US WE REACH FOR A STAR It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets,after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, thatHurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. Hethrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore itopen. "Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written tome at all." He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first fewminutes, but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if shedidn't care for me." This was his one resource against the depression which held him.He could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirithe thought he knew. There was really something exceedingly human- if not pathetic- inhis being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for solong remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself forcomfort- and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How theybind us all. The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letterfrom McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps hecould get out of the whole entanglement- perhaps it would notmatter. He wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only hemight not lose Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming hisdelightful dream of a life continued with this lovely possessor of hisheart. It was not long, however, before the old worry was back forconsideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrowand the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slippingaway. It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would havegone home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, thelast fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandonedthe thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie. It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself tohimself. He was not troubling about that. His whole thought was thepossibility of persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. Heloved her dearly. Their mutual happiness depended upon it. Wouldthat Drouet were only away! While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wantedsome clean linen in the morning. This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went tothe Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending thestairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps theyhad changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk. "Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk. "I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registrylist. "Yes." "Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing hisastonishment. "Alone?" he added. "Yes," said the clerk. Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express andconceal his feelings. "How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row." He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen.As he did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or ifshe had gone to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decidedto call at once. "I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask ifMr. Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there ornot and where Carrie is." He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. Hedecided to go immediately after supper. On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about tosee if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He couldscarcely eat, however, he was so anxious to be about his errand.Before starting he thought it well to discover where Drouet wouldbe, and returned to his hotel. "Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk. "No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send upa card?" "No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled out. He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place, this timewalking boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock. "Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly. "He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tellthis to Mrs. Hale. "Is Mrs. Drouet in?" "No, she has gone to the theatre." "Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as ifburdened with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?" The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not likingHurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes,Hooley's." "Thank you," returned the manager, and tipping his hat slightly,went away. "I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact hedid not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city hethought the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As muchas he longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and didnot wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might doso- in the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer questionbefore him. This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his risingspirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached theresort anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen weremaking the place lively with their conversation. A group of CookCounty politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood tablein the rear portion of the room. Several young merry-makers werechattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the theatre.A shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an old high hat,was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end of the bar.Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and went into his office. About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a localsport and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in hisoffice came to the door. "Hello, George!" he exclaimed. "How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sightof him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in thelittle room. "What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum.Haven't lost at the track, have you?" "I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the otherday." "Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that." Hurstwood smiled. While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood'sfriends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out,some actors began to drop in- among them some notabilities. Then began one of those pointless social conversations so commonin America resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off giltfrom those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning,it was toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, hebelonged among them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not tostrictly observe the plane he occupied when there were those presentwho did not appreciate him, but, in situations like the present, wherehe could shine as a gentleman and be received without equivocationas a friend and equal among men of known ability, he was mostdelighted. It was on such occasions, if ever, that he would "takesomething." When the social flavour was strong enough he would evenunbend to the extent of drinking glass for glass with hisassociates, punctiliously observing his turn to pay as if he were anoutsider like the others. If he ever approached intoxication- orrather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which precedes the moresloven state- it was when individuals such as these were gatheredabout him, when he was one of a circle of chatting celebrities.To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather relieved to findcompany, and now that notabilities were gathered, he laid aside histroubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily. It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories beganto crop up- those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the majorportion of the conversation among American men under suchcircumstances. Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it thecompany took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. Hewas very roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where hismind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt asif his troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he beganto turn over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of thebartenders and the cashier, who soon left. It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all weregone to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As arule, no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was keptabout the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier,who, with the owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but,nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cashdrawers and the safe in order to see that they were tightly closed.Then he would lock his own little office and set the proper lightburning near the safe, after which he would take his departure. Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, butto-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried thesafe. His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the doorresponded. He was slightly surprised at that, and looking in found themoney cases as left for the day, apparently unprotected. His firstthought was, of course, to inspect the drawers and shut the door. "I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought. The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hourbefore that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring thelock. He had never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew hadother thoughts. He had been revolving the problem of a business of hisown. "I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the moneydrawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It wasquite a superfluous action, which another time might not have happenedat all. As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such asbanks issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much theyrepresented, but paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second ofthe cash drawers. In that were the receipts of the day. "I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," hismind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it." He looked at the other drawer and paused again. "Count them," said a voice in his ear. He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and onehundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought hecounted ten such. "Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering."What makes me pause here?" For answer there came the strangest words: "Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?" Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All hisproperty had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that.He was worth more than forty thousand, all told- but she would getthat. He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawersand closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, whichmight so easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused.Finally he went to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then hetried the door, which he had previously locked. What was this thing,making him suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. Hecame back to the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think.Then he went and unlocked his little office door and turned on thelight. He also opened his desk, sitting down before it, only tothink strange thoughts. "The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least littlecrack in it. The lock has not been sprung." The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all theentanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was asolution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He roseup and stood stock-still, looking at the floor. "What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his handslowly up and scratched his head. The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errantproposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in hisveins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view ofthe situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousandfor him. He could see great opportunities with that. He could getCarrie. Oh, yes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. Thatletter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would notneed to answer that. He went back to the safe and put his hand onthe knob. Then he pulled the door open and took the drawer with themoney quite out. With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing tothink about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietlywith Carrie for years. Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if astern hand had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfullyaround. Not a soul was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling byon the sidewalk. He took the box and the money and put it back inthe safe. Then he partly closed the door again. To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament ofthe individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and whotrembles in the balance between duty and desire is scarcelyappreciable, unless graphically portrayed. Those who have neverheard that solemn voice of the ghostly clock which ticks with awfuldistinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thoushalt not," are in no position to judge. Not alone in sensitive,highly organised natures is such a mental conflict possible. Thedullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire toward evil, isrecalled by a sense of right, which is proportionate in power andstrength to his evil tendency. We must remember that it may not be aknowledge of right, for no knowledge of right is predicated of theanimal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men are still led by instinctbefore they are regulated by knowledge. It is instinct which recallsthe criminal- it is instinct (where highly organised reasoning isabsent) which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear ofwrong. At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mindwavers. The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. Tothose who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, thefollowing will appeal on the simple ground of revelation. When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its easeand daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No onecould tell what he wished to do. He could work this thing out forhimself. The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was hisbrow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he wasstill flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that thetime was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eyealways seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what itwould do. He strolled into his little room, then to the door, thento the safe again. He put his hand on the knob and opened it. Therewas the money! Surely no harm could come from looking at it! He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were sosmooth, so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. Hedecided he would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in hispocket. Then he looked at that and saw they would not go there. Hishand satchel! To be sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that- allof it would. No one would think anything of it either. He went intothe little office and took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he setit upon his desk and went out toward the safe. For some reason hedid not want to fill it out in the big room. First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the day.He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and pushed theiron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating. The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almostinexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could notbring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it- toponder over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such akeen desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his ownaffairs that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet hewavered. He did not know what evil might result from it to him- howsoon he might come to grief. The true ethics of the situation neveronce occurred to him, and never would have, under any circumstances. After he had all the money in the hand bag, a revulsion of feelingseized him. He would not do it- no! Think of what a scandal it wouldmake. The police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, andwhere? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took outthe two boxes and put all the money back. In his excitement heforgot what he was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As hepushed the door to, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and openedthe door again. There were the two boxes mixed. He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror hadgone. Why be afraid? While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Didhe do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed.Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough. The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, thesweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He lookedabout him and decided instantly. There was no delaying now. "Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'llknow who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things willhappen." At once he became the man of action. "I must get out of this," he thought. He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat andhat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned outall but one light and opened the door. He tried to put on his oldassured air, but it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly. "I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake." He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whomhe knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and thatquickly. "I wonder how the trains run?" he thought. Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearlyhalf-past one. At the first drug store he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephonebooth inside. It was a famous drug store, and contained one of thefirst private telephone booths ever erected. "I want to use your 'phone a minute," he said to the night clerk. The latter nodded. "Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up theMichigan Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent. "How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked. The man explained the hours. "No more to-night?" "Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There isa mail train out of here at three o'clock." "All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to Detroit?" He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the riverinto Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. Hewas relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon. "Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can'tget on my track before noon." Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if hegot her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into thenearest cab standing by. "To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more ifyou make good time." The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop, whichwas fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do.Reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare thebell in waking the servant. "Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked. "Yes," said the astonished girl. "Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is inthe hospital, injured, and wants to see her." The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strainedand emphatic manner. "What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes. "Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. Thecab's downstairs." Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgettingeverything save the necessities. "Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you. Comequickly." Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story. "Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after. The cabby began to turn the horse around. "Michigan Central depot," he said, standing up and speaking so lowthat Carrie could not hear, "as fast as you can go." Chapter XXVIII. A PILGRIM, AN OUTLAW: THE SPIRIT DETAINED The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settlingherself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked: "What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?" "It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He wasvery much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carriewith him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law.Therefore he was in no mood for anything save such words as wouldfurther his plans distinctly. Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled betweenher and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. Theone thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage. "Where is he?" "Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take thetrain. It's the quickest way." Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness ofthe city by night held her attention. She looked at the longreceding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses. "How did he hurt himself?" she asked- meaning what was the nature ofhis injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more thannecessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger. "I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go andget you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need foralarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you." The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,wondering. Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For onein so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only thinkof how needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrieseemed quite tractable, and he congratulated himself. In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out hehanded the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on. "You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached thewaiting-room, "while I get the tickets." "Have I much time to catch the train for Detroit?" he asked of theagent. "Four minutes," said the latter. He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible. "Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back. "Not very," he said. "We must get right in." He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and theticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she couldnot see, and then hurried after. There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or twocommon day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up andfew passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemenwaiting. They entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almostimmediately, "All aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and thetrain started. Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious- this going to adepot- but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of thenatural that she did not attach too much weight to anything sheimagined. "How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathedeasier. "Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could notbring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervousto reach Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwoodcontemplated her and felt this. He was not disturbed that it should beso. He did not trouble because she was moved sympathetically in thematter. It was one of the qualities in her which pleased himexceedingly. He was only thinking how he should explain. Even this wasnot the most serious thing in his mind, however. His own deed andpresent flight were the great shadows which weighed upon him. "What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What amistake!" In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing hadbeen done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive fromjustice. He had often read of such things, and had thought they mustbe terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat andlooked into the past. The future was a thing which concerned theCanadian line. He wanted to reach that. As for the rest, he surveyedhis actions for the evening, and counted them parts of a greatmistake. "Still," he said, "what could I have done?" Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to doso by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless,harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with theproposition he had in the presence of Carrie. The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ranrather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visiblewithout. The engine gave short calls with its whistle, andfrequently the bell rang. Several brakemen came through, bearinglanterns. They were locking the vestibules and putting the cars inorder for a long run. Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silentstreets flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began itswhistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger toimportant crossings. "Is it very far?" asked Carrie. "Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could hardly repress a smile ather simplicity. He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but he alsowanted to be well out of Chicago. In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carriethat it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow. "Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyondthe city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line ata great rate. "No," he said, "not where we are going." There was something in the way he said this which aroused her inan instant. Her pretty brow began to contract. "We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked. He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well comenow as later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentlenegative. "What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of theerrand being different from what she had thought. He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way. "Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voiceshowing the quality of fright. "I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come alongwith me to another city." "Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off.I don't want to go with you." She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was somethingwhich had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now wasto get off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, theterrible trick would be amended. She arose and tried to push out into the aisle- anywhere. She knewshe had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her. "Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any goodto get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait amoment." She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No onesaw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, andthey were attempting to doze. "I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against herwill. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears beganto gather in her eyes. Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, andceased to think of his own situation. He must do something with thisgirl, or she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasionwith all his powers aroused. "Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. Ididn't mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to makeyou feel bad." "Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh- oo- o!" "There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me?Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do thisthing. I couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?" Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not heara word he said. "Won't you listen?" he asked. "No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take meout of this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's ashame," and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression. Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had justcause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he couldstraighten this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would comethrough for the tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind.Before everything he must make her quiet. "You couldn't get out until the train stops again," saidHurstwood. "It won't be very long until we reach another station.You can get out then if you want to. I won't stop you. All I wantyou to do is to listen a moment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?" Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward thewindow, where outside all was black. The train was speeding withsteady grace across the fields and through patches of wood. The longwhistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodlandcrossings were approached. Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two faresthat had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handedout the tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. Shedid not look about. When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved. "You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't meanto, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stayaway from you after the first time I saw you." He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by theboard. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be afactor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shutout of his mind. "Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to goaway from me. I am going to get out at the very next station." She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke. "All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? Afterall you have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't wantto do you any harm. I'll give you the money to go back with when yougo. I merely want to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from lovingyou, whatever you may think." He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply. "You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't doit willingly. I'm through with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me.I'll never see her any more. That's why I'm here to-night. That'swhy I came and got you." "You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You deceivedme. You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to forceme to run away with you." She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. Helet her, and she took another seat. Then he followed. "Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me explain.If you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you mywife is nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or Iwouldn't have ever come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just assoon as I can. I'll never see her again. I'm done with all that.You're the only person I want. If I can have you I won't ever think ofanother woman again." Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincereenough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness inHurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She didnot want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceivedher once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still thereis something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted bylove of her. The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with thesolution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels anddisappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carriecould feel that she was being borne a long distance off- that theengine was making an almost through run to some distant city. She feltat times as if she could cry out and make such a row that some onewould come to her aid; at other times it seemed an almost uselessthing- so far was she from any aid, no matter what she did. All thewhile Hurstwood was endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a waythat it would strike home and bring her into sympathy with him. "I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do." Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this. "When I saw you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided toput everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'mgoing off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while,and then anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if yousay." "I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to getoff this train. Where are we going?" "To Detroit," said Hurstwood. "Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definitea point seemed to increase the difficulty. "Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was greatdanger that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but travelwith me. I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and NewYork, and then if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will bebetter than trying to go back to-night." The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. Itseemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition ifshe tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she wasspeeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them ifshe liked. She thought, but made no sign. Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubledhis ardour. "Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicagoany more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don'tcome with me. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?" "I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly. Hurstwood kept silent for a while. Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to actif she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily. "Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for meat all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say.I'll marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to thinkit over. I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. Itell you, Carrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!" There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealeddeeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuatinghim now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her upin this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously andpressed it with all the force of an appeal. The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars ona side track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A fewsprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining.Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision andhelplessness. Now the train stopped, and she was listening to hisplea. The engine backed a few feet and all was still. She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minuteslipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading. "Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she nowhad the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued. "Of course," he answered, "you know I will." Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. Shebegan to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely. The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject. "Aren't you very tired?" he said. "No," she answered. "Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?" She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery shewas beginning to notice what she had always felt- his thoughtfulness. "Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better." She shook her head. "Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arrangedhis light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head. "There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little."He could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat besideher and thought a moment. "I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said. "So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under thesound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept onfrantically through the shadow to a newer world. The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source ofsatisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporaryrelief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all ofhis time to devote to the consideration of his own error. His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want themiserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sumor any other could never compensate for the state which he had thusfoolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends,his name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to haveher. He was shut out from Chicago- from his easy, comfortable state.He had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasantevenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the moreunbearable it became. He began to think that he would try andrestore himself to his old state. He would return the miserablethievings of the night and explain. Perhaps Moy would understand.Perhaps they would forgive him and let him come back. By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feelexceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. Theyhad probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectiveswould be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaultershad been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paledsomewhat. His hands felt as if they must have something to do. Hesimulated interest in several scenes without which he did not feel. Herepeatedly beat his foot upon the floor. Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea whatit meant or that it was important. He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went onthrough to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could havesaved time. He jumped up and sought the conductor. "Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked. "Yes, the next sleeper back does." He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided toinquire at the depot. The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing. "I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he saidto Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off." He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calmexterior. Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She wasdrifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do. The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warilyaround him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing thatindicated studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office. "The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked. "In twenty minutes," said the man. He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back toCarrie. "We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrielooked tired and weary. "I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily. "You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said. "I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even ahandkerchief." "You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," heexplained. "You can call in a dressmaker." Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwoodbreathed a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run tothe river, and there they were ferried over. They had barely pulledthe train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh. "It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in hisrelief. "We get there the first thing in the morning." Carrie scarcely deigned to reply. "I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry." Chapter XXIX. THE SOLACE OF TRAVEL: THE BOATS OF THE SEA To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath isinvariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing whichsolaces and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected,and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions,succumbs to the flood of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrowslaid aside, death hidden from view. There is a world of accumulatedfeeling back of the trite dramatic expression- "I am going away." As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgotthat she had been tricked into this long journey against her willand that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling. Shequite forgot Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away tohomely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with wonderingeyes. It was an interesting world to her. Her life had just begun. Shedid not feel herself defeated at all. Neither was she blasted in hope.The great city held much. Possibly she would come out of bondageinto freedom- who knows? Perhaps she would be happy. These thoughtsraised her above the level of erring. She was saved in that she washopeful. The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and theystepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wonderingat the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwoodhad been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which hehad stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot heheard it called anew by a busman. "We'll go right up and get rooms," he said. At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while theclerk came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down.With the latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A namehe had seen out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasingenough. With an easy hand he wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It wasthe largest concession to necessity he felt like making. Hisinitials he could not spare. When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he hadsecured her a lovely chamber. "You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you areready." Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood lookedat himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk,no change of linen, not even a hair-brush. "I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up ahair-brush. Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll gofor a shave and come back and get you, and then we'll go out andlook for some clothes for you." He smiled good-naturedly as he said this. "All right," said Carrie. She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waitedfor the boy, who soon knocked. "Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water." "Yes, sir." "I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holdingout his hands, but she did not move to take them. "You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly. "Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently. "Don't you care for me at all?" She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window. "Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking oneof her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once said youdid." "What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie. "I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much." "You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, strikingcleanly home. "Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now.Won't you try and care for me a little?" He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her. She shook her head negatively. "Let me start all over again. Be my wife from today on." Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now heslipped his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He heldher quite close. Instantly there flamed up in his body theall-compelling desire. His affection took an ardent form. "Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him. "Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?" Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a momentbefore she had been listening with some complacency, remembering herold affection for him. He was so handsome, so daring! Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, whichrose feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as shewas, began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whosebosom she was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he lovedher, and she was alone. If she did not turn to him- accept of hislove- where else might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in theflood of his strong feeling. She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. Whatmagnetism there was she could never know. His many sins, however, werefor the moment all forgotten. He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that furtheropposition was useless. "Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how. "This very day," he said, with all delight. Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold uponher regretfully. "You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?" "Yes," she answered. "I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour." Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy. Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop.For the moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrieseemed to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Lifeseemed worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all thingscustomary and attached seemed as if it might have happiness instore. The storm showed a rainbow at the end of which might be a potof gold. He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar whichwas fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly.Instantly his heart sank. "Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are you doingdown here?" Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny,the stock-broker. "Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mindworking like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidentlydid not know- he had not read the papers. "Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kennygenially. "Stopping here?" "Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on theregister. "Going to be in town long?" "No, only a day or so." "Is that so? Had your breakfast?" "Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave." "Won't you come have a drink?" "Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later.Are you stopping here?" "Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: "Howare things out in Chicago?" "About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially. "Wife with you?" "No." "Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here forbreakfast. Come in when you're through." "I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation wasa trial to him. It seemed to add complications with every word. Thisman called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he hadleft. Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort- all these were in hisgreeting and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expectingto confer with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time withhim. All at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local paperswould have accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumphwith Carrie in the possibility of soon being known for what he was, inthis man's eyes, a safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went intothe barber shop. He decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel. Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out bythe ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some moreinconspicuous place. Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him.He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed,and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge wardpolitician's. This individual had been evidently talking with theclerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly. Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective- that he wasbeing watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in hismind was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What couldthese people do? He began to trouble concerning the extraditionlaws. He did not understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could bearrested. Oh, if Carrie should find out! Montreal was too warm forhim. He began to long to be out of it. Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She lookedrefreshed- more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he hadgone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Lovewas not blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemedincreased. He could not take her in his arms; he did not even try.Something about her forbade it. In part his opinion was the resultof his own experiences and reflections below stairs. "You're ready, are you?" he said kindly. "Yes," she answered. "We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appealto me very much." "All right," said Carrie. They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individualwas standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain fromshowing that he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in thefellow's eye was galling. Still they passed, and he explained toCarrie concerning the city. Another restaurant was not long in showingitself, and here they entered. "What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it solelybecause it was not like Chicago. "It isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you likeit?" "No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in thegreat Western city. "Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood. "What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit thistown. "Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort. There'ssome pretty scenery about here." Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was muchabout her situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation. "We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really gladto note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as soon asbreakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll likethat. It's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago." He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what thesedetectives would do- what move his employers at Chicago would make-then he would slip away- down to New York, where it was easy tohide. He knew enough about that city to know that its mysteries andpossibilities of mystification were infinite. The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situationbecame. He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up theground. The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him-Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest himthe moment he tried to leave Canada. So he might be compelled toremain here months, and in what a state! Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see themorning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminaldeed had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments,and went to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspiciousfaces were about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, sohe sought the main parlour on the floor above and, seated by awindow there, looked them over. Very little was given to his crime,but it was there, several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff oftelegraphed murders, accidents, marriages, and other news. Hewished, half sadly, that he could undo it all. Every moment of histime in this far-off abode of safety but added to his feeling thathe had made a great mistake. There could have been an easier way outif he had only known. He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keepthem out of the hands of Carrie. "Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged inlooking out of the window. "Oh, all right," she answered. He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when aknock came at their door. "Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie. Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individualwhom he had so thoroughly suspected. "You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume ofaffected shrewdness and assurance. "Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly thatsome of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men asthese were of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He steppedout and closed the door. "Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the manconfidentially. "I can guess," said Hurstwood softly. "Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?" "That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly. "You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly. "Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don'tunderstand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside.You'll have to excuse me." "Well, now, there's no use of your talking that way," said theman, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make a lot oftrouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in thishouse, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don'tknow you're here yet. You might as well be reasonable." "What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood. "Whether you're going to send back that money or not." Hurstwood paused and studied the floor. "There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last."There's no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I knowjust what you can do and what you can't. You can create a lot oftrouble if you want to. I know that all right, but it won't help youto get the money. Now, I've made up my mind what to do. I've alreadywritten Fitzgerald and Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You waituntil you hear more from them." All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from thedoor, down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were nownear the end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour. "You won't give it up?" said the man. The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into hisbrain. Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn'twant the money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy,maybe it would be all right again. "See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. Irespect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the peoplewho know." "Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man. "I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get readythere'll be nothing to stop me for." He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemedan intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room. "Who was it?" asked Carrie. "A friend of mine from Chicago." The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as itdid after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed toinduce a deep gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt himmost was the fact that he was being pursued as a thief. He began tosee the nature of that social injustice which sees but one side- oftenbut a single point in a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but onething, his taking the money. How and wherefore were butindifferently dealt with. All the complications which led up to itwere unknown. He was accused without being understood. Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send themoney back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and thensend it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they wouldask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made aboutwriting them. Then he would leave this peculiar town. For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of thetangle. He wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. Hefinally narrowed it down to an assertion that he was light-headed fromentertaining friends, had found the safe open, and having gone sofar as to take the money out, had accidentally closed it. This acthe regretted very much. He was sorry he had put them to so muchtrouble. He would undo what he could by sending the money back- themajor portion of it. The remainder he would pay up as soon as hecould. Was there any possibility of his being restored? This he onlyhinted at. The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the veryconstruction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painfulthing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were givenhim. He forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by asword, and that if he did manage to in some way reunite himself withit, the jagged line of separation and reunion would always show. Hewas always forgetting something- his wife, Carrie, his need ofmoney, present situation, or something- and so did not reason clearly.Nevertheless, he sent the letter, waiting a reply before sending themoney. Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, gettingwhat joy out of it he could. Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through theiropen windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and songin the air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. Sheseemed the one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she wouldonly love him wholly- only throw her arms around him in the blissfulspirit in which he had seen her in the little park in Chicago- howhappy he would be! It would repay him; it would show him that he hadnot lost all. He would not care. "Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "areyou going to stay with me from now on?" She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the valueof the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now,keen and strong- love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She couldnot help smiling. "Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make meworry any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get anice flat. I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won'tyou be mine?" Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her,but the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblanceof affection. She felt rather sorry for him- a sorrow born of what hadonly recently been a great admiration. True love she had never feltfor him. She would have known as much if she could have analysed herfeelings, but this thing which she now felt aroused by his greatfeeling broke down the barriers between them. "You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked. "Yes," she said, nodding her head. He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips andcheeks. "You must marry me, though," she said. "I'll get a license to-day." he answered. "How?" she asked. "Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live anew life. From now on I'm Murdock." "Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie. "Why not?" he said. "I don't like it." "Well, what shall I take?" he asked. "Oh, anything, only don't take that." He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said: "How would Wheeler do?" "That's all right," said Carrie. "Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license thisafternoon." They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they foundconvenient. At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. Hewas astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it hadcome about as it had. If the money were returned, they would nottrouble to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. Asfor his returning, or their restoring him to his former position, theyhad not quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would thinkit over and correspond with him later, possibly, after a littletime, and so on. The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and theywanted the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read hisdoom. He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said theywould send, keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed hisacquiescence, explained to the representative who called at thehotel the same day, took a certificate of payment, and told Carrieto pack her trunk. He was slightly depressed over this newest moveat the time he began to make it, but eventually restored himself. Hefeared that even yet he might be seized and taken back, so he tried toconceal his movements, but it was scarcely possible. He orderedCarrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he had it sent by express toNew York. No one seemed to be observing him, but he left at night.He was greatly agitated lest at the first station across the border orat the depot in New York there should be waiting for him an officer ofthe law. Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entryinto the latter city in the morning. The round green hillssentinelling the broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held herattention by their beauty as the train followed the line of thestream. She had heard of the Hudson River, the great city of New York,and now she looked out, filling her mind with the wonder of it. As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the eastbank of the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attentionto the fact that they were on the edge of the city. After herexperience with Chicago, she expected long lines of cars- a greathighway of tracks- and noted the difference. The sight of a fewboats in the Harlem and more in the East River tickled her youngheart. It was the first sign of the great sea. Next came a plainstreet with five-story brick flats, and then the train plunged intothe tunnel. "Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a fewminutes of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood aroseand gathered up his small grip. He was screwed up to the highesttension. With Carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. No oneapproached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for thestreet entrance. So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie,who fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. As he passedthrough the depot proper the strain reached its climax and began towane. All at once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailedhim. He heaved a great breath and turned, remembering Carrie. "I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said. "I was trying remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," heanswered. Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene. "How large is New York?" she asked. "Oh, a million or more," said Hurstwood. He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way. For the first time in years the thought that he must count theselittle expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing. He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent aflat. Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed. "We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said. Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the moreimportant hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom heknew. He stood up and spoke to the driver. "Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be lessfrequented by those whom he knew. Then he sat down. "Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take thetall five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families. "Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well."There are no lawns in New York. All these are houses." "Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have afew opinions of her own. Chapter XXX. THE KINGDOM OF GREATNESS: THE PILGRIM ADREAM Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is veryevident that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean likeNew York. In Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000,millionaires were not numerous. The rich had not become soconspicuously rich as to drown all moderate incomes in obscurity.The attention of the inhabitants was not so distracted by localcelebrities in the dramatic, artistic, social, and religious fields asto shut the well-positioned man from view. In Chicago the two roads todistinction were politics and trade. In New York the roads were anyone of a half-hundred, and each had been diligently pursued byhundreds, so that celebrities were numerous. The sea was alreadyfull of whales. A common fish must needs disappear wholly from view-remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing. There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which,though not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of theworld. The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon thesmall. This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among themagnificent residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops,restaurants, resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, thewines; drink of the laughter springing from the soul of luxuriouscontent, of the glances which gleam like light from defiant spears;feel the quality of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and ofstrides born of place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere ofthe high and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not thekingdom of greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by thisand the human heart views this as the one desirable realm which itmust attain, so long, to that heart, will this remain the realm ofgreatness. So long, also, will the atmosphere of this realm work itsdesperate results in the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent.One day of it, like one drop of the other, will so affect anddiscolour the views, the aims, the desire of the mind, that it willthereafter remain forever dyed. A day of it to the untried mind islike opium to the untried body. A craving is set up which, ifgratified, shall eternally result in dreams and death. Aye! dreamsunfulfilled- gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which beckon and lead,beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve their powerand restore us blind to nature's heart. A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to theillusions and burning desires of youth, but neither has he thestrength of hope which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth.Such an atmosphere could not incite in him the cravings of a boy ofeighteen, but in so far as they were excited, the lack of hope madethem proportionately bitter. He could not fail to notice the signsof affluence and luxury on every hand. He had been to New Yorkbefore and knew the resources of its folly. In part it was anawesome place to him, for here gathered all that he most respectedon this earth- wealth, place, and fame. The majority of thecelebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day as managerhailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most invitingstories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and individualshere. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was brushingelbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or five hundredthousand gave no one the privilege of living more than comfortablyin so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample sums, sothat the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quitesharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiledof his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin thebattle for place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but hewas not so dull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of asudden, then, this show of fine clothes, place, and power took onpeculiar significance. It was emphasised by contrast with his owndistressing state. And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear ofarrest was not the sine qua non of his existence. That dangerdissolved, the next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltrysum of thirteen hundred and some odd dollars set against the need ofrent, clothing, food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectaclelittle calculated to induce peace of mind in one who had beenaccustomed to spend five times that sum in the course of a year. Hethought upon the subject rather actively the first few days he wasin New York, and decided that he must act quickly. As a consequence,he consulted the business opportunities advertised in the morningpapers and began investigations on his own account. That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and hewent looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one inSeventy-eighth Street near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-storybuilding, and their flat was on the third floor. Owing to the factthat the street was not yet built up solidly, it was possible to seeeast to the green tops of the trees in Central Park and west to thebroad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse of which was to be had out ofthe west windows. For the privilege of six rooms and a bath, runningin a straight line, they were compelled to pay thirty-five dollars amonth- an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a home at the time.Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the rooms here andin Chicago and mentioned it. "You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless yougo into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have anyof these conveniences." Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and brightwood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat,which was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water,dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased hervery much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to takegreat satisfaction in these things. Hurstwood made arrangement with one of the instalment houses wherebythey furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down andten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G.W. Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. Itsounded exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by thejanitor, but in time she became used to it and looked upon the name asher own. These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of theadvertised opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishingdown-town bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could notstomach the commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost anumber of days looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did,however, gain considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered theinfluence of Tammany Hall and the value of standing in with thepolice. The most profitable and flourishing places he found to bethose which conducted anything but a legitimate business, such as thatcontrolled by Fitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and privatedrinking booths on the second floor were usually adjuncts of veryprofitable places. He saw by portly keepers, whose shirt frontsshone with large diamonds, and whose clothes were properly cut, thatthe liquor business here, as elsewhere, yielded the same goldenprofit. At last he found an individual who had a resort in Warren Street,which seemed an excellent venture. It was fairly well-appearing andsusceptible of improvement. The owner claimed the business to beexcellent, and it certainly looked so. "We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood."Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. Nobums. We don't allow 'em in the place." Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched thetrade for a while. "It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked. "You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquortrade," said the owner. "This is only one of the two places I have.The other is down in Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone.If I had some one who knew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mindsharing with him in this one and letting him manage it." "I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felta little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy. "Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor. He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, andgood-will, and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerialability on the part of the one who should come in. There was noproperty involved, because the owner of the saloon merely rentedfrom an estate. The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwoodwhether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield onehundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have inorder to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. Itwas not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted,to hesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a monthnow. By judicious management and improvement, it might be made topay more. Accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and madeover his thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day. His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carriethat he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however,introduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be verydisagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made himsurly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to inbusiness. Besides, the business varied. It was nothing like theclass of patronage which he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that itwould take a long time to make friends. These people hurried in andout without seeking the pleasures of friendship. It was no gatheringor lounging place. Whole days and weeks passed, without one suchhearty greeting as he had been wont to enjoy every day in Chicago. For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities- thosewell-dressed, elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars andbring news from far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one suchin a month. Evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionallyread in the evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom heknew- whom he had drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit abar like Fitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House,uptown, but he knew that he would never see them down here. Again, the business did not pay as well as he thought. Itincreased a little, but he found he would have to watch hishousehold expenses, which was humiliating. In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night,as he did, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinnerwith her between six and seven, and to remain home until nineo'clock in the morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time,and he began to feel the drag of his duties. The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a verynatural way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress." "What kind?" said Hurstwood. "Oh, something for street wear." "All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally thatit would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothingwas said about it the next day, but the following morning he asked: "Have you done anything about your dress?" "Not yet," said Carrie. He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said: "Would you mind putting it off a few days?" "No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks.She had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before."Why?" "Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood. "This investment of mine istaking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly,but just at present I am running close." "Oh!" answered Carrie. "Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell mebefore?" "It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood. For all her acquiescence, there was something about the wayHurstwood spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little dealwhich he was always about to put through. It was only the thought of asecond, but it was a beginning. It was something new in her thinkingof Hurstwood. Other things followed from time to time, little things of the samesort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a fullrevelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannotlong dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another.The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whetherhe voluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air andcontributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed asnicely as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada.Carrie noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though hisown was anything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggestmany amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned abouthis business. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago- not theliberal, opulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obviousto escape detection. In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that shewas not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his owncounsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things.This is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seemreasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where greatlove is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion isreached. As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against thedifficulties of a changed condition. He was too shrewd not torealise the tremendous mistake he had made, and appreciate that he haddone well in getting where he was, and yet he could not helpcontrasting his present state with his former, hour after hour, andday after day. Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends,ever since one such encounter which he made shortly after hisarrival in the city. It was in Broadway that he saw a manapproaching him whom he knew. There was no time for simulatingnon-recognition. The exchange of glances had been too sharp, theknowledge of each other too apparent. So the friend, a buyer for oneof the Chicago wholesale houses, felt, perforce, the necessity ofstopping. "How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixtureof feeling and a lack of plausible interest. "Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "How is it withyou?" "All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you locatedhere now?" "Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street." "Is that so?" said the friend. "Glad to hear it. I'll come downand see you." "Do," said Hurstwood. "So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on. "He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn'tthink of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, andhoped sincerely he would meet no one else. These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hopewas that things would change for the better in a money way. He hadCarrie. His furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining hisposition. As for Carrie, the amusements he could give her would haveto do for the present. He could probably keep up his pretensionssufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would bewell. He failed therein to take account of the frailties of humannature- the difficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. Withhim and with her varying mental states were common. At any momentthe extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table.This often happens in the best regulated families. Little thingsbrought out on such occasions need great love to obliterate themafterward. Where that is not, both parties count two and two andmake a problem after a while. Chapter XXXI. A PET OF GOOD FORTUNE: BROADWAY FLAUNTS ITS JOYS The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood wasparalleled in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things fortuneprovided with the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her firstexpression of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Itsclear atmosphere, more populous thoroughfares, and peculiarindifference struck her forcibly. She had never seen such a littleflat as hers, and yet it soon enlisted her affection. The newfurniture made an excellent showing, the sideboard which Hurstwoodhimself arranged gleamed brightly. The furniture for each room wasappropriate, and in the so-called parlour, or front room, wasinstalled a piano, because Carrie said she would like to learn toplay. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household tacticsand information. For the first time in her life she felt settled,and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived ofit. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long whileshe concerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, andwondered at ten families living in one building and all remainingstrange and indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at thewhistles of the hundreds of vessels in the harbour- the long, lowcries of the Sound steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. Themere fact that these things spoke from the sea made them wonderful.She looked much at what she could see of the Hudson from her westwindows and of the great city building up rapidly on either hand. Itwas much to ponder over, and sufficed to entertain her for more than ayear without becoming stale. For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in hisaffection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed hisdifficulties to her. He carried himself with the same self-importantair, took his new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced inCarrie's proclivities and successes. Each evening he arrivedpromptly to dinner, and found the little dining-room a most invitingspectacle. In a way, the smallness of the room added to its luxury. Itlooked full and replete. The white-covered table was arrayed withpretty dishes and lighted with a four-armed candelabra, each lightof which was topped with a red shade. Between Carrie and the girlthe steaks and chops came out all right, and canned goods did the restfor a while. Carrie studied the art of making biscuit, and soonreached the stage where she could show a plate of light, palatablemorsels for her labour. In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Wintercame, and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that theattending of theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made greatefforts to meet all expenditures without a show of feeling one wayor the other. He pretended that he was reinvesting his money instrengthening the business for greater ends in the future. Hecontented himself with a very moderate allowance of personalapparel, and rarely suggested anything for Carrie. Thus the firstwinter passed. In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed didincrease somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month whichhe had anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reachedcertain conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances. Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active andaggressive nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemedsatisfactory enough. Once in a while they would go to a theatretogether, occasionally in season to the beaches and different pointsabout the city, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwoodnaturally abandoned his show of fine manners with her and modified hisattitude to one of easy familiarity. There were nomisunderstandings, no apparent differences of opinion. In fact,without money or visiting friends, he led a life which could neitherarouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie rather sympathised with hisefforts and thought nothing upon her lack of entertainment such as shehad enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a corporate entity and her flattemporarily seemed sufficient. However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, beganto pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes.He convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him,but allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. Thefirst time he did this he sent a message saying that he would bedetained. Carrie ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again.The second time, also, he sent word, but at the last moment. The thirdtime he forgot entirely and explained afterwards. These events weremonths apart, each. "Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence. "Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some accountsI had to straighten." "I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was fixing tohave such a nice dinner." The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time thefeeling about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of theordinary. "I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in theevening, "I was so busy." "Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie. "I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was toolate to do any good." "And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie. Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began toimagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. Hereally thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life wasfinding its natural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding thefact that he had observed her act in Chicago, and that during the pastyear he had only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and himby conditions which he made, and that she had not gained any friendsor associates, he drew this peculiar conclusion. With it came afeeling of satisfaction in having a wife who could thus be content,and this satisfaction worked its natural result. That is, since heimagined he saw her satisfied, he felt called upon to give only thatwhich contributed to such satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, thedecorations, the food, and the necessary clothing. Thoughts ofentertaining her, leading her out into the shine and show of life,grew less and less. He felt attracted to the outer world, but didnot think she would care to go along. Once he went to the theatrealone. Another time he joined a couple of his new friends at anevening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were beginning to growagain he felt like sprucing about. All this, however, in a much lessimposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He avoided the gayplaces where he would be apt to meet those who had known him. Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She wasnot the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not lovinghim greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact,she was not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placidmanner, when he should have duly considered it. When he did not comehome it did not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gavehim credit for having the usual allurements of men- people to talk to,places to stop, friends to consult with. She was perfectly willingthat he should enjoy himself in his way, but she did not care to beneglected herself. Her state still seemed fairly reasonable,however. All she did observe was that Hurstwood was somewhatdifferent. Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighthStreet the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into itmoved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whomCarrie afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solelyby the arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as itwere, by the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel,groceries, and the like were sent up from the basement, and garbageand waste sent down, was used by both residents on one floor; that is,a small door opened into it from each flat. If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of thejanitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when theyopened the dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went toremove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhapstwenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose. She was ina night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much tousled, butshe looked so pretty and good-natured that Carrie instantlyconceived a liking for her. The newcomer did no more than smileshamefacedly, but it was sufficient. Carrie felt that she would liketo know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the mind of the other,who admired Carrie's innocent face. "That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrieto Hurstwood at the breakfast table. "Who are they?" asked Hurstwood. "I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Someone over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she." "Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living nextto in this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customaryNew York opinion about neighbours. "Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nineother families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These peoplehave been here over a month, and I haven't seen any one before thismorning." "It's just as well," said Hurstwood. "You never know who you'regoing to get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company." "I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably. The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought nomore upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out tomarket, she encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognisedher and nodded, for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled theprobability of acquaintanceship. If there had been no faintrecognition on this occasion, there would have been no futureassociation. Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heardher play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of theflats, and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and thebrilliance of their rendition. She could play only moderately herself,and such variety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, uponthe verge of great art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far-the merest scraps and shadows- indicated that these people were, ina measure, refined and in comfortable circumstances. So Carrie wasready for any extension of the friendship which might follow. One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in thekitchen, pressed the button which caused the front door of the generalentrance on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carriewaited at her own door on the third floor to see who it might becoming up to call on her, Mrs. Vance appeared. "I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago andforgot my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell." This was a common trick of other residents of the building, wheneverthey had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise forit, however. "Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same thingsometimes." "Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for amoment. Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance waswell launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeablecompanion. On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Bothflats were good to look upon, though that of the Vances tendedsomewhat more to the luxurious. "I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," saidMrs. Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to meetyou. You play cards, don't you?" "A little," said Carrie. "Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes homebring him over." "He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie. "Well, when he does come we'll call him in." Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, anindividual a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed hisseemingly comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than tohis good looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance andlaid himself out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards andtalking to her about New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance playedsome upon the piano, and at last Hurstwood came. "I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrieintroduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivatedCarrie. "Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance, extendinghis hand upon introduction. "I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," saidHurstwood. He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie sawagain what she for some time had sub-consciously missed inHurstwood- the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. Shealso saw that she was not well dressed- not nearly as well dressed- asMrs. Vance. These were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation wascleared up for her. She felt that her life was becoming stale, andtherein she felt cause for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholywas restored. The desirous Carrie was whispered to concerning herpossibilities. There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie hadlittle power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capableof getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easilyborne along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of themarked contrasts which Carrie had observed. He did not even detect theshade of melancholy which settled in her eyes. Worst of all, she nowbegan to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company ofMrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly. "Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who hadstepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a softpink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood andVance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before. "All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted andwell-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked asthough she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "Whatshall we see?" "Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do thinkhe is the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play." "What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie. "Let's go at one and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourthStreet," said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's atthe Madison Square." "I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay forseats?" "Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance. The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunninglyarrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match.Carrie had gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this womanpained her by contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty littlethings which Carrie had not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegantgreen leather purse set with her initials, a fancy handkerchief,exceedingly rich in design, and the like. Carrie felt that sheneeded more and better clothes to compare with this woman, and thatany one looking at the two would pick Mrs. Vance for her raimentalone. It was a trying, though rather unjust thought, for Carrie hadnow developed an equally pleasing figure, and had grown incomeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of her colour ofbeauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the two, bothof quality and age, but this difference was not especially noticeable.It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with herstate. The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkablefeatures of the city. There gathered, before the matinee andafterwards, not only all the pretty women who love a showy parade, butthe men who love to gaze upon and admire them. It was a veryimposing procession of pretty faces and fine clothes. Women appearedin their very best hats, shoes, and gloves, and walked arm in arm ontheir way to the fine shops or theatres strung along from Fourteenthto Thirty-fourth streets. Equally the men paraded with the very latestthey could afford. A tailor might have secured hints on suitmeasurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and colours, a hatter onhats. It was literally true that if a lover of fine clothes secureda new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on Broadway. Sotrue and well understood was this fact, that several years later apopular song, detailing this and other facts concerning theafternoon parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He onBroadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about themusic-halls of the city. In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showyparade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. Onthe other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not onlyknew of it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposelyto see and be seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel anytendency to fall short in dressiness by contrasting herself with thebeauty and fashion of the town. Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the carat Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovelycompany which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. Shenoticed suddenly that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened underthe gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glanceswere not modified by any rules of propriety. To stare seemed theproper and natural thing. Carrie found herself stared at and ogled.Men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and silver-headed walking stickselbowed near and looked too often into conscious eyes. Ladiesrustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding affected smiles andperfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling of goodness andthe heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered cheeks and lips,the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous eye, were commonenough. With a start she awoke to find that she was in fashion'scrowd, on parade in a show place- and such a show place! Jewellers'windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency. Floristshops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners- all followed in rapidsuccession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen in immensecoats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of expensivesalesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue jacketswaited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who wereshopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show,and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life ofher, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in herbeauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must beevident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two.It cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come hereagain until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel thedelight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy! Chapter XXXII. THE FEAST OF BELSHAZZAR: A SEER TO TRANSLATE Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in anexceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in theplay. The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved hispopularity by presenting a mellow type of comedy, in whichsufficient sorrow was introduced to lend contrast and relief tohumour. For Carrie, as we well know, the stage had a great attraction.She had never forgotten her one histrionic achievement in Chicago.It dwelt in her mind and occupied her consciousness during many longafternoons in which her rocking-chair and her latest novel contributedthe only pleasures of her state. Never could she witness a playwithout having her own ability vividly brought to consciousness.Some scenes made her long to be a part of them- to give expressionto the feelings which she, in the place of the characterrepresented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vividimaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. Shelived as much in these things as in the realities which made up herdaily life. It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart'score by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singingin her heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen.Oh, these women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong,who were they? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, theastonishingly coloured buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold?Where were these lovely creatures housed? Amid what elegancies ofcarved furniture, decorated walls, elaborate tapestries did they move?Where were their rich apartments, loaded with all that money couldprovide? In what stables champed these sleek, nervous horses andrested the gorgeous carriages? Where lounged the richly groomedfootmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights, the perfume, the loadedboudoirs and tables! New York must be filled with such bowers, orthe beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures could not be. Somehot-houses held them. It ached her to know that she was not one ofthem- that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not come true.She wondered at her own solitude these two years past- herindifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she hadexpected. The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in whichcharmingly overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of loveand jealousy amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticingto those who have all their days longed for such material surroundingsand have never had them gratified. They have the charm of showingsuffering under ideal conditions. Who would not grieve upon a gildedchair? Who would not suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushionedfurniture, and liveried servants? Grief under such circumstancesbecomes an enticing thing. Carrie longed to be of it. She wanted totake her sufferings, whatever they were, in such a world, or failingthat, at least to simulate them under such charming conditions uponthe stage. So affected was her mind by what she had seen, that theplay now seemed an extraordinarily beautiful thing. She was soonlost in the world it represented, and wished that she might neverreturn. Between the acts she studied the galaxy of matineeattendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a new idea of thepossibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen it all-that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight. Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. Thescene she had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at itsheight. Such a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. Itclinched her convictions concerning her state. She had not lived,could not lay claim to having lived, until something of this hadcome into her own life. Women were spending money like water; shecould see that in every elegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy,jewelry, seemed the principal things in which the elegant dames wereinterested. And she had scarcely enough pin money to indulge in suchoutings as this a few times a month. That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It wasnot what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servantworking at dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were runningscenes of the play. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress-the sweetheart who had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman hadwon Carrie's heart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest,her sufferings had been so real. The anguish which she had portrayedCarrie could feel. It was done as she was sure she could do it.There were places in which she could even do better. Hence sherepeated the lines to herself. Oh, if she could only have such a part,how broad would be her life! She, too, could act appealingly. When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rockingand thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginationsbroken in upon; so she said little or nothing. "What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time, noticingher quiet, almost moody state. "Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well to-night." "Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close. "Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very good." "That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vestafter his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a showto-night." "I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visionsshould have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "I'vebeen to the matinee this afternoon." "Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?" "A Gold Mine." "How was it?" "Pretty good," said Carrie. "And you don't want to go again to-night?" "I don't think I do," she said. Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to thedinner table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomachdoes wonders. She went again, and in so doing temporarily recoveredher equanimity. The great awakening blow had, however, been delivered.As often as she might recover from these discontented thoughts now,they would occur again. Time and repetition- ah, the wonder of it! Thedropping water and the solid stone- how utterly it yields at last! Not long after this matinee experience- perhaps a month- Mrs.Vance invited Carrie to an evening at the theater with them. She heardCarrie say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner. "Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We'regoing down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Comealong with us." "I think I will," answered Carrie. She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-pastfive for the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's forposition in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence ofher association with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly hadher attention called by the latter to novelties in everything whichpertains to a woman's apparel. "Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen thenew gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases outof a large selection. "The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance,"get button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all therage this fall." "I will," said Carrie. "Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? Theyhave some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know wouldlook stunning on you. I said so when I saw it." Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for theywere suggested with more of friendliness than is usually commonbetween pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-natureso well that she really took pleasure in suggesting to her thelatest things. "Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they'reselling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're the circularstyle, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one wouldlook so nice on you." Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came upbetween her and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest onething and another, which Hurstwood agreed to without any expression ofopinion. He noticed the new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally,hearing much of Mrs. Vance and her delightful ways, suspected whencethe change came. He was not inclined to offer the slightestobjection so soon, but he felt that Carrie's wants were expanding.This did not appeal to him exactly, but he cared for her in his ownway, and so the thing stood. Still, there was something in the detailsof the transactions which caused Carrie to feel that her requests werenot a delight to him. He did not enthuse over the purchases. Thisled her to believe that neglect was creeping in, and so anothersmall wedge was entered. Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was thefact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her ownsatisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in thethought that if she must confine herself to a best, it was neat andfitting. She looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs.Vance praised her, which brought colour to her plump cheeks and anoticeable brightness into her large eyes. It was threatening rain,and Mr. Vance, at his wife's request, had called a coach. "Your husband isn't coming?" suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carriein his little parlour. "No, he said he wouldn't be home for dinner." "Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. Hemight turn up." "I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before. "Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows,though, I guess." Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note,gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat. "Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," saidMrs. Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?" "I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie. The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwartfigure. She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking,and young, but nothing more. "Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance,"and we're trying to show him around a little." "Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer. "Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," saidyoung Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait whileMrs. Vance completed the last touches of her toilet. "I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" saidCarrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence. "It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames,pleasantly. He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly freeof affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcomingthe last traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt atconversation, but he had the merit of being well dressed and whollycourageous. Carrie felt as if it were not going to be hard to talkto him. "Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside." "Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob,you'll have to look after Mrs. Wheeler." "I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. "Youwon't need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort ofingratiating and help-me-out kind of way. "Not very, I hope," said Carrie. They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, andclimbed into the open coach. "All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyancerolled away. "What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames. "Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'" "Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest man." "I notice the papers praise it," said Ames. "I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it verymuch." Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt ithis bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested tofind her so young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only arespectful interest. There was nothing of the dashing lady's man abouthim. He had respect for the married state, and thought only of somepretty marriageable girls in Indianapolis. "Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie. "Oh, no; I've only been here for two years." "Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow." "I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange tome as when I first came here." "You're not from the West, are you?" "Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered. "Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been hereso very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who arehere." "What is your line?" asked Carrie. "I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth. Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasionalinterruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general andpartially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached. Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seekingin the streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous,pedestrians many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars werecrowded. At Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights fromseveral new hotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestionof sumptuous hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, wasnoticeably crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress.At Sherry's an imposing doorman opened the coach door and helpedthem out. Young Ames held Carrie's elbow as he helped her up thesteps. They entered the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then,after divesting themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuousdining-room. In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. Inthe whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state hadnot permitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almostindescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer thatthis was the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter ofexpense limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class.Carrie had read of it often in the "Morning" and "Evening World."She had seen notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers atSherry's. The Misses So-and-so would give a party on Wednesday eveningat Sherry's. Young Mr. So-and-so would entertain a party of friends ata private luncheon on the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run ofconventional, perfunctory notices of the doings of society, whichshe could scarcely refrain from scanning each day, had given her adistinct idea of the gorgeousness and luxury of this wonderfultemple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was really in it. She had comeup the imposing steps, guarded by the large and portly doorman. Shehad seen the lobby, guarded by another large and portly gentleman, andbeen waited upon by uniformed youths who took care of canes,overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber, alldecorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was Mrs.Vance; young, beautiful, and well off- at least, sufficiently so tocome here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich. Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which wereseated parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assuranceand dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to thenovitiate. Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow inpolished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the walls, combinedinto one tone of light which it requires minutes of complacentobservation to separate and take particular note of. The white shirtfronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of the ladies,diamonds, jewels, fine feathers- all were exceedingly noticeable. Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, andaccepted the seat which the head waiter provided for her. She waskeenly aware of all the little things that were done- the littlegenuflections and attentions of the waiters and head waiter whichAmericans pay for. The air with which the latter pulled out eachchair, and the wave of the hand with which he motioned them to beseated, were worth several dollars in themselves. Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, andunwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is thewonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over.The large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed anarmy, sidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure aridiculous impossibility- an order of soup a fifty cents or adollar, with a dozen kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles andat sixty cents the half-dozen; entrees, fish, and meats at priceswhich would house one over night in an average hotel. One dollar fiftyand two dollars seemed to be the most common figures upon this mosttastefully printed bill of fare. Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of springchicken carried her back to that other bill of fare and fardifferent occasion when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet ina good restaurant in Chicago. It was only momentary- a sad note as outof an old song- and then it was gone. But in that flash was seen theother Carrie- poor, hungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and allChicago a cold and closed world, from which she only wanderedbecause she could not find work. On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-eggblue, set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaboratemouldings of fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angeliccomfort. On the ceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt,leading to a centre where spread a cluster of lights- incandescentglobes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. Thefloor was of a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every directionwere mirrors- tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors- reflecting andre-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundredtimes. The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprintof Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware,the name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of thesmall, red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls ongarments and faces, made them seem remarkable. Each waiter added anair of exclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed,scraped, touched, and trifled with things. The exclusively personalattention which he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to oneside, elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup- green turtle, yes. One portion,yes. Oysters- certainly- half-dozen- yes. Asparagus. Olives- yes." It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to orderfor all, inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied thecompany with open eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was sothat the rich spent their days and evenings. Her poor little mindcould not rise above applying each scene to all society. Every finelady must be in the crowd on Broadway in the afternoon, in the theatreat the matinee, in the coaches and dining-halls at night. It must beglow and shine everywhere, with coaches waiting, and footmenattending, and she was out of it all. In two long years she hadnever even been in such a place as this. Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been informer days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and sidedishes, and had several bottles of wine brought, which were set downbeside the table in a wicker basket. Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed aninteresting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his noserather large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had agood, wide, well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was partedslightly on one side. He seemed to have the least touch ofboyishness to Carrie, and yet he was a man full grown. "Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after hisreflection, "I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend somuch money this way." Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise athis seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over whichshe had never pondered. "Do you?" she answered, interestedly. "Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things areworth. They put on so much show." "I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," saidMrs. Vance. "It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying thebill of fare, though he had ordered. Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at hisforehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. Ashe studied the crowd his eye was mild. "Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning toCarrie, and nodding in a direction. "Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes. "Over there in the corner- way over. Do you see that brooch?" "Isn't it large?" said Carrie. "One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames. "It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like tobe agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, orperhaps preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he wasbetter educated than she was- that his mind was better. He seemed tolook it, and the saving grace in Carrie was that she couldunderstand that people could be wiser. She had seen a number of peoplein her life who reminded her of what she had vaguely come to thinkof as scholars. This strong young man beside her, with his clear,natural look, seemed to get a hold of things which she did not quiteunderstand, but approved of. It was fine to be so, as a man, shethought. The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue atthe time- "Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it.Vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers. "A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "Inotice this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was lookingat Carrie as he spoke. "I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly. "Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. Thislast story is pretty good." "He doesn't amount to much," said Ames. Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle. "His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames. Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," orhad a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but shesupposed that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed,fine-headed youth, who looked something like a student to her, madefun of it. It was poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, andfor the first time felt the pain of not understanding. Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Amesspoke. He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was justkindly thought of a high order- the right thing to think, and wonderedwhat else was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that shelistened and rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talkedmostly to her. As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see ifthey were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all thoselittle attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of thesituation upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side andtold her of Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a verybright mind, which was finding its chief development in electricalknowledge. His sympathies for other forms of information, however, andfor types of people, were quick and warm. The red glow on his headgave it a sandy tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrienoticed all these things as he leaned toward her and feltexceedingly young. This man was far ahead of her. He seemed wiser thanHurstwood, saner and brighter than Drouet. He seemed innocent andclean, and she thought that he was exceedingly pleasant. Shenoticed, also, that his interest in her was a far-off one. She was notin his life, nor any of the things that touched his life, and yet now,as he spoke of these things, they appealed to her. "I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinnerproceeded and the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not richenough to spend my money this way." "Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcingitself distinctly upon her for the first time. "No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need thissort of thing to be happy." Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it hadweight with her. "He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone.He's so strong." Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, andthese impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They weresufficient, however, for the atmosphere that went with this youthimpressed itself upon Carrie without words. There was something inhim, or the world he moved in, which appealed to her. He remindedher of scenes she had seen on the stage- the sorrows and sacrificesthat always went with she knew not what. He had taken away some of thebitterness of the contrast between this life and her life, and allby a certain calm indifference which concerned only him. As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, andthen they were off again, and so to the show. During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him veryattentively. He mentioned things in the play which she most approvedof- things which swayed her deeply. "Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once. "Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a greatthing." Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if shecould only be an actress- a good one! This man was wise- he knew-and he approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as hewould approve of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had,although it did not concern her at all. She did not know why shefelt this way. At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not goingback with them. "Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling. "Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-thirdStreet." Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this developmentshocked her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening,but she had thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours,the minutes of the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded intothem! She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could itmake? Still, the coach seemed lorn. When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She didnot know whether she would ever see this man any more. What differencecould it make- what difference could it make? Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes werescattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, thenretreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think.It was disagreeable to her. Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Herlittle hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog oflonging and conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, yelegions of hope and pity- of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, andbeginning to see. Chapter XXXIII. WITHOUT THE WALLED CITY: THE SLOPE OF THE YEARS The immediate result of this was nothing. Results from such thingsare usually long in growing. Morning brings a change of feeling. Theexistent condition invariably pleads for itself. It is only at oddmoments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. The heartunderstands when it is confronted with contrasts. Take them away andthe ache subsides. Carrie went on, leading much this same life for six monthsthereafter or more. She did not see Ames any more. He called once uponthe Vances, but she only heard about it through the young wife. Thenhe went West, and there was a gradual subsidence of whateverpersonal attraction had existed. The mental effect of the thing hadnot gone, however, and never would entirely. She had an ideal tocontrast men by- particularly men close to her. During all this time- a period rapidly approaching three years-Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. There was no apparentslope downward, and 'distinctly none upward, so far as the casualobserver might have seen. But psychologically there was a change,which was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctlyindeed. This was in the mere matter of the halt his career hadreceived when he departed from Chicago. A man's fortune or materialprogress is very much the same as his bodily growth. Either he isgrowing stronger, healthier, wiser, as the youth approachingmanhood, or he is growing weaker, older, less incisive mentally, asthe man approaching old age. There are no other states. Frequentlythere is a period between the cessation of youthful accretion andthe setting in, in the case of the middle-aged man, of the tendencytoward decay when the two processes are almost perfectly balancedand there is little doing in either direction. Given time enough,however, the balance becomes a sagging to the grave side. Slowly atfirst, then with a modest momentum, and at last the gravewardprocess is in the full swing. So it is frequently with man'sfortune. If its process of accretion is never halted, if the balancingstage is never reached, there will be no toppling. Rich men are,frequently, in these days, saved from this dissolution of theirfortune by their ability to hire younger brains. These youngerbrains look upon the interests of the fortune as their own, and sosteady and direct its progress. If each individual were leftabsolutely to the care of his own interests, and were given timeenough in which to grow exceedingly old, his fortune would pass as hisstrength and will. He and his would be utterly dissolved and scatteredunto the four winds of the heavens. But now see wherein the parallel changes. A fortune, like a man,is an organism which draws to itself other minds and other strengththan that inherent in the founder. Beside the young minds drawn toit by salaries, it becomes allied with young forces, which make forits existence even when the strength and wisdom of the founder arefading. It may be conserved by the growth of a community or of astate. It may be involved in providing something for which there isa growing demand. This removes it at once beyond the special care ofthe founder. It needs not so much foresight now as direction. Theman wanes, the need continues or grows, and the fortune, fallen intowhose hands it may, continues. Hence, some men never recognise theturning in the tide of their abilities. It is only in chance cases,where a fortune or a state of success is wrested from them, that thelack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes apparent.Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to seethat he was no longer young. If he did not, it was due wholly to thefact that his state was so well balanced that an absolute change forthe worse did not show. Not trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analysethe change that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body,but he felt the depression of it. Constant comparison between hisold state and his new showed a balance for the worse, which produced aconstant state of gloom or, at least, depression. Now, it has beenshown experimentally that a constantly subdued frame of mindproduces certain poisons in the blood, called katastates, just asvirtuous feelings of pleasure and delight produce helpful chemicalscalled anastates. The poisons generated by remorse inveigh against thesystem, and eventually produce marked physical deterioration. To theseHurstwood was subject. In the course of time it told upon his temper. His eye no longerpossessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterisedit in Adams Street. His step was not as sharp and firm. He was givento thinking, thinking, thinking. The new friends he made were notcelebrities. They were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual andcruder, grade. He could not possibly take the pleasure in this companythat he had in that of those fine frequenters of the Chicago resort.He was left to brood. Slowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, andmake at home these people who visited the Warren Street place passedfrom him. More and more slowly the significance of the realm he hadleft began to be clear. It did not seem so wonderful to be in itwhen he was in it. It had seemed very easy for any one to get up thereand have ample raiment and money to spend, but now that he was outof it, how far off it became. He began to see as one sees a citywith a wall about it. Men were posted at the gates. You could notget in. Those inside did not care to come out to see who you were.They were so merry inside there that all those outside were forgotten,and he was on the outside. Each day he could read in the evening papers of the doings withinthis walled city. In the notices of passengers for Europe he readthe names of eminent frequenters of his old resort. In thetheatrical column appeared, from time to time, announcements of thelatest successes of men he had known. He knew that they were attheir old gayeties. Pullmans were hauling them to and fro about theland, papers were greeting them with interesting mentions, the elegantlobbies of hotels and the glow of polished dining-rooms were keepingthem close within the walled city. Men whom he had known, men whomhe had tipped glasses with- rich men, and he was forgotten! Who wasMr. Wheeler? What was the Warren Street resort? Bah! If one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a typeof mind- that such feelings require a higher mental development- Iwould urge for their consideration the fact that it is the highermental development that does away with such thoughts. It is the highermental development which induces philosophy and that fortitude whichrefuses to dwell upon such things- refuses to be made to suffer bytheir consideration. The common type of mind is exceedingly keen onall matters which relate to its physical welfare- exceedingly keen. Itis the unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of ahundred dollars. It is the Epictetus who smiles when the lastvestige of physical welfare is removed. The time came, in the third year, when this thinking began toproduce results in the Warren Street place. The tide of patronagedropped a little below what it had been at its best since he hadbeen there. This irritated and worried him. There came a night when he confessed to Carrie that the business wasnot doing as well this month as it had the month before. This was inlieu of certain suggestions she had made concerning little thingsshe wanted to buy. She had not failed to notice that he did not seemto consult her about buying clothes for himself. For the first time,it struck her as a ruse, or that he said it so that she would notthink of asking for things. Her reply was mild enough, but herthoughts were rebellious. He was not looking after her at all. She wasdepending for her enjoyment upon the Vances. And now the latter announced that they were going away. It wasapproaching spring, and they were going North. "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Vance to Carrie, "we think we might as wellgive up the flat and store our things. We'll be gone for the summer,and it would be a useless expense. I think we'll settle a littlefarther down town when we come back." Carrie heard this with genuine sorrow. She had enjoyed Mrs.Vance's companionship so much. There was no one else in the house whomshe knew. Again she would be all alone. Hurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and thedeparture of the Vances came together. So Carrie had loneliness andthis mood of her husband to enjoy at the same time. It was agrievous thing. She became restless and dissatisfied, not exactly,as she thought, with Hurstwood, but with life. What was it? A verydull round indeed. What did she have? Nothing but this narrow,little flat. The Vances could travel, they could do the things worthdoing, and here she was. For what was she made, anyhow? More thoughtfollowed, and then tears- tears seemed justified, and the onlyrelief in the world. For another period this state continued, the twain leading arather monotonous life, and then there was a slight change for theworse. One evening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modifyCarrie's desire for clothes and the general strain upon his ability toprovide, said: "I don't think I'll ever be able to do much with Shaughnessy." "What's the matter?" said Carrie. "Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! He won't agree to anything toimprove the place, and it won't ever pay without it." "Can't you make him?" said Carrie. "No; I've tried. The only thing I can see, if I want to improve,is to get hold of a place of my own." "Why don't you?" said Carrie. "Well, all I have is tied up in there just now. If I had a chance tosave a while I think I could open a place that would give us plenty ofmoney." "Can't we save?" said Carrie. "We might try it," he suggested. "I've been thinking that if we'dtake a smaller flat down town and live economically for a year, Iwould have enough, with what I have invested, to open a good place.Then we could arrange to live as you want to." "It would suit me all right," said Carrie, who, nevertheless, feltbadly to think it had come to this. Talk of a smaller flat soundedlike poverty. "There are lots of nice little flats down around Sixth Avenue, belowFourteenth Street. We might get one down there." "I'll look at them if you say so," said Carrie. "I think I could break away from this fellow inside of a year," saidHurstwood. "Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's goingon now." "I'll look around," said Carrie, observing that the proposedchange seemed to be a serious thing with him. The upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected;not without great gloom on the part of Carrie. It really affectedher more seriously than anything that had yet happened. She began tolook upon Hurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband.She felt thoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot wascast with his, whatever it might be; but she began to see that hewas gloomy and taciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man. Helooked a little bit old to her about the eyes and mouth now, and therewere other things which placed him in his true rank, so far as herestimation was concerned. She began to feel that she had made amistake. Incidentally, she also began to recall the fact that he hadpractically forced her to flee with him. The new flat was located in Thirteenth Street, a half block westof Sixth Avenue, and contained only four rooms. The newneighbourhood did not appeal to Carrie as much. There were no treeshere, no west view of the river. The street was solidly built up.There were twelve families here, respectable enough, but nothinglike the Vances. Richer people required more space. Being left alone in this little place, Carrie did without a girl.She made it charming enough, but could not make it delight her.Hurstwood was not inwardly pleased to think that they should have tomodify their state, but he argued that he could do nothing. He mustput the best face on it, and let it go at that. He tried to show Carrie that there was no cause for financial alarm,but only congratulation over the chance he would have at the end ofthe year by taking her rather more frequently to the theatre and byproviding a liberal table. This was for the time only. He wasgetting in the frame of mind where he wanted principally to be aloneand to be allowed to think. The disease of brooding was beginning toclaim him as a victim. Only the newspapers and his own thoughts wereworth while. The delight of love had again slipped away. It was a caseof live, now, making the best you can out of a very commonplacestation in life. The road downward has but few landings and level places. The verystate of his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach towiden between him and his partner. At last that individual began towish that Hurstwood was out of it. It so happened, however, that areal estate deal on the part of the owner of the land arrangedthings even more effectually than ill-will could have schemed. "Did you see that?" said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood,pointing to the real estate column in a copy of the "Herald," which heheld. "No, what is it?" said Hurstwood, looking down the items of news. "The man who owns this ground has sold it." "You don't say so?" said Hurstwood. He looked, and there was the notice. Mr. August Viele hadyesterday registered the transfer of the lot, 25 x 75 feet, at thecorner of Warren and Hudson streets, to J. F. Slawson for the sum of$57,000. "Our lease expires when?" asked Hurstwood, thinking. "Next February,isn't it?" "That's right," said Shaughnessy. "It doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it," remarkedHurstwood, looking back to the paper. "We'll hear, I guess, soon enough," said Shaughnessy. Sure enough, it did develop. Mr. Slawson owned the propertyadjoining, and was going to put up a modern office building. Thepresent one was to be torn down. It would take probably a year and ahalf to complete the other one. All these things developed by degrees, and Hurstwood began to ponderover what would become of the saloon. One day he spoke about it to hispartner. "Do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else inthe neighbourhood?" "What would be the use?" said Shaughnessy. "We couldn't getanother corner around here." "It wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?" "I wouldn't try it," said the other. The approaching change now took on a most serious aspect toHurstwood. Dissolution meant the loss of his thousand dollars, andhe could not save another thousand in the time. He understood thatShaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement, and would probablylease the new corner, when completed, alone. He began to worry aboutthe necessity of a new connection and to see impending seriousfinancial straits unless something turned up. This left him in no moodto enjoy his flat or Carrie, and consequently the depression invadedthat quarter. Meanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, butopportunities were not numerous. More, he had not the sameimpressive personality which he had when he first came to New York.Bad thoughts had put a shade into his eyes which did not impressothers favourably. Neither had he thirteen hundred dollars in handto talk with. About a month later, finding that he had not made anyprogress, Shaughnessy reported definitely that Slawson would notextend the lease. "I guess this thing's got to come to an end," he said, affectingan air of concern. "Well, if it has, it has," answered Hurstwood, grimly. He wouldnot give the other a key to his opinions, whatever they were. Heshould not have the satisfaction. A day or two later he saw that he must say something to Carrie. "You know," he said, "I think I'm going to get the worst of mydeal down there." "How is that?" asked Carrie in astonishment. "Well, the man who owns the ground has sold it, and the new ownerwon't re-lease it to us. The business may come to an end." "Can't you start somewhere else?" "There doesn't seem to be any place. Shaughnessy doesn't want to." "Do you lose what you put in?" "Yes," said Hurstwood, whose face was a study. "Oh, isn't that too bad?" said Carrie. "It's a trick," said Hurstwood. "That's all. They'll start anotherplace there all right." Carrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour whatit meant. It was serious, very serious. "Do you think you can get something else?" she ventured, timidly. Hurstwood thought a while. It was all up with the bluff aboutmoney and investment. She could see now that he was "broke." "I don't know," he said solemnly; "I can try." Chapter XXXIV. THE GRIND OF THE MILLSTONES: A SAMPLE OF CHAFF Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood,once she got the facts adjusted in her mind. It took several daysfor her to fully realise that the approach of the dissolution of herhusband's business meant commonplace struggle and privation. Hermind went back to her early venture in Chicago, the Hansons andtheir flat, and her heart revolted. That was terrible! Everythingabout poverty was terrible. She wished she knew a way out. Herrecent experiences with the Vances had wholly unfitted her to view herown state with complacence. The glamour of the high life of the cityhad, in the few experiences afforded her by the former, seized hercompletely. She had been taught how to dress and where to go withouthaving ample means to do either. Now, these things- ever-presentrealities as they were- filled her eyes and mind. The morecircumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed this other.And now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to remove thisother world far upward like a heaven to which any Lazarus mightextend, appealingly, his hands. So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained. He hadgone, but here was his word that riches were not everything; thatthere was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that the stagewas good, and the literature she read poor. He was a strong man andclean- how much stronger and better than Hurstwood and Drouet she onlyhalf formulated to herself, but the difference was painful. It wassomething to which she voluntarily closed her eyes. During the last three months of the Warren Street connection,Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the businessadvertisements. It was a more or less depressing business, whollybecause of the thought that he must soon get something or he wouldbegin to live on the few hundred dollars he was saving, and then hewould have nothing to invest- he would have to hire out as a clerk. Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity,was either too expensive or too wretched for him. Besides, winterwas coming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was ageneral feeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so.In his worry, other people's worries became apparent. No item abouta firm failing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets,supposedly of starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned themorning papers. Once the "World" came out with a flaringannouncement about "80,000 people out of employment in New York thiswinter," which struck as a knife at his heart. "Eighty thousand!" he thought. "What an awful thing that is." This was new reasoning for Hurstwood. In the old days the worldhad seemed to be getting along well enough. He had been wont to seesimilar things in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they did nothold his attention. Now, these things were like grey clouds hoveringalong the horizon of a clear day. They threatened to cover and obscurehis life with chilly greyness. He tried to shake them off, to forgetand brace up. Sometimes he said to himself, mentally: "What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet. I've got six weeksmore. Even if worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on for sixmonths." Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionallyreverted to his wife and family. He had avoided such thoughts forthe first three years as much as possible. He hated her, and hecould get along without her. Let her go. He would do well enough. Now,however, when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder whatshe was doing, how his children were getting along. He could seethem living as nicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house andusing his property. "By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguelythought to himself on several occasions. "I didn't do anything." As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to histaking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. What had hedone- what in the world- that should bar him out this way and heapsuch difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to him since hewas comfortable and well-to-do. But now it was all wrested from him. "She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. I didn'tdo so much, if everybody could just know." There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. It wasonly a mental justification he was seeking from himself- somethingthat would enable him to bear his state as a righteous man. One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closedup, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertisedin the "Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and he visited that, butdid not enter. It was such a cheap looking place he felt that he couldnot abide it. Another was on the Bowery, which he knew containedmany showy resorts. It was near Grand Street, and turned out to bevery handsomely fitted up. He talked around about investments forfully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintainedthat his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner. "Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interesthere?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit. "Three thousand," said the man. Hurstwood's jaw fell. "Cash?" he said. "Cash." He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might reallybuy; but his eyes showed gloom. He wound up by saying he would thinkit over, and came away. The man he had been talking to sensed hiscondition in a vague way. "I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "He doesn'ttalk right." The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up adisagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the eastside, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growingdim, when he reached there. A portly German kept this place. "How about this ad. of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who ratherobjected to the looks of the place. "Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now." "Oh, is that so?" "Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over." "Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around. The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry. "The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want to advertisefor?" Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat hadonly a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck amatch and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room withouteven greeting her. She came to the door and looked in. "It's you, is it?" she said, and went back. "Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper hehad bought. Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome whengloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturallydark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite adisagreeable figure. Carrie set the table and brought in the meal. "Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something. He did not answer, reading on. She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched. "Won't you eat now?" she asked. He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time,except for the "Pass me's." "It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after a time. "Yes," he said. He only picked at his food. "Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to takeup the subject which they had discussed often enough. "Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification ofsharpness. This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself. "You needn't talk like that," she said. "Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to saymore, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrieleft her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she washurt. "Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen. "Eatyour dinner." She passed, not answering. He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put onhis coat. "I'm going down town, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out ofsorts to-night." She did not answer. "Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to-morrow." He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at herdishes. "Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out. This was the first strong result of the situation between them,but with the nearing of the last day of business the gloom becamealmost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelingsabout the matter. Carrie could not help wondering where she wasdrifting. It got so that they talked even less than usual, and yetit was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carriewho shied away from him. This he noticed. It aroused an objection toher becoming indifferent to him. He made the possibility of friendlyintercourse almost a giant task, and then noticed with discontent thatCarrie added to it by her manner and made it more impossible. At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, whohad got his mind into such a state where a thunder-clap and ragingstorm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved tofind that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperaturewas pleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that itwasn't so terrible, after all. "Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth." Carrie smiled in answer to his humour. Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to havelost a load. "I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "andthen I'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day lookingabout. I think I can get something, now this thing's off my hands." He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there.They had made all arrangements to share according to theirinterests. When, however, he had been there several hours, gone outthree more, and returned, his elation had departed. As much as hehad objected to the place, now that it was no longer to exist, he feltsorry. He wished that things were different. Shaughnessy was coolly business-like. "Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count thechange and divide." They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided. "Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effortto be genial. "So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice. Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded. Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his rideup, Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood. "Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively. "I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat. As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now.They ate and talked a little. "Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie. "No," he said. "I'll have to get something else and save up." "It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie,prompted by anxiety and hope. "I guess I will," he said reflectively. For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in themorning and sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himselfwith the thought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he couldstill make some advantageous arrangement. He thought about going tosome brewery, which, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons whichthey leased, and get them to help him. Then he remembered that hewould have to pay out several hundred any way for fixtures and that hewould have nothing left for his monthly expenses. It was costing himnearly eighty dollars a month to live. "No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it. I'll getsomething else and save up." This getting-something proposition complicated itself the momenthe began to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place?Where should he get such a position? The papers contained norequests for managers. Such positions, he knew well enough, wereeither secured by long years of service or were bought with a halfor third interest. Into a place important enough to need such amanager he had not money enough to buy. Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and hisappearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding.People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age,stout and well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortableowner of something, a man from whom the common run of mortals couldwell expect gratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, andcomfortably built, walking was not easy. He had not been used toexercise for many years. His legs tired, his shoulders ached, andhis feet pained him at the close of the day, even when he tookstreet cars in almost every direction. The mere getting up and down,if long continued, produced this result. The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, hewell understood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded hissearch. Not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that hewas ashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So hehesitated, wondering what to do. He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he hadhad no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, noacquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go. He did knowsome hotel owners in several cities, including New York, but they knewof his dealings with Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them.He thought of other lines suggested by large buildings or businesseswhich he knew of- wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns,and the like- but he had had no experience. How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he haveto go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then,distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking forsomething to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he couldnot do that. He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather beingcold, stepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know thatany decent looking individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby.This was in the Broadway Central, which was then one of the mostimportant hotels in the city. Taking a chair here was a painfulthing to him. To think he should come to this! He had heard loungersabout hotels called chair-warmers. He had called them that himselfin his day. But here he was, despite the possibility of meeting someone who knew him, shielding himself from cold and the weariness of thestreets in a hotel lobby. "I can't do this way," he said to himself. "There's no use of mystarting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'llthink of some places and then look them up." It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimesopen, but he put this out of his mind. Bartender- he, the ex-manager! It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four hewent home. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it wasa feeble imitation. The rocking-chair in the dining-room wascomfortable. He sank into it gladly, with several papers he hadbought, and began to read. As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner,Carrie said: "The man was here for the rent to-day." "Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood. The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this wasFebruary 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in hispocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out whennothing is coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick manlooks at the one possible saving cure. Then he counted offtwenty-eight dollars. "Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again. He buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it- therelief from walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were thesefloods of telegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part.Here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaperdrawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn fordivorce. Here was another item detailing the wrecking of a vessel inice and snow off Prince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, brightcolumn told of the doings in the theatrical world- the plays produced,the actors appearing, the managers making announcements. FannieDavenport was just opening at the Fifth Avenue. Daly was producing"King Lear." He read of the early departure for the season of aparty composed of the Vanderbilts and their friends for Florida. Aninteresting shooting affray was on in the mountains of Kentucky. So heread, read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator andwaiting for dinner to be served. Chapter XXXV. THE PASSING OF EFFORT: THE VISAGE OF CARE The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through along list of advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to themale-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day wasbefore him- a long day in which to discover something- and this washow he must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, whichmostly concerned bakers, bushel-men, cooks, compositors, drivers,and the like, finding two things only which arrested his eye. Onewas a cashier wanted in a wholesale furniture house, and the other asalesman for a whiskey house. He had never thought of the latter. Atonce he decided to look that up. The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers. He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance. "Good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that hewas encountering one of his out-of-town customers. "Good-morning," said Hurstwood. "You advertised, I believe, for asalesman?" "Oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had cometo him. "Yes. Yes, I did." "I thought I'd drop in," said Hurstwood, with dignity. "I've hadsome experience in that line myself." "Oh, have you?" said the man. "What experience have you had?" "Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently Iowned a third-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets." "I see," said the man. Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion. "We did want a salesman," said the man. "I don't know as it'sanything you'd care to take hold of, though." "I see," said Hurstwood. "Well, I'm in no position to choose, atpresent. If it were open, I should be glad to get it." The man did not take kindly at all to his "No position to choose."He wanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or somethingbetter. Especially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active,and glad to work actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not pleasehim at all. He had more of an air than his employers. "Well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider yourapplication. We shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you sendus your references." "I will," said Hurstwood. He nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at thefurniture company's address, and saw that it was in WestTwenty-third Street. Accordingly, he went up there. The place wasnot large enough, however. It looked moderate, the men in it idleand small salaried. He walked by, glancing in, and then decided not togo in there. "They want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said. At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant inMadison Square. There he pondered over places which he might lookup. He was tired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way,through Madison Square Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upona busy scene. He decided to go over to the lobby of one and sit awhile. It was warm in there and bright. He had seen no one he knewat the Broadway Central. In all likelihood he would encounter no onehere. Finding a seat on one of the red plush divans close to the greatwindows which look out on Broadway's busy rout, he sat musing. Hisstate did not seem so bad in here. Sitting still and looking out, hecould take some slight consolation in the few hundred dollars he hadin his purse. He could forget, in a measure, the weariness of thestreet and his tiresome searches. Still, it was only escape from asevere to a less severe state. He was still gloomy and disheartened.There, minutes seemed to go very slowly. An hour was a long, long timein passing. It was filled for him with observations and mentalcomments concerning the actual guests of the hotel, who passed inand out, and those more prosperous pedestrians whose good fortuneshowed in their clothes and spirits as they passed along Broadway,outside. It was nearly the first time since he had arrived in the citythat his leisure afforded him ample opportunity to contemplate thisspectacle. Now, being, perforce, idle himself, he wondered at theactivity of others. How gay were the youths he saw, how pretty thewomen. Such fine clothes they all wore. They were so intent upongetting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast by magnificentgirls. Ah, the money it required to train with such- how well he knew!How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to do so! The clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but hethought he would go back to the flat. This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carriewould think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. Hehoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Overthere he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chairand read. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. Hecould read his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie wasreading, quite alone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as itwas. "You'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her. After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to makesome little report of his day. "I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said. "I maygo out on the road." "Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie. "It wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered. Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers- the"Evening World" and "Evening Sun." So now he merely picked hispapers up, as he came by, without stopping. He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Thenit was as the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the itemshe so well loved to read. The next day was even worse than the one before, because now hecould not think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers hestudied- till ten o'clock- appealed to him. He felt that he ought togo out, and yet he sickened at the thought. Where to, where to? "You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," saidCarrie, quietly. They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a weekin her hands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a littlesigh as she said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dreadof the thing. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing comingin. "Lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on." To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that herrequest disturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressingthing. "Yet, what have I got to do with it?" she thought. "Oh, why should Ibe made to worry?" Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up someplace. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-firstStreet. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twentyblocks' walk. "I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought. Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after histonsorial treatment. Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, andthis continued for several days, each day the need to hunt paininghim, and each day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him intolobby idleness. At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did notgo out at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon. It was aregular flurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it wasstill coming down with a high wind, and the papers announced ablizzard. From out the front windows one could see a deep, softbedding. "I guess I'll not try to go out to-day," he said to Carrie atbreakfast. "It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say." "The man hasn't brought my coal, either," said Carrie, who orderedby the bushel. "I'll go over and see about it," said Hurstwood. This was thefirst time he had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, thewish to sit about the house prompted it as a sort of compensationfor the privilege. All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from ageneral blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to thedetails of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the distressof the poor in large type. Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not tryto think about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, andtying up all things, robbed him of the need. He made himself whollycomfortable and toasted his feet. Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury ofthe storm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation toophilosophically. Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention toCarrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little todisturb him. The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold.Hurstwood took the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now hevolunteered to do a few other little things. One was to go to thebutcher, another to the grocery. He really thought nothing of theselittle services in connection with their true significance. He felt asif he were not wholly useless- indeed, in such a stress of weather,quite worth while about the house. On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the stormwas over. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streetswould be. It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got underway. Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. Hewent across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south onBroadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon downin Pearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, hechanged his mind. "What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "Icouldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. Iguess I'll get off," and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat andwaited again, wondering what he could do. While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, awell-dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as ifnot sure of his memory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognisedCargill, the owner of the large stables in Chicago of the same name,whom he had last seen at Avery Hall, the night Carrie appearedthere. The remembrance of how this individual brought up his wife toshake hands on that occasion was also on the instant clear. Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficultyhe felt. "Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry thathe had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to haveavoided this meeting. "Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?" "Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about."Stopping here?" "No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment." "I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become ofyou." "Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away. "Doing well, I suppose?" "Excellent." "Glad to hear it." They looked at one another, rather embarrassed. "Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leaveyou. So long." Hurstwood nodded his head. "Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I knew thatwould happen." He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered1.30. He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. Theday was so bad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet beganto feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. This took him toFifty-ninth Street, which was as good as anywhere else. Landed here,he turned to walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was toomuch. The misery of lounging about with nowhere to go becameintolerable. He felt as if he were catching cold. Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was noday to be out; he would go home. Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three. "It's a miserable day out," was all he said. Then he took off hiscoat and changed his shoes. That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He wasfeverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waitedon him. He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in adull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard aboutthe eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appealto her. She wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but somethingabout the man held her aloof. Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that shesuggested he go to bed. "You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. I'll openyour bed for you now." "All right," he said. As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state. "What a life! What a life!" was her one thought. Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up andreading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. Inthe front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window andcried. This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up ina small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, andindifferent to her. She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more. This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, shelighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticedthe fact. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. Hisvoice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsomequality. "Nothing," said Carrie, weakly. "You've been crying," he said. "I haven't either," she answered. It was not for love of him, that he knew. "You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "Things will comeout all right." In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, hestayed in. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers,and these he read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out,but meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasysitting about hotel corridors. Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence ofgoing anywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything. Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie didthings. She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, andher little deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not,however, before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievousthing. Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass veryquickly. Every Tuesday Carrie asked for her money. "Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked oneTuesday morning. "I do the best I can," said Carrie. Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said: "Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?" "I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie. "They say you can get things lots cheaper there." Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were thingswhich she did not like at all. "How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day. "Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie. "Sirloin steak istwenty-two cents." "That's steep, isn't it?" he answered. So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passingdays, it seemed to become a mania with him. He learned the pricesand remembered them. His errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a smallway, of course. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, wasstopped by him. "Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked. "Over to the baker's," she answered. "I'd just as leave go for you," he said. She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to thecorner for the papers. "Is there anything you want?" he would say. By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost theweekly payment of twelve dollars. "You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this time. "How much?" he asked. She understood well enough what it meant. "Well, about five dollars," she answered. "I owe the coal man." The same day he said: "I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal attwenty-five cents a bushel. I'll trade with him." Carrie heard this with indifference. "All right," she said. Then it came to be: "George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get somemeat of some kind for dinner." He would find out what she needed and order. Accompanying this plan came skimpiness. "I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoonwith his papers. "We never seem to eat very much." These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. Theyblackened her days and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed!All day and all day, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemedto have no attraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fineweather, it might be four or five hours, between eleven and four.She could do nothing but view him with gnawing contempt. It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to seehis way out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had onlyfive hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if hecould stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sittingaround the house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. Thiscame first with the bad days. Only once he apologised in the verybeginning: "It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around." Eventually these became the permanent thing. Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tipof ten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, thento nothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, findingthat the shave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, heput off shaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on,until once a week became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see. Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for himin Carrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. Hehad some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad lookingwhen dressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle inChicago, but she did not forget either that she had never ceasedtrying. He never tried. He did not even consult the ads. in the papersany more. Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her. "What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her oneevening, standing around in the kitchen. "To make it good, of course," she answered. "Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested. "You wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered. He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retortrankled in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had comefrom her. That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front roomto bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, asusual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie'sabsence. "That's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up." He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning shewas not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment. Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feelingprevailing, Carrie said: "I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache." "All right," said Hurstwood. The third night she went to her front bed without apologies. This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it. "All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "lether sleep alone." Chapter XXXVI. A GRIM RETROGRESSION: THE PHANTOM OF CHANCE The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas,had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had nevercalled on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never senther address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance aslong as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she wascompelled to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would takeit as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to studysome way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Notfinding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned theprivilege of writing to her friend entirely. The latter wondered atthis strange silence, thought Carrie must have left the city, and inthe end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised toencounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping.Carrie was there for the same purpose. "Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in aglance, "where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I'vebeen wondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I-" "I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed.Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. "Why, I'mliving down town here. I've been intending to come and see you.Where are you living now?" "In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off Seventh Avenue-218. Why don't you come and see me?" "I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. I knowI ought to. It's a shame. But you know-" "What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance. "Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West." "Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?" "Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time." "Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the whilenoting that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address,too," she added to herself. "They must be hard up." Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow. "Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into astore. When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. Heseemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beardwas at least four days old. "Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?" She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situationwas becoming unbearable. Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner: "Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?" "No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man." Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more. "I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time. "Did, eh?" he answered. "They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look sonice." "Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returnedHurstwood. "He's got a soft job." Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look ofinfinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him. "She said she thought she'd call here some day." "She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said Hurstwood,with a kind of sarcasm. The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side. "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude."Perhaps I didn't want her to come." "She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keepup with her pace unless they've got a lot of money." "Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard." "He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understandingthe inference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'llhappen. He may get down like anybody else." There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eyeseemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting theirdefeat. His own state seemed a thing apart- not considered. This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness andindependence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings ofother people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came uponhim. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation ofsearch, he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said: "I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of thingscoming to me if I want to go after them." It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for ashave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Notwith any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He feltjust right for being outside and doing something. On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several pokerrooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts andabout the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a fewfriendly commonplaces. He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker.Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at thetime when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game- not theall in all. Now, he thought of playing. "I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice." It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to himseveral times before he acted upon it. The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in WestStreet, near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Severalgames were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that thepots were quite large for the ante involved. "Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. Hepulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quietstudy of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching. Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collectionwithout progression or pairs. The pot was opened. "I pass," he said. On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. Thedeals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away witha few dollars to the good. The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement andprofit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. Therewas a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irishyouth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district inwhich they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence ofthis individual, whose bets came with a sang-froid which, if abluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, orthought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in oldentimes, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, whoseem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences,however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this manhad something better and would stay to the end, drawing his lastdollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped towin much- his hand was excellent. Why not raise it five more? "I raise you three," said the youth. "Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips. "Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds. "Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper incharge, taking out a bill. A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When thechips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise. "Five again," said the youth. Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now- very deep for him.Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward,but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way.He would not trust to this fine hand any longer. "I call," he said. "A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards. Hurstwood's hand dropped. "I thought I had you," he said, weakly. The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not withoutfirst stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair. "Three hundred and forty dollars," he said. With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone. Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more. Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mildprotest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day,coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in. "What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie. "What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked. "Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Someone might call." "Who?" he said. "Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie. "She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly. This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him. "Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I shouldthink he would be ashamed of himself." The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance didcall. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up thecommonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequentand agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door,half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's. For once, he was takenhonestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him. "Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?" "How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe hereyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not knowwhether to invite her in or not. "Is your wife at home?" she inquired. "No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll beback shortly." "No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'm reallyvery much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but Icouldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me." "I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intenserelief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his handsweakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought. Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vancegoing away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure. "Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood. "Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance." "Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair. This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen. "If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door." "Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheernervousness. "What did she have to say?" "Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay." "And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a longreserve. "What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming,did I?" "You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she wascoming. I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, Ithink this is just terrible." "Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? Youcouldn't associate with her, anyway. They've got too much money." "Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely. "Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'dcommitted-" Carrie interrupted: "It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose faultis it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associatewith. Why don't you get out and look for work?" This was a thunderbolt in camp. "What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay therent, don't I? I furnish the-" "Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there wasnothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven'tdone a thing for three months except sit around and interfere here.I'd like to know what you married me for?" "I didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone. "I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?" she answered. "Well, I didn't marry you," he answered. "You can get that out ofyour head. You talk as though you didn't know." Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believedit was all legal and binding enough. "What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "What didyou force me to run away with you for?" Her voice became almost a sob. "Force!" he said, with curled lip. "A lot of forcing I did." "Oh!" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "Oh, oh!"and she hurried into the front room. Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up forhim, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, andthen went for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie;she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first,with the faintest alarm, of being left without money- not of losinghim, though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open thetop of the wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room doorclosed, and she knew he had gone. After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and lookedout the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from theflat, toward Sixth Avenue. The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across FourteenthStreet to Union Square. "Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tells me toget out and look for work." He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, whichtold him that she was right. "What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," hethought. "Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she wasthinking." He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eighthStreet. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put onthe air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to thinkshe had caught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in hisdistress. "The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour. It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was intears. There would be no dinner that night. "What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shamefrom himself. "I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet." He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels,decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and makehimself comfortable there. He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one ofthe best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. Itdid not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did notallow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becomingaddicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, tosatisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for themorrow- he could not stand to think of it any more than he could ofany other calamity. Like the certainty of death, he tried to shutthe certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of hismind, and he came very near doing it. Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carriedhim back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house,playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading. His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, andthen, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekersthickening outside, wondered where he should go. Not home. Carriewould be up. No, he would not go back there this evening. He wouldstay out and knock around as a man who was independent- not broke-well might. He bought a cigar, and went outside on the corner whereother individuals were lounging- brokers, racing people, thespians-his own flesh and blood. As he stood there, he thought of the oldevenings in Chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. Many's thegame he had had. This took him to poker. "I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought,referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't have weakened.I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's whatailed me." Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played,and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, bybluffing a little harder. "I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll trymy hand to-night." Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win acouple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew madetheir living at this game, and a good living, too. "They always had as much as I had," he thought. So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much ashe had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness,aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner inthe hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the oldHurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood-only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom. This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back roomin a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then,seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for awhile, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots andgrowing more interested and determined on that account. At last thefascinating game took a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks andventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fairstake. To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it. In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was withhim. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, andagain he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there whowere almost reading his heart, so close was their observation. "I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself."I'll just stay with the fellow to the finish." The result was that bidding began. "I raise you ten." "Good." "Ten more." "Good." "Ten again." "Right you are." It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other manreally became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) reallydid have a stiff hand. "I call," he said. Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that hehad lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate. "Let's have another pot," he said, grimly. "All right," said the man. Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took theirplaces. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held on,neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a lasthand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart. At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place.The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walkedslowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended thestairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. Itwas his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside hecounted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety dollarsand some change. He put it up and began to undress. "I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said. In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must goout again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to makeup. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going outthus, he lived like a gentleman- or what he conceived to be agentleman- which took money. For his escapades he was soon poorer inmind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty bythe process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again. "The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thusindifferently three mornings later. "He does?" "Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie. Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse. "It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said. He was nearing his last hundred dollars. Chapter XXXVII. THE SPIRIT AWAKENS: NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATE It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fiftydollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling,had only carried them into June. Before the final hundred mark wasreached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching. "I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure formeat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live." "It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much." "My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it'sgone to." "All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie. "All but a hundred." He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to seethat she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time. "Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look forsomething? You could find something." "I have looked," he said. "You can't make people give you a place." She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think youwill do? A hundred dollars won't last long." "I don't know," he said. "I can't do any more than look." Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thoughtdesperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered thestage as a door through which she might enter that gilded statewhich she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a lastresource in distress. Something must be done if he did not get worksoon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone. She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Herexperience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way.There must be people who would listen to and try you- men who wouldgive you an opportunity. They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later,when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw thatSarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it,too. "How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked,innocently. "I don't know," he said. "There must be dramatic agents." Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up. "Regular people who get you a place?" "Yes, I think so," he answered. Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention. "You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" heasked. "No," she answered, "I was just wondering." Without being clear, there was something in the thought which heobjected to. He did not believe any more, after three years ofobservation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line.She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that itinvolved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stageshe would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become likethe rest of them. He had a good idea of what he meant by them.Carrie was pretty. She would get along all right, but where would hebe? "I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot moredifficult than you think." Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon herability. "You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined. "You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, "butChicago isn't New York, by a big jump." Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her. "The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of thebig guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long whileto get up." "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused. In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now,when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get onthe stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had notconceived well of her mental ability. That was because he did notunderstand the nature of emotional greatness. He had never learnedthat a person might be emotionally- instead of intellectually-great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to look back and sharplyremember. He had lived with this woman too long. "Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think of it.It's not much of a profession for a woman." "It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't wantme to do that, why don't you get work yourself?" There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to thesuggestion. "Oh, let up," he answered. The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. Itdidn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged intopoverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She couldget something and then work up. What would he say then? She picturedherself already appearing in some fine performance on Broadway; ofgoing every evening to her dressing-room and making up. Then she wouldcome out at eleven o'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waitingfor the people. It did not matter whether she was the star or not.If she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind ofclothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and thereas she pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over thispicture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made its beautybecome more and more vivid. Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sumsuggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assisthim a little until he could get something? He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind. "I met John B. Drake to-day," he said. "He's going to open a hotelhere in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then." "Who is he?" asked Carrie. "He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago." "Oh," said Carrie. "I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that." "That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically. "If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be allright. I'm hearing from some of my friends again." Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. Shesincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked sohopeless. "How much money have you left?" "Only fifty dollars." "Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twentydays until the rent will be due again." Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at thefloor. "Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandlysuggested. "Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of theidea. "I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he sawher brighten up. "I can get something." She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressedas neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She didnot know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderfulconglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres werethere- these agencies must be somewhere about. She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask howto find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way.Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk atthe box office. "Eh?" he said, looking out. "Dramatic agents? I don't know. You'llfind them in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in that." "Is that a paper?" said Carrie. "Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a commonfact. "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely, seeinghow pretty the inquirer was. Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find theagents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This couldnot be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off,but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting thewaste of time. Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place. "Where were you?" he asked. "I've been trying to find some dramatic agents." He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success.The paper she began to scan attracted his attention. "What have you got there?" he asked. "The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here." "Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? Icould have told you." "Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up. "You never asked me," he returned. She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind wasdistracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the situationshe was facing was only added to by all he did. Self-commiserationbrewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did notfall. Hurstwood noticed something. "Let me look." To recover herself she went into the front room while he searched.Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon anenvelope. "Here're three," he said. Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, anotherMarcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and thenmoved toward the door. "I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back. Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, whichwere the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat awhile, and then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat. "I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strollingnowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go. Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address wasquite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned intooffices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been aback chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private." As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about- men,who said nothing and did nothing. While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroomopened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightlydressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portlylady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidentlygood-natured. At least she was smiling. "Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women. "I won't," said the portly woman. "Let's see," she added, "where areyou the first week in February?" "Pittsburg," said the woman. "I'll write you there." "All right," said the other, and the two passed out. Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober andshrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye. "Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?" "Are you Mrs. Bermudez?" "Yes." "Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places forpersons upon the stage?" "Yes." "Could you get me one?" "Have you ever had any experience?" "A very little," said Carrie. "Whom did you play with?" "Oh, with no one," said Carrie. "It was just a show gotten-" "Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her. "No, I don't knowof anything now." Carrie's countenance fell. "You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affableMrs. Bermudez. "We'll take your name, though." Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office. "What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter,taking up the curtailed conversation. "Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she waswriting. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her todepart at her leisure. She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr.Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could play atsome local house, or had a programme with your name on it, I mightdo something." In the third place the individual asked: "What sort of work do you want to do?" "What do you mean?" said Carrie. "Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville stageor in the chorus?" "Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie. "Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that." "How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had notthought of this before. "Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly. Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continuethe inquiry. "Could you get me a part if I paid?" "If we didn't you'd get your money back." "Oh," she said. The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, andcontinued accordingly. "You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would troubleabout you for less than that." Carrie saw a light. "Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it." She started to go, and then bethought herself. "How soon would I get a place?" she asked. "Well, that's hard to say," said the man. "You might get one in aweek, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that wethought you could do." "I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, shewalked out. The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself: "It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage." Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollarproposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything,"she thought. She had some jewelry- a diamond ring and pin andseveral other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for those if shewent to a pawnbroker. Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be solong seeking. "Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news. "I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off hergloves. "They all want money to get you a place." "How much?" asked Hurstwood. "Fifty dollars." "They don't want anything, do they?" "Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd everget you anything after you did pay them." "Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as ifhe were deciding, money in hand. "I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of themanagers." Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a littleto and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very natural insuch extreme states. He would do better later on. Chapter XXXVIII. IN ELF LAND DISPORTING: THE GRIM WORLD WITHOUT When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going tothe Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields,employment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand in a line andlook pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. Shefound there was no discrimination between one and the other ofapplicants, save as regards a conventional standard of prettinessand form. Their own opinion or knowledge of their ability went fornothing. "Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at thestage entrance of the Casino. "You can't see him now; he's busy." "Do you know when I can see him?" "Got an appointment with him?" "No." "Well, you'll have to call at his office." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Carrie. "Where is his office?" He gave her the number. She knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be in.Nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search. The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. Mr.Daly saw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour in adingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of theplacid, indifferent Mr. Dorney. "You will have to write and ask him to see you." So she went away. At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless andindifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered, everythingcarefully finished, everything remarkably reserved. At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairwayclosets, berugged and bepanneled, which causes one to feel thegreatness of all positions of authority. Here was reserve itselfdone into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying intheir fine positions. "Ah, be very humble now- very humble indeed. Tell us what it isyou require. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige ofself-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we cando." This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum- the attitude, for thatmatter, of every managerial office in the city. These littleproprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground. Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains. Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing searchthat evening. "I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie. "I just walked, andwalked, and waited around." Hurstwood only looked at her. "I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in," sheadded, disconsolately. Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did notseem so terrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she couldrest. Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did notseem to approach so rapidly. To-morrow was another day. To-morrow came, and the next, and the next. Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once. "Come around," he said, "the first of next week. I may make somechanges then." He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothesand good eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh.Carrie was pretty and graceful. She might be put in even if she didnot have any experience. One of the proprietors had suggested that thechorus was a little weak on looks. The first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the monthwas drawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never worriedbefore. "Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she askedHurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own. "Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little overthe disgrace of the insinuation. "I'd take anything," she said, "for the present. It will soon be thefirst of the month again." She looked the picture of despair. Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes. "He would look for something," he thought. "He would go and see ifsome brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would take aposition as bartender, if he could get it." It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or twoslight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared. "No use," he thought. "I might as well go on back home." Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes andfeel that even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace.This was a bitter thought. Carrie came in after he did. "I went to see some of the variety managers," she said, aimlessly."You have to have an act. They don't want anybody that hasn't." "I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "Oneman told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks." In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to makesome showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology toenergy. Monday Carrie went again to the Casino. "Did I tell you to come around to-day?" said the manager, lookingher over as she stood before him. "You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed. "Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely. Carrie owned to ignorance. He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He wassecretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman."Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning." Carrie's heart bounded to her throat. "I will," she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her, andturned to go. "Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it be?" Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windowsbecame pleasant. A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away allimmediate fears on that score. "Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "You'llbe dropped if you're not." Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood'sidleness. She had a place- she had a place! This sang in her ears. In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as shewalked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case becamelarger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work inseveral weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months. "Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If Ican he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me." She forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she didnot, in her enthusiasm, perceive. Thus, ever, the voice of success. Still, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm andindifferent, but it was a palpable sham. "Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face. "I have a place." "You have?" he said, breathing a better breath. "Yes." "What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as ifnow he might get something good also. "In the chorus," she answered. "Is it the Casino show you told me about?" "Yes," she answered. "I begin rehearsing tomorrow." There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she washappy. At last Hurstwood said: "Do you know how much you'll get?" "No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie. "I guess they pay twelve orfourteen dollars a week." "About that, I guess," said Hurstwood. There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to themere lifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a shave,and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak. "Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and withrenewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground. On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place inthe line. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolentof the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich,oriental appearance. The wonder of it awed and delighted her.Blessed be its wondrous reality. How hard she would try to be worthyof it. It was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, aboveinsignificance. People came to it in finery and carriages to see. Itwas ever a center of light and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, ifshe could only remain, how happy would be her days! "What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the drill. "Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet hadselected in Chicago. "Carrie Madenda." "Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie thought,"you go over there." Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company: "Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda." This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go, andthe rehearsal began. Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slightresemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the attitudeof the manager was much more pronounced. She had marvelled at theinsistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but the individualconducting here had the same insistence, coupled with almost brutalroughness. As the drilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedinglywroth over trifles, and to increase his lung power in proportion. Itwas very evident that he had a great contempt for any assumption ofdignity or innocence on the part of these young women. "Clark," he would call- meaning, of course, Miss Clark- "why don'tyou catch step there?" "By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on toyourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last soundsinto a vehement roar. "Maitland! Maitland!" he called once. A nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. Carrie trembledfor her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and fear. "Yes, sir," said Miss Maitland. "Is there anything the matter with your ears?" "No, sir." "Do you know what 'column left' means?" "Yes, sir." "Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break upthe line?" "I was just-" "Never mind what you were just. Keep your ears open." Carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn. Yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke. "Hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, asif in despair. His demeanour was fierce. "Elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?" "Nothing," said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood nervouslyby. "Well, are you talking?" "No, sir." "Well, keep your mouth still then. Now, all together again." At lastCarrie's turn came. It was because of her extreme anxiety to do allthat was required that brought on trouble. She heard some one called. "Mason," said the voice. "Miss Mason." She looked around to see who it could be. A girl behind shoved her alittle, but she did not understand. "You, you!" said the manager. "Can't you hear?" "Oh," said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely. "Isn't your name Mason?" asked the manager. "No, sir," said Carrie, "it's Madenda." "Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?" "Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art. "Why don't you do it then?" Don't go shuffling along as if youwere dead. I've got to have people with life in them." Carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. Her lips trembled alittle. "Yes, sir," she said. It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy,for three long hours. Carrie came away worn enough in body, but tooexcited in mind to notice it. She meant to go home and practise herevolutions as prescribed. She would not err in any way, if she couldhelp it. When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there. For a wonder hewas out looking for work, as she supposed. She took only a mouthful toeat and then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom fromfinancial distress- "The sound of glory ringing in her ears." When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away,and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. Here was anearly irritation. She would have her work and this. Was she going toact and keep house? "I'll not do it," she said, "after I get started. He can take hismeals out." Each day thereafter brought its cares. She found it was not such awonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that hersalary would be twelve dollars a week. After a few days she had herfirst sight of those high and mighties- the leading ladies andgentlemen. She saw that they were privileged and deferred to. Shewas nothing- absolutely nothing at all. At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. He seemedto get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she wasgetting along. The regularity with which he did this smacked of someone who was waiting to live upon her labour. Now that she had avisible means of support, this irritated her. He seemed to bedepending upon her little twelve dollars. "How are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire. "Oh, all right," she would reply. "Find it easy?" "It will be all right when I get used to it." His paper would then engross his thoughts. "I got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought. "I thoughtmaybe you might want to make some biscuit." The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especiallyin the light of recent developments. Her dawning independence gave hermore courage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to saythings. Still she could not talk to him as she had to Drouet. Therewas something in the man's manner of which she had always stood inawe. He seemed to have some invisible strength in reserve. One day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected cameopenly to the surface. "We'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meathe had purchased. "You won't get any money for a week or so yet. "No," said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove. "I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added. "That's it," she said to herself. "I'm to use my money now." Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few thingsfor herself. She needed clothes. Her hat was not nice. "What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" shethought. "I can't do it. Why doesn't he get something to do?" The important night of the first real performance came. She didnot suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see. He did not think ofgoing. It would only be money wasted. She had such a small part. The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters uponthe bill-boards. The leading lady and many members were cited.Carrie was nothing. As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very firstentrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. Theapparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away fromher. She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter.Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. A group of twelve wereassigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line aboutan inch above the knee. Carrie happened to be one of the twelve. In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting upher voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe theaudience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. There wasplenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some ofthe women of alleged ability did. "I could do better than that," Carrie ventured to herself, inseveral instances. To do her justice, she was right. After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager hadscolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must haveproved satisfactory. She wanted to get out quickly, because she knewbut few, and the stars were gossiping. Outside were carriages and somecorrect youths in attractive clothing, waiting. Carrie saw that shewas scanned closely. The flutter of an eyelash would have broughther a companion. That she did not give. One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow. "Not going home alone, are you?" he said. Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car.Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothingelse. "Did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end ofthe week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action. "No," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet. I think somethingwill come of that, though." She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money,and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. Hurstwood feltthe crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie. He had longsince realised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand.There was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, buthe justified himself with the thought that he really would getsomething. Rent day gave him his opportunity. "Well," he said, as he counted it out, "that's about the last ofmy money. I'll have to get something pretty soon." Carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal. "If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could getsomething. Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September." "Is he?" said Carrie, thinking of the short month that stillremained until that time. "Would you mind helping me out until then?" he said appealingly."I think I'll be all right after that time." "No," said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate. "We can get along if we economise. I'll pay you back all right." "Oh, I'll help you," said Carrie, feeling quite hard-hearted at thusforcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit ofher earnings wrung a faint protest from her. "Why don't you take anything, George, temporarily?" she said."What difference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you'll getsomething better." "I will take anything," he said, relieved, and wincing underreproof. "I'd just as leave dig on the streets. Nobody knows me here." "Oh, you needn't do that," said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it. "Butthere must be other things." "I'll get something!" he said, assuming determination. Then he went back to his paper. Chapter XXXIX. OF LIGHTS AND OF SHADOWS: THE PARTING OF WORLDS What Hurstwood got as the result of the determination was moreself-assurance that each particular day was not the day. At the sametime, Carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress. Her need of clothes- to say nothing of her desire for ornaments-grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was notto have them. The sympathy she felt for Hurstwood, at the time heasked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer urgings ofdecency. He was not always renewing his request, but this love of goodappearance was. It insisted, and Carrie wished to satisfy it, wishedmore and more that Hurstwood was not in the way. Hurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he hadbetter keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent forcar-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum was still in his handhe announced himself as penniless. "I'm clear out," he said to Carrie one afternoon. "I paid for somecoal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents." "I've got some money there in my purse." Hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. Carriescarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. He tookout fifteen cents and bought the can with it. Thereafter it wasdribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie suddenlyremembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time. "We're all out of flour," she said; "you'd better get some thisafternoon. We haven't any meat, either. How would it do if we hadliver and bacon?" "Suits me," said Hurstwood. "Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that." "Half'll be enough," volunteered Hurstwood. She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. He pretended notto notice it. Hurstwood bought the flour- which all grocers sold in 3 1/2 poundpackages- for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-poundof liver and bacon. He left the packages, together with the balance ofthirty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where Carrie found it. Itdid not escape her that the change was accurate. There was somethingsad in realising that, after all, all that he wanted of her wassomething to eat. She felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. Maybe hewould get something yet. He had no vices. That very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of thechorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweedsuit, which took Carrie's eye. The young woman wore a fine bunch ofviolets and seemed in high spirits. She smiled at Carriegood-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and Carriesmiled back. "She can afford to dress well," thought Carrie, "and so could I,if I could only keep my money. I haven't a decent tie of any kind towear." She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively. "I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don't care whathappens." One of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls inthe company made friends with her because in Carrie she foundnothing to frighten her away. She was a gay little Manon, unwitting ofsociety's fierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good toher neighbour and charitable. Little license was allowed the chorus inthe matter of conversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in. "It's warm to-night, isn't it?" said this girl, arrayed in pinkfleshings and an imitation golden helmet. She also carried a shiningshield. "Yes; it is," said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her. "I'm almost roasting," said the girl. Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, andsaw little beads of moisture. "There's more marching in this opera than ever I did before,"added the girl. "Have you been in others?" asked Carrie, surprised at herexperience. "Lots of them," said the girl; "haven't you?" "This is my first experience." "Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran 'The Queen's Mate'here." "No," said Carrie, shaking her head; "not me." This conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestraand the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the linewas called to form for a new entrance. No further opportunity forconversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were gettingready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side. "They say this show is going on the road next month." "Is it?" said Carrie. "Yes; do you think you'll go?" "I don't know; I guess so, if they'll take me." "Oh, they'll take you. I wouldn't go. They won't give you anymore, and it will cost you everything you make to live. I neverleave New York. There are too many shows going on here." "Can you always get in another show?" "I always have. There's one going on up at the Broadway thismonth. I'm going to try and get in that if this one really goes." Carrie heard this with aroused intelligence. Evidently it wasn'tso very difficult to get on. Maybe she also could get a place ifthis show went away. "Do they all pay about the same?" she asked. "Yes. Sometimes you get a little more. This show doesn't pay verymuch." "I get twelve," said Carrie. "Do you?" said the girl. "They pay me fifteen, and you do morework than I do. I wouldn't stand it if I were you. They're just givingyou less because they think you don't know. You ought to be makingfifteen." "Well, I'm not," said Carrie. "Well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it," went onthe girl, who admired Carrie very much. "You do fine, and themanager knows it." To say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about with an airpleasing and somewhat distinctive. It was due wholly to her naturalmanner and total lack of self-consciousness. "Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway?" "Of course you can," answered the girl. "You come with me when I go.I'll do the talking." Carrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness. She liked this littlegaslight soldier. She seemed so experienced and self-reliant in hertinsel helmet and military accoutrements. "My future must be assured if I can always get work this way,"thought Carrie. Still, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe uponher and Hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fateseemed dismal and unrelieved. It did not take so very much to feedthem under Hurstwood's close-measured buying, and there would possiblybe enough for rent, but it left nothing else. Carrie bought theshoes and some other things, which complicated the rent problem veryseriously. Suddenly, a week from the fatal day, Carrie realised thatthey were going to run short. "I don't believe," she exclaimed, looking into her purse atbreakfast, "that I'll have enough to pay the rent." "How much have you?" inquired Hurstwood. "Well, I've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to bepaid for this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay this,there won't be any left for next week. Do you think your hotel manwill open his hotel this month?" "I think so," returned Hurstwood. "He said he would." After a while, Hurstwood said: "Don't worry about it. Maybe the grocer will wait. He can do that.We've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a week ortwo." "Do you think he will?" she asked. "I think so." On this account, Hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oesloggeclearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said: "Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?" "No, no, Mr. Wheeler," said Mr. Oeslogge. "Dat iss all right." Hurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this. Itseemed an easy thing. He looked out of the door, and then gatheredup his coffee when ready and came away. The game of a desperate manhad begun. Rent was paid, and now came the grocer. Hurstwood managed bypaving out of his own ten and collecting from Carrie at the end of theweek. Then he delayed a day next time settling with the grocer, and sosoon had his ten back, with Oeslogge getting his pay on thisThursday or Friday for last Saturday's bill. This entanglement made Carrie anxious for a change of some sort.Hurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to anything. Heschemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed notto trouble over adding anything himself. "He talks about worrying," thought Carrie. "If he worried enoughhe couldn't sit there and wait for me. He'd get something to do. Noman could go seven months without finding something if he tried." The sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomyappearance drove Carrie to seek relief in other places. Twice a weekthere were matinees, and then Hurstwood ate a cold snack, which heprepared himself. Two other days there were rehearsals beginning atten in the morning and lasting usually until one. Now, to thisCarrie added a few visits to one or two chorus girls, including theblue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet. She did it because it waspleasant and a relief from dulness of the home over which herhusband brooded. The blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne- Lola Osborne. Her room wasin Nineteenth Street near Fourth Avenue, a block now given up whollyto office buildings. Here she had a comfortable back room, lookingover a collection of back yards in which grew a number of shadetrees pleasant to see. "Isn't your home in New York?" she asked of Lola one day. "Yes; but I can't get along with my people. They always want me todo what they want. Do you live here?" "Yes," said Carrie. "With your family?" Carrie was ashamed to say that she was married. She had talked somuch about getting more salary and confessed to so much anxietyabout her future, that now, when the direct question of fact waswaiting, she could not tell this girl. "With some relatives," she answered. Miss Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Carrie's timewas her own. She invariably asked her to stay, proposing littleoutings and other things of that sort until Carrie began neglectingher dinner hours. Hurstwood noticed it, but felt in no position toquarrel with her. Several times she came so late as scarcely to havean hour in which to patch up a meal and start for the theatre. "Do you rehearse in the afternoons?" Hurstwood once asked,concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret whichprompted it. "No; I was looking around for another place," said Carrie. As a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished theleast straw of an excuse. Miss Osborne and she had gone to theoffice of the manager who was to produce the new opera at the Broadwayand returned straight to the former's room, where they had beensince three o'clock. Carrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty.She did not take into account how much liberty she was securing.Only the last step, the newest freedom, must not be questioned. Hurstwood saw it all clearly enough. He was shrewd after his kind,and yet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making aneffectual protest. In his almost inexplicable apathy he was content todroop supinely while Carrie drifted out of his life, just as he waswilling supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. Hecould not help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, andineffectual way, however- a way that simply widened the breach by slowdegrees. A further enlargement of this chasm between them came when themanager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stagewhere the chorus was going through some of its glitteringevolutions, said to the master of the ballet: "Who is that fourth girl there on the right- the one coming round atthe end now?" "Oh," said the ballet-master, "that's Miss Madenda." "She's good looking. Why don't you let her head that line?" "I will," said the man. "Just do that. She'll look better there than the woman you've got." "All right. I will do that," said the master. The next evening Carrie was called out, much as if for an error. "You lead your company to-night," said the master. "Yes, sir," said Carrie. "Put snap into it," he added. "We must have snap." "Yes, sir," replied Carrie. Astonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leadermust be ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinctexpression of something unfavourable in her eye, she began to thinkthat perhaps it was merit. She had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holdingher arms as if for action- not listlessly. In front of the line thisshowed up even more effectually. "That girl knows how to carry herself," said the manager, anotherevening. He began to think that he should like to talk with her. If hehadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of thechorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly. "Put that girl at the head of the white column," he suggested to theman in charge of the ballet. This white column consisted of some twenty girls, all insnow-white flannel trimmed with silver and blue. Its leader was moststunningly arrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, withepaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at oneside. Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days laterappeared, proud of her new laurels. She was especially gratified tofind that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve. Hurstwood heard nothing about this. "I'll not give him the rest of my money," said Carrie. "I do enough.I am going to get me something to wear." As a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buyingfor herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of theconsequences. There were impending more complications rent day andmore extension of the credit system in the neighbourhood. Now,however, she proposed to do better by herself. Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these shefound how little her money would buy- how much, if she could onlyuse all. She forgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for aroom and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen couldbe spent for clothes and things that she liked. At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all hersurplus above twelve, but invaded that sum. She knew she was going toofar, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. The next day Hurstwoodsaid: "We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week." "Do we?" said Carrie, frowning a little. She looked in her purse to leave it. "I've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether." "We owe the milkman sixty cents," added Hurstwood. "Yes, and there's the coal man," said Carrie. Hurstwood said nothing. He had seen the new things she was buying;the way she was neglecting household duties; the readiness withwhich she was slipping out afternoons and staying. He felt thatsomething was going to happen. All at once she spoke: "I don't know," she said; "I can't do it all. I don't earn enough." This was a direct challenge. Hurstwood had to take it up. He triedto be calm. "I don't want you to do it all," he said. "I only want a little helpuntil I can get something to do." "Oh, yes," answered Carrie. "That's always the way. It takes morethan I can earn to pay for things. I don't see what I'm going to do." "Well, I've tried to get something," he exclaimed. "What do you wantme to do?" "You couldn't have tried so very hard," said Carrie. "I gotsomething." "Well, I did," he said, angered almost to harsh words. "Youneedn't throw up your success to me. All I asked was a little helpuntil I could get something. I'm not down yet. I'll come up allright." He tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little. Carrie's anger melted on the instant. She felt ashamed. "Well," she said, "here's the money," and emptied it out on thetable. "I haven't got quite enough to pay it all. If they can waituntil Saturday, though, I'll have some more." "You keep it," said Hurstwood, sadly. "I only want enough to pay thegrocer." She put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time.Her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends. In a little while their old thoughts returned to both. "She's making more than she says," thought Hurstwood. "She saysshe's making twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things. I don'tcare. Let her keep her money. I'll get something again one of thesedays. Then she can go to the deuce." He only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possiblecourse of action and attitude well enough. "I don't care," thought Carrie. "He ought to be told to get outand do something. It isn't right that I should support him." In these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends ofMiss Osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay andfestive. They called once to get Miss Osborne for an afternoondrive. Carrie was with her at the time. "Come and go along," said Lola. "No, I can't," said Carrie. "Oh, yes, come and go. What have you got to do?" "I have to be home by five," said Carrie. "What for?" "Oh, dinner." "They'll take us to dinner," said Lola. "Oh, no," said Carrie. "I won't go. I can't." "Oh, do come. They're awful nice boys. We'll get you back in time.We're only going for a drive in Central Park." Carrie thought a while, and at last yielded. "Now, I must be back by half-past four," she said. The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other. After Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism inher attitude toward young men- especially of the gay and frivoloussort. She felt a little older than they. Some of their prettycompliments seemed silly. Still, she was young in heart and body andyouth appealed to her. "Oh, we'll be right back, Miss Madenda," said one of the chaps,bowing. "You wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would you?" "Well, I don't know," said Carrie, smiling. They were off for a drive- she, looking about and noticing fineclothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weakquips which pass for humour in coy circles. Carrie saw the greatpark parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entranceand winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred andTenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by theshow of wealth- the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spiritedhorses, and, above all, the beauty. Once more the plague of povertygalled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far asto forget Hurstwood. He waited until four, five, and even six. Itwas getting dark when he got up out of his chair. "I guess she isn't coming home," he said, grimly. "That's the way," he thought. "She's getting a start now. I'm out ofit." Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarterafter five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue,near the Harlem River. "What time is it?" she inquired. "I must be getting back." "A quarter after five," said her companion, consulting an elegant,open-faced watch. "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with asigh. "There's no use crying over spilt milk," she said. "It's toolate." "Of course it is," said the youth, who saw visions of a finedinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunionafter the show. He was greatly taken with Carrie. "We'll drive down toDelmonico's now and have something there, won't we, Orrin?" "To be sure," replied Orrin, gaily. Carrie thought of Hurstwood. Never before had she neglected dinnerwithout an excuse. They drove back, and at 6.15 sat down to dine. It was the Sherryincident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back toCarrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again afterHurstwood's reception, and Ames. At this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clean vision. Heliked better books than she read, better people than she associatedwith. His ideals burned in her heart. "It's fine to be a good actress," came distinctly back. What sort of an actress was she? "What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?" inquired her merrycompanion. "Come, now, let's see if I can guess." "Oh, no," said Carrie. "Don't try." She shook it off and ate. She forgot, in part, and was merry. Whenit came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head. "No," she said, "I can't. I have a previous engagement." "Oh, now, Miss Madenda," pleaded the youth. "No," said Carrie, "I can't. You've been so kind, but you'll have toexcuse me." The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen. "Cheer up, old man," whispered his companion. "We'll go around,anyhow. She may change her mind." Chapter XL. A PUBLIC DISSENSION: A FINAL APPEAL There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie wasconcerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence.Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through toher own bed. "Is that you?" he said. "Yes," she answered. The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising. "I couldn't get home last evening," she said. "Ah, Carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? I don'tcare. You needn't tell me that, though." "I couldn't," said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that helooked as if he said "I know," she exclaimed: "Oh, all right. Idon't care." From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. Thereseemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. Shelet herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hatedto do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up agrocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply ofstaple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of thosethings for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It wasthe same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heardanything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he couldexpect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could havebut one ending. In this fashion, September went by. "Isn't Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?" Carrie asked severaltimes. "Yes. He won't do it before October, though, now." Carrie became disgusted. "Such a man," she said to herselffrequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare moneyin clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At lastthe opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks."Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success- The-," etc., wasupon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted. "I'm not going out on the road," said Miss Osborne. Carrie went with her to apply to another manager. "Ever had any experience?" was one of his questions. "I'm with the company at the Casino now." "Oh, you are?" he said. The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week. Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place inthe world. People recognised ability. So changed was her state that the home atmosphere becameintolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be,because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from.Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it inorder. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rockedand read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, andNovember. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, andthere he sat. Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improvednow, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing tohimself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had noappetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. Talk aboutgetting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous forhim. So he folded his hands and waited- for what, he could notanticipate. At last, however, troubles became too thick. The hounding ofcreditors, the indifference of Carrie, the silence of the flat, andpresence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. It was effected bythe arrival of Oeslogge, personally, when Carrie was there. "I call about my bill," said Mr. Oeslogge. Carrie was only faintly surprised. "How much is it?" she asked. "Sixteen dollars," he replied. "Oh, that much?" said Carrie. "Is this right?" she asked, turning toHurstwood. "Yes," he said. "Well, I never heard anything about it." She looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needlessexpense. "Well, we had it all right," he answered. Then he went to thedoor. "I can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly. "Well, when can you?" said the grocer. "Not before Saturday, anyhow," said Hurstwood. "Huh!" returned the grocer. "This is fine. I must have that. Ineed the money." Carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. Shewas greatly distressed. It was so bad and commonplace. Hurstwood wasannoyed also. "Well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. If you'llcome in Saturday, I'll pay you something on it." The grocery man went away. "How are we going to pay it?" asked Carrie, astonished by thebill. "I can't do it." "Well, you don't have to," he said. "He can't get what he can't get.He'll have to wait." "I don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said Carrie. "Well, we ate it," said Hurstwood. "It's funny," she replied, still doubting. "What's the use of your standing there and talking like that,now?" he asked. "Do you think I've had it alone? You talk as if I'dtaken something." "Well, it's too much, anyhow," said Carrie. "I oughtn't to be madeto pay for it. I've got more than I can pay for now." "All right," replied Hurstwood, sitting down in silence. He was sickof the grind of this thing. Carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something. There had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours andnotices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in Brooklyn.There was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour requiredand the wages paid. As usual- and for some inexplicable reason- themen chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employersand the settlement of their difficulties. Hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerningthe huge tie-up which would follow. A day or two before this troublewith Carrie, it came. On a cold afternoon, when everything was greyand it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men hadbeen called out on all the lines. Being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerouspredictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour thiswinter and the panicky state of the financial market, Hurstwood readthis with interest. He noted the claims of the striking motormen andconductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollarsa day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had beenintroduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, andincreased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and evenfourteen. These "trippers" were men put on during the busy and rushhours, to take a car out for one trip. The compensation paid forsuch a trip was only twenty-five cents. When the rush or busy hourswere over, they were laid off. Worst of all, no man might know when hewas going to get a car. He must come to the barns in the morning andwait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed.Two trips were an average reward for so much waiting- a little overthree hours' work for fifty cents. The work of waiting was notcounted. The men complained that this system was extending, and that the timewas not far off when but a few out of 7,000 employees would haveregular two-dollar-a-day work at all. They demanded that the system beabolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barringunavoidable delays, with $2.25 pay. They demanded immediate acceptanceof these terms, which the various trolley companies refused. Hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men-indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise withthem to the end, belie him as his actions might. Reading nearly allthe news, he was attracted first by the scare-heads with which thetrouble was noted in the "World." He read it fully- the names of theseven companies involved, the number of men. "They're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought tohimself. "Let 'em win if they can, though." The next day there was even a larger notice of it. "BrooklynitesWalk," said the "World." "Knights of Labour Tie up the Trolley LinesAcross the Bridge." "About Seven Thousand Men Out." Hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of whatwould be the outcome. He was a great believer in the strength ofcorporations. "They can't win," he said, concerning the men. "They haven't anymoney. The police will protect the companies. They've got to. Thepublic has to have its cars." He didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was withthem. So was property and public utility. "Those fellows can't win," he thought. Among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of thecompanies, which read: ATLANTIC AVENUE RAILROAD SPECIAL NOTICE The motormen and conductors and other employees of this companyhaving abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to allloyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated,providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noonon Wednesday, January 16th. Such men will be given employment (withguaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications arereceived, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. Otherwise,they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filledby a new man as soon as his services can be secured. (Signed) Benjamin Norton, PRESIDENTHe also noted among the want ads. one which read: WANTED- 50 skilled motormen, accustomed to Westinghouse system, torun U.S. mail cars only, in the City of Brooklyn; protectionguaranteed. He noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." Itsignified to him the unassailable power of the companies. "They've got the militia on their side," he thought. "There isn'tanything those men can do." While this was still in his mind, the incident with Oeslogge andCarrie occurred. There had been a good deal to irritate him, butthis seemed much the worst. Never before had she accused him ofstealing- or very near that. She doubted the naturalness of so large abill. And he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. He hadbeen "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call on her. He hadeaten very little- almost nothing. "Damn it all!" he said. "I can get something. I'm not down yet." He thought that he really must do something now. It was too cheap tosit around after such an insinuation as this. Why, after a little,he would be standing anything. He got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. Itcame gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to Brooklyn. "Why not?" his mind said. "Any one can get work over there. You'llget two a day." "How about accidents?" said a voice. "You might get hurt." "Oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "They've calledout the police. Any one who wants to run a car will be protected allright." "You don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice. "I won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "I can ring up fares allright." "They'll want motormen mostly." "They'll take anybody; that I know." For several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor,feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit. In the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough,and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of anewspaper. Carrie watched him, interested in this new move. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Over to Brooklyn," he answered. Then, seeing her still inquisitive,he added: "I think I can get on over there." "On the trolley lines?" said Carrie, astonished. "Yes," he rejoined. "Aren't you afraid?" she asked. "What of?" he answered. "The police are protecting them." "The paper said four men were hurt yesterday." "Yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say.They'll run the cars all right." He looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, andCarrie felt very sorry. Something of the old Hurstwood was here- theleast shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. Outside,it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow. "What a day to go over there," thought Carrie. Now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, andtramped eastward to Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, where hetook the car. He had read that scores of applicants were applying atthe office of the Brooklyn City Railroad building and were beingreceived. He made his way there by horse-car and ferry- a dark, silentman- to the offices in question. It was a long way, for no cars wererunning, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. Once inBrooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. Peopleshowed it in their manner. Along the routes of certain tracks not acar was running. About certain corners and nearby saloons small groupsof men were lounging. Several spring wagons passed him, equippedwith plain wooden chairs, and labelled "Flatbush" or "Prospect Park.Fare, Ten Cents." He noticed cold and even gloomy faces. Labour washaving its little war. When he came near the office in question, he saw a few menstanding about, and some policemen. On the far corners were other men-whom he took to be strikers- watching. All the houses were small andwooden, the streets poorly paved. After New York, Brooklyn lookedactually poor and hard-up. He made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemenand the men already there. One of the officers addressed him. "What are you looking for?" "I want to see if I can get a place." "The offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. His face wasa very neutral thing to contemplate. In his heart of hearts, hesympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." In his heart ofhearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, whichcommanded order. Of its true social significance, he never oncedreamed. His was not the mind for that. The two feelings blended inhim- neutralised one another and him. He would have fought for thisman as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far ascommanded. Strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked hisside. Hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small,dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, andseveral clerks. "Well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the longdesk. "Do you want to hire any men?" inquired Hurstwood. "What are you- a motorman?" "No; I'm not anything," said Hurstwood. He was not at all abashed by his position. He knew these peopleneeded men. If one didn't take him, another would. This man could takehim or leave him, just as he chose. "Well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. Hepaused, while Hurstwood smiled indifferently. Then he added: "Still, Iguess you can learn. What is your name?" "Wheeler," said Hurstwood. The man wrote an order on a small card. "Take that to our barns," hesaid, "and give it to the foreman. He'll show you what to do." Hurstwood went down and out. He walked straight away in thedirection indicated, while the policemen looked after. "There's another wants to try it," said Officer Kiely to OfficerMacey. "I have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly. They had been in strikes before. Chapter XLI. THE STRIKE The barn at which Hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed,and was being operated practically by three men as directors. Therewere a lot of green hands around- queer, hungry-looking men, wholooked as if want had driven them to desperate means. They tried to belively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidenceabout the place. Hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosedlot, where were a series of tracks and loops. A half-dozen cars werethere, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. Morepupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn. In silence Hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. His companionstook his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much morethan the cars. They were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. Oneor two were very thin and lean. Several were quite stout. Severalothers were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon byall sorts of rough weather. "Did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?"Hurstwood heard one of them remark. "Oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "They always do." "Think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whomHurstwood did not see. "Not very." "That Scotchman that went out on the last car," put in a voice,"told me that they hit him in the car with a cinder." A small, nervous laugh accompanied this. "One of those fellows on the Fifth Avenue line must have had ahell of a time, according to the papers," drawled another. "They brokehis car windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the policecould stop 'em." "Yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added byanother. Hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. These talkersseemed scared to him. Their gabbling was feverish- things said toquiet their own minds. He looked out into the yard and waited. Two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back.They were rather social, and he listened to what they said. "Are you a railroad man?" said one. "Me? No. I've always worked in a paper factory." "I had a job in Newark until last October," returned the other, withreciprocal feeling. There were some words which passed too low to hear. Then theconversation became strong again. "I don't blame these fellers for striking," said one. "They've gotthe right of it, all right, but I had to get something to do." "Same here," said the other. "If I had any job in Newark Iwouldn't be over here takin' chances like these." "It's hell these days, ain't it?" said the man. "A poor man ain'tnowhere. You could starve, by God, right in the streets, and thereain't most no one would help you." "Right you are," said the other. "The job I had I lost 'cause theyshut down. They run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shutdown." Hurstwood paid some little attention to this. Somehow, he felt alittle superior to these two- a little better off. To him these wereignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand. "Poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelingsof a bygone period of success. "Next," said one of the instructors. "You're next," said a neighbour, touching him. He went out and climbed on the platform. The instructor took itfor granted that no preliminaries were needed. "You see this handle," he said, reaching up to an electriccut-off, which was fastened to the roof. "This throws the currentoff or on. If you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. Ifyou want to send it forward, you put it over here. If you want tocut off the power, you keep it in the middle." Hurstwood smiled at the simple information. "Now, this handle here regulates your speed. To here," he said,pointing with his finger, "gives you about four miles an hour. This iseight. When it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour." Hurstwood watched him calmly. He had seen motormen work before. Heknew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well,with a very little practice. The instructor explained a few more details, and then said: "Now, we'll back her up." Hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into theyard. "One thing you want to be careful about, and that is to starteasy. Give one degree time to act before you start another. The onefault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open.That's bad. It's dangerous, too. Wears out the motor. You don't wantto do that." "I see," said Hurstwood. He waited and waited, while the man talked on. "Now you take it," he said, finally. The ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as hethought. It worked much easier than he imagined, however, with theresult that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him backagainst the door. He straightened up sheepishly, while theinstructor stopped the car with the brake. "You want to be careful about that," was all he said. Hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speedwere not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. Once or twice hewould have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been forthe hand and word of his companion. The latter was rather patient withhim, but he never smiled. "You've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said."It takes a little practice." One o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and hebegan to feel hungry. The day set in snowing, and he was cold. He grewweary of running to and fro on the short track. They ran the car to the end and both got off. Hurstwood went intothe barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunchfrom his pocket. There was no water and the bread was dry, but heenjoyed it. There was no ceremony about dining. He swallowed andlooked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. Itwas disagreeable- miserably disagreeable- in all its phases. Notbecause it was bitter, but because it was hard. It would be hard toany one, he thought. After eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came. The intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but thegreater part of the time was spent in waiting about. At last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himselfas to how he should spend the night. It was half-past five. He mustsoon eat. If he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and ahalf of cold walking and riding. Besides, he had orders to report atseven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising atan unholy and disagreeable hour. He had only something like a dollarand fifteen cents of Carrie's money, with which he had intended to paythe two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck him. "They must have some place around here," he thought. "Where doesthat fellow from Newark stay?" Finally he decided to ask. There was a young fellow standing nearone of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. He was a mere boyin years- twenty-one about- but with a body lank and long, becauseof privation. A little good living would have made this youth plumpand swaggering. "How do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquiredHurstwood, discreetly. The fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer. "You mean eat?" he replied. "Yes, and sleep. I can't go back to New York tonight." "The foreman'll fix that if you ask him, I guess. He did me." "That so?" "Yes. I just told him I didn't have anything. Gee, I couldn't gohome. I live way over in Hoboken." Hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment. "They've got a place upstairs here, I understand. I don't knowwhat sort of a thing it is. Purty tough, I guess. He gave me a mealticket this noon. I know that wasn't much." Hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed. "It ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheeryreply. "Not much," answered Hurstwood. "I'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "He may go 'way." Hurstwood did so. "Isn't there some place I can stay around here tonight?" heinquired. "If I have to go back to New York, I'm afraid I won't-" "There're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want oneof them." "That'll do," he assented. He meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper momentnever came, and he decided to pay himself that night. "I'll ask him in the morning." He ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold andlonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. The companywas not attempting to run cars after nightfall. It was so advised bythe police. The room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers.There were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs,a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire wasblazing. Early as he was, another man was there before him. The latterwas sitting beside the stove warming his hands. Hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. He wassick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with hisventure, but was steeling himself to hold out. He fancied he could fora while. "Cold, isn't it?" said the early guest. "Rather." A long silence. "Not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man. "Better than nothing," replied Hurstwood. Another silence. "I believe I'll turn in," said the man. Rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removingonly his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforterover him in a sort of bundle. The sight disgusted Hurstwood, but hedid not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think ofsomething else. Presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, alsoremoving his shoes. While he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come hereentered, and, seeing Hurstwood, tried to be genial. "Better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around. Hurstwood did not take this to himself. He thought it to be anexpression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. Theyouth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly.Seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence. Hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes andpushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed insheer weariness. The covering became more and more comfortable, itscharacter was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept. In the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several menstirring about in the cold, cheerless room. He had been back inChicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. Jessica had beenarranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her aboutit. This was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by thecontrast of this room. He raised his head, and the cold, bitterreality jarred him into wakefulness. "Guess I'd better get up," he said. There was no water on this floor. He put on his shoes in the coldand stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. His clothes feltdisagreeable, his hair bad. "Hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat. Downstairs things were stirring again. He found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used forhorses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiledfrom yesterday. He contented himself with wetting his eyes with theice-cold water. Then he sought the foreman, who was already on theground. "Had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy. "No," said Hurstwood. "Better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while." Hurstwood hesitated. "Could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked, with an effort. "Here you are," said the man, handing him one. He breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak andbad coffee. Then he went back. "Here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "Youtake this car out in a few minutes." Hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waitedfor a signal. He was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. Anythingwas better than the barn. On this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turnfor the worse. The strikers, following the counsel of their leadersand the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. There had beenno great violence done. Cars had been stopped, it is true, and the menargued with. Some crews had been won over and led away, some windowsbroken, some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or sixinstances had men been seriously injured. These by crowds whose actsthe leaders disclaimed. Idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by thepolice, triumphing, angered the men. They saw that each day morecars were going on, each day more declarations were being made bythe company officials that the effective opposition of the strikerswas broken. This put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men.Peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon runall their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten.There was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods. All at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm andstress. Cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with,tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mobmovements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia. Hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper. "Run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand athim. A green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as asignal to start. Hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car outthrough the door into the street in front of the barn. Here two brawnypolicemen got up beside him on the platform- one on either hand. At the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given bythe conductor and Hurstwood opened his lever. The two policemen looked about them calmly. "'Tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left,who possessed a rich brogue. "I had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "I wouldn't want asteady job of this." "Nor I." Neither paid the slightest attention to Hurstwood, who stoodfacing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, andthinking of his orders. "Keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "Don't stop for anyonewho doesn't look like a real passenger. Whatever you do, don't stopfor a crowd." The two officers kept silent for a few moments. "The last man must have gone through all right," said the officer onthe left. "I don't see his car anywhere." "Who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, toits complement of policemen. "Schaeffer and Ryan." There was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along.There were not so many houses along this part of the way. Hurstwooddid not see many people either. The situation was not whollydisagreeable to him. he would do well enough. He was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of acurve ahead, which he had not expected. He shut off the current anddid an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid anunnaturally quick turn. It shook him up and made him feel likemaking apologetic remarks, but he refrained. "You want to look out for them things," said the officer on theleft, condescendingly. "That's right," agreed Hurstwood, shamefacedly. "There's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right. Around the corner a more populated way appeared. One or twopedestrians were in view ahead. A boy coming out of a gate with atin milk bucket gave Hurstwood his first objectionable greeting. "Scab!" he yelled. "Scab!" Hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself.He knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably. At a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled thecar to stop. "Never mind him," said one of the officers. "He's up to some game." Hurstwood obeyed. At the corner he saw the wisdom of it. No soonerdid the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook hisfist. "Ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled. Some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts andjeers after the speeding car. Hurstwood winced the least bit. The real thing was slightly worsethan the thoughts of it had been. Now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap ofsomething on the track. "They've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen. "We'll have an argument, maybe," said the other. Hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. He had not done sowholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. It was composed ofex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends andsympathisers. "Come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant tobe conciliatory. "You don't want to take the bread out of anotherman's mouth, do you?" Hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertainwhat to do. "Stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over theplatform railing. "Clear out of this, now. Give the man a chance to dohis work." "Listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman andaddressing Hurstwood. "We're all working men, like yourself. If youwere a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, youwouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? Youwouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights,would you?" "Shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen,roughly. "Get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing andlanded before the crowd and began shoving. Instantly the other officerwas down beside him. "Stand back, now," they yelled. "Get out of this. What the hell doyou mean? Out, now." It was like a small swarm of bees. "Don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "I'm notdoing anything." "Get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "I'llgive ye a bat on the sconce. Back, now." "What the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the otherway, adding at the same time some lusty oaths. Crack came an officer's club on his forehead. He blinked his eyesblindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, andstaggered back. In return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck. Infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, layingabout madly with his club. He was ably assisted by his brother ofthe blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. Nosevere damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers inkeeping out of reach. They stood about the sidewalk now and jeered. "Where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting hiseye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand byHurstwood. The latter had stood gazing upon the scene with moreastonishment than fear. "Why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?"inquired the officer. "What you standing there for? Do you want tostay here all day? Get down." Hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with thenervous conductor as if he had been called. "Hurry up, now," said the other policeman. Cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. Hurstwood workedwith the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself bythe work. "Ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "You coward! Steal a man'sjob, will you? Rob the poor, will you, you thief? We'll get you yet,now. Wait." Not all of this was delivered by one man. It came from here andthere, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses. "Work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "Do the dirty work.You're the suckers that keep the poor people down!" "May God starve ye yet," yelled an old Irish woman, who now threwopen a nearby window and stuck out her head. "Yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen."You bloody, murtherin' thafe! Crack my son over the head, will you,you hard-hearted, murtherin' divil? Ah, ye-" But the officer turned a deaf ear. "Go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he staredround upon the scattered company. Now the stones were off, and Hurstwood took his place again amid acontinued chorus of epithets. Both officers got up beside him andthe conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and doorcame rocks and stones. One narrowly grazed Hurstwood's head. Anothershattered the window behind. "Throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at thehandle himself. Hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle ofstones and a rain of curses. "That- - - - hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "Igave him a good crack for it, though." "I think I must have left spots on some of them," said the other. "I know that big guy that called us a- - - -," said the first. "I'llget him yet for that." "I thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second. Hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. It was anastonishing experience for him. He had read of these things, but thereality seemed something altogether new. He was no coward in spirit.The fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated toarouse a stolid determination to stick it out. He did not recur inthought to New York or the flat. This one trip seemed a consumingthing. They now ran into the business heart of Brooklyn uninterrupted.People gazed at the broken windows of the car and at Hurstwood inhis plain clothes. Voices called "scab" now and then, as well as otherepithets, but no crowd attacked the car. At the downtown end of theline, one of the officers went to call up his station and report thetrouble. "There's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. Better sendsome one over there and clean them out." The car ran back more quietly- hooted, watched, flung at, but notattacked. Hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns. "Well," he observed to himself, "I came out of that all right." The car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, butlater he was again called. This time a new team of officers wasaboard. Slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplacestreets and felt somewhat less fearful. On one side, however, hesuffered intensely. The day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and agusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. Hisclothing was not intended for this sort of work. He shivered,stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen doin the past, but said nothing. The novelty and danger of the situationmodified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to behere, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. Thiswas a dog's life, he thought. It was a tough thing to have to come to. The one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered byCarrie. He was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. Hecould do something- this, even- for a while. It would get better. Hewould save a little. A boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit himupon the arm. It hurt sharply and angered him more than he had beenany time since morning. "The little cur!" he muttered. "Hurt you?" asked one of the policemen. "No," he answered. At one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, anex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him: "Won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? Remember we'refighting for decent day's wages, that's all. We've got families tosupport." The man seemed most peaceably inclined. Hurstwood pretended not to see him. He kept his eyes straight onbefore and opened the lever wide. The voice had something appealing init. All morning this went on and long into the afternoon. He madethree such trips. The dinner he had was no stay for such work andthe cold was telling on him. At each end of the line he stopped tothaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. One of thebarnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskingloves, and for once he was extremely thankful. On the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about halfway along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an oldtelegraph pole. "Get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen. "Yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "Get it off yourself." The two policemen got down and Hurstwood started to follow. "You stay there," one called. "Some one will run away with yourcar." Amid the babel of voices, Hurstwood heard one close beside him. "Come down, pardner, and be a man. Don't fight the poor. Leavethat to the corporations." He saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. Now,as before, he pretended not to hear him. "Come down," the man repeated gently. "You don't want to fightpoor men. Don't fight at all." It was a most philosophic andjesuitical motorman. A third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some oneran to telephone for more officers. Hurstwood gazed about,determined but fearful. A man grabbed him by the coat. "Come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying topull him over the railing. "Let go," said Hurstwood, savagely. "I'll show you- you scab!" cried a young Irishman, jumping up on thecar and aiming a blow at Hurstwood. The latter ducked and caught it onthe shoulder instead of the jaw. "Away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, andadding, of course, the usual oaths. Hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. It was becomingserious with him now. People were looking up and jeering at him. Onegirl was making faces. He began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled upand more officers dismounted. Now the track was quickly cleared andthe release effected. "Let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off. The end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip amile or two from the barns. It was an exceedingly poor-lookingneighbourhood. He wanted to run fast through it, but again the trackwas blocked. He saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet ahalf-dozen blocks away. "There they are again!" exclaimed one policeman. "I'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whosepatience was becoming worn. Hurstwood suffered a qualm of body asthe car rolled up. As before, the crowd began hooting, but now, ratherthan come near, they threw things. One or two windows were smashed andHurstwood dodged a stone. Both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied byrunning toward the car. A woman- a mere girl in appearance- wasamong these, bearing a rough stick. She was exceedingly wrathful andstruck at Hurstwood, who dodged. Thereupon, her companions, dulyencouraged, jumped on the car and pulled Hurstwood over. He had hardlytime to speak or shout before he fell. "Let go of me," he said, falling on his side. "Ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. Kicks and blows rained onhim. He seemed to be suffocating. Then two men seemed to be dragginghim off and he wrestled for freedom. "Let up," said a voice, "you're all right. Stand up." He was let loose and recovered himself. Now he recognised twoofficers. He felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. Somethingwas wet on his chin. He put up his hand and felt, then looked. Itwas red. "They cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief. "Now, now," said one of the officers. "It's only a scratch." His senses became cleared now and he looked around. He wasstanding in a little store, where they left him for the moment.Outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and theexcited crowd. A patrol wagon was there, and another. He walked over and looked out. It was an ambulance, backing in. He saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made. "Come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer,opening the door and looking in. He walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. He was very coldand frightened. "Where's the conductor?" he asked. "Oh, he's not here now," said the policeman. Hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. As he did sothere was a pistol shot. Something stung his shoulder. "Who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "By God! who didthat?" Both left him, running toward a certain building. He paused amoment and then got down. "George!" exclaimed Hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me." He walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street. "Whew!" he said, drawing in his breath. A half block away, a small girl gazed at him. "You'd better sneak," she called. He walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry bydusk. The cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied himcuriously. His head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused.All the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white stormpassed for nothing. He trudged doggedly on until he reached theflat. There he entered and found the room warm. Carrie was gone. Acouple of evening papers were lying on the table where she leftthem. He lit the gas and sat down. Then he got up and stripped toexamine his shoulder. It was a mere scratch. He washed his hands andface, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. Then helooked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down inhis comfortable rocking-chair. It was a wonderful relief. He put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers. "Well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "That'sa pretty tough game over there." Then he turned and saw the papers. With half a sigh he picked up the"World." "Strike Spreading in Brooklyn," he read. "Rioting Breaks Out inall Parts of the City." He adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. It was the onething he read with absorbing interest. Chapter XLII. A TOUCH OF SPRING: THE EMPTY SHELL Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error ofjudgment will none the less realise the negative influence on him ofthe fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea ofit. He said so little that she imagined he had encountered nothingworse than the ordinary roughness- quitting so soon in the face ofthis seemed trifling. He did not want to work. She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the secondact of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the newpotentate as the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned toany of them, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himselfin the loft of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star,feeling exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which createda ripple of laughter: "Well, who are you?" It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. Itmight as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned.He expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. ButCarrie, whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring,courtesied sweetly again and answered: "I am yours truly." It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way shedid it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at themock-fierce potentate towering before the young woman. The comedianalso liked it, hearing the laughter. "I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to getthe last laugh. Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. Allmembers of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or"business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think. As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaitinganother entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused inrecognition. "You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing howintelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though." "Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she foundherself trembling violently. "Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus."There isn't another one of us has got a line." There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in thecompany realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herselfwhen next evening the lines got the same applause. She went homerejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. It wasHurstwood who, by his presence, caused her merry thoughts to fleeand replaced them with sharp longings for an end of distress. The next day she asked him about his venture. "They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don'twant anybody just now- not before next week." Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed moreapathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and thelike with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he foundhimself staring at an item, but thinking of something else. Thefirst of these lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilariousparty he had once attended at a driving club, of which he had been amember. He sat, gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard theold voices and the clink of glasses. "You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was standingagain well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encoresfor a good story. All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike.He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had beendozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the itemshe had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of thedoze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a secondtime, however, it did not seem quite so strange. Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man- not the group with whomhe was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit-called. He met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last hebecame bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off. "They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "If I had it I'dpay them." Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding,had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never ofherself amount to anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort ofpussy-like way and instinctively concluded to cling with her softlittle claws to Carrie. "Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration."You're so good." Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance ofothers made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. Nolonger the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learnedthat men could change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form hadlost its force with her. It required superiority- kindlysuperiority- to move her- the superiority of a genius like Ames. "I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day."They're all so stuck on themselves." "Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, whohad received a condescending smile or two from that quarter. "Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere. Heassumes such an air." Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner: "Are you paying room-rent where you are?" "Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?" "I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It'stoo big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent isonly six dollars a week for both." "Where?" said Carrie. "In Seventeenth Street." "Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who wasalready turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She wasthinking if she had only herself to support this would leave herseventeen for herself. Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure ofHurstwood's and her success with the speaking part. Then she beganto feel as if she must be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood andthus making him act for himself, but he had developed such peculiartraits she feared he might resist any effort to throw him off. Hemight hunt her out at the show and hound her in that way. She didnot wholly believe that he would, but he might. This, she knew,would be an embarrassing thing if he made himself conspicuous in anyway. It troubled her greatly. Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of theactresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice ofleaving and Carrie was selected. "How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearingthe good news. "I didn't ask him," said Carrie. "Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don'task. Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow." "Oh, no," said Carrie. "Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway." Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until themanager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit thepart. "How much do I get?" she inquired. "Thirty-five dollars," he replied. Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think ofmentioning forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost huggedLola, who clung to her at the news. "It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especiallywhen you've got to buy clothes." Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She hadnone laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near. "I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don'tuse the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move." Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgentthan ever. "Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have theloveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way." "I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly. "Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time." Carrie thought a while. "I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to seefirst, though." With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothescalling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood'slassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever. As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered bythe demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up manymore. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard onher," he thought. "We could get a cheaper place." Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table. "Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked. "Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift. "I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "Wedon't need four rooms." Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would haveexhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of hisdetermination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable in askingher to come down lower. "Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary. "There must be places around here where we could get a couple ofrooms, which would do just as well." Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish themoney to move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolvedto spend her money for clothes quickly, before something terriblehappened. That very day she did it. Having done so, there was butone other thing to do. "Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come." "Oh, jolly!" cried the latter. "Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room. "Certainly," cried Lola. They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from herexpenditures- enough for this and her board beside. Her enlargedsalary would not begin for ten days yet- would not reach her forseventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend. "Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," sheconfided. "Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars, ifyou need it." "No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along." They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that thething was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much likea criminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she hadrealised that, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude,there was something pathetic. She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go,and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down andbeaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, hishands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. Allunconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper, while sheglanced at him. Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous. "Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked Hurstwood,laying down a two-dollar bill. "Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money. "See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook itfor dinner." Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat andgetting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparelwere old and poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before,but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it,after all. He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fineappearance the days he had met her in the park. Then he was sosprightly, so clean. Had it been all his fault? He came back and laid the change down with the food. "You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things." "No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it." "Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'llbe other things." He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had becomein her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing aquaver in her voice. To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case.She had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and hadregretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she wouldnever meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that shehad any choice in the final separation. She had gone willingly to seekhim, with sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported himill. There was something cruel somewhere, and not being able totrack it mentally to its logical lair, she concluded with feeling thathe would never understand what Hurstwood had done and would seehard-hearted decision in her deed; hence her shame. Not that she caredfor him. She did not want to make any one who had been good to herfeel badly. She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings topossess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better ofher. "Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought. Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little ladypacking and singing. "Why don't you come over with me to-day?" she asked. "Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you mindlending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?" "Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse. "I want to get some other things," said Carrie. "Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly,glad to be of service. It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to thegrocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was uponhim- had been for two days- but chill, grey weather had held him back.Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers ofspring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken ofwarmth and beauty. The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poureddown a crystal wash of warm light. It was plain, from the voice of thesparrows, that all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the frontwindows, and felt the south wind blowing. "It's lovely out to-day," she remarked. "Is it?" said Hurstwood. After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes. "Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie, nervously. "No," he said. He went out into the streets and tramped north, along SeventhAvenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. Hehad seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers.He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing. Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park,which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered theneighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildingserected. It was very much improved. The great open spaces were fillingup. Coming back, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and thenturned into Seventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by oneo'clock. There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in theclear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere wokehim to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stoodlooking at it, folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned andfollowed it toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he hadseen. It was four o'clock before the waning day, with its suggestionof a cooler evening, caused him to return. He was hungry and wouldenjoy eating in the warm room. When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. Heknew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no lightshowing through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuckbetween the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and wentin. Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down,preparing to wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now,dinner would be late. He read until six, then got up to fixsomething for himself. As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. Whatwas it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw anenvelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almostwithout further action on his part. Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him evenwhile he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud.Green paper money lay soft within the note. "Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand. "I'mgoing away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to keepup the flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could,but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little Imake to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all Ihave just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. Iwon't want it.- Carrie." He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what hemissed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It hadgone from the mantel-piece. He went into the front room, hisbedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonierhad gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, thelace coverings. He opened the wardrobe- no clothes of hers. Heopened the drawers- nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from itsaccustomed place. Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just ashe had left them. Nothing else was gone. He stepped onto the parlour and stood for a few moments lookingvacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flatseemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, thatit was only dinner-time. It seemed later in the night. Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There weretwenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leavingthe lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty. "I'll get out of this," he said to himself. Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full. "Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!" The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so manydays of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillierconfronted him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in hishand- mere sensation, without thought, holding him. Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept overhim. "She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something." He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, outloud: "I tried, didn't I?" At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor. Chapter XLIII. THE WORLD TURNS FLATTERER: AN EYE IN THE DARK Installed in her comfortable room, Carrie wondered how Hurstwood hadtaken her departure. She arranged a few things hastily and then leftfor the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. Notfinding him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him.She quite forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when thechance of his being there frightened her. As day after day passedand she heard nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by himpassed. In a little while she was, except for occasional thoughts,wholly free of the gloom with which her life had been weighed in theflat. It is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. Carriebecame wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little Lola. Shelearned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published itemsabout actresses and the like. She began to read the newspaper notices,not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others.Gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. She longed to berenowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary orcritical comments made concerning others high in her profession. Theshowy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her. It was about this time that the newspapers and magazines werebeginning to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of thestage which has since become fervid. The newspapers, andparticularly the Sunday newspapers, indulged in large decorativetheatrical pages, in which the faces and forms of well-knowntheatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed with artistic scrolls. Themagazines also- or at least one or two of the newer ones- publishedoccasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and again photos ofscenes from various plays. Carrie watched these with growing interest.When would a scene from her opera appear? When would some paperthink her photo worth while? The Sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatricalpages for some little notice. It would have accorded with herexpectations if nothing had been said, but there in the squibs,tailing off several more substantial items, was a wee notice. Carrieread it with a tingling body: The part of Katisha, the country maid, in "The Wives of Abdul" atthe Broadway, heretofore played by Inez Carew, will be hereafterfilled by Carrie Madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus. Carrie hugged herself with delight. Oh, wasn't it just fine! Atlast! The first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! And theycalled her clever. She could hardly restrain herself from laughingloudly. Had Lola seen it? "They've got a notice here of the part I'm going to play tomorrownight," said Carrie to her friend. "Oh, jolly! Have they?" cried Lola, running to her. "That's allright," she said, looking. "You'll get more now, if you do well. I hadmy picture in the 'World' once." "Did you?" asked Carrie. "Did I? Well, I should say," returned the little girl. "They had aframe around it." Carrie laughed. "They've never published my picture." "But they will," said Lola. "You'll see. You do better than mostthat get theirs in now." Carrie felt deeply grateful for this. She almost loved Lola forthe sympathy and praise she extended. It was so helpful to her- soalmost necessary. Fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papersthat she was doing her work acceptably. This pleased her immensely.She began to think the world was taking note of her. The first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed anenormous sum. Paving only three dollars for room rent seemedridiculous. After giving Lola her twenty-five, she still had sevendollars left. With four left over from previous earnings, she hadeleven. Five of this went to pay the regular installment on theclothes she had to buy. The next week she was even in greater feather.Now, only three dollars need be paid for room rent and five on herclothes. The rest she had for food and her own whims. "You'd better save a little for summer," cautioned Lola. "We'llprobably close in May." "I intend to," said Carrie. The regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who hasendured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing.Carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortabledenominations. Having no one dependent upon her, she began to buypretty clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament herroom. Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few youngmen who belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera companymade her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One ofthese discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolledhome with her. "Let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight. "Very well," said Carrie. In the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of latehours, she found herself criticising this man. He was too stilted, tooself-opinionated. He did not talk of anything that lifted her abovethe common run of clothes and material success. When it was allover, he smiled most graciously. "Got to go straight home, have you?" he said. "Yes," she answered, with an air of quiet understanding. "She's not so inexperienced as she looks," he thought, andthereafter his respect and ardour were increased. She could not help sharing in Lola's love for a good time. Therewere days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the showthey dined, afternoons when they strolled along Broadway, tastefullydressed. She was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure. At last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. She had notknown of it, and it took her breath. "Miss Carrie Madenda," it waslabelled. "One of the favourites of 'The Wives of Abdul' company."At Lola's advice she had had some pictures taken by Sarony. They hadgot one there. She thought of going down and buying a few copies ofthe paper, but remembered that there was no one she knew well enoughto send them to. Only Lola, apparently, in all the world wasinterested. The metropolis is a cold place socially, and Carrie soon foundthat a little money brought her nothing. The world of wealth anddistinction was quite as far away as ever. She could feel that therewas no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment withwhich many approached her. All seemed to be seeking their ownamusement, regardless of the possible sad consequence to others. Somuch for the lessons of Hurstwood and Drouet. In April she learned that the opera would probably last until themiddle or the end of May, according to the size of the audiences. Nextseason it would go on the road. She wondered if she would be withit. As usual, Miss Osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was forsecuring a home engagement. "They're putting on a summer play at the Casino," she announced,after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "Let's try and getin that." "I'm willing," said Carrie. They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to applyagain. That was May 16th. Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th. "Those that want to go with the show next season," said the manager,"will have to sign this week." "Don't you sign," advised Lola. "I wouldn't go." "I know," said Carrie, "but maybe I can't get anything else." "Well, I won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in heradmirers. "I went once and I didn't have anything at the end of theseason." Carrie thought this over. She had never been on the road. "We can get along," added Lola. "I always have." Carrie did not sign. The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino hadnever heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, herpublished picture, and the programme bearing her name had somelittle weight with him. He gave her a silent part at thirty dollarsa week. "Didn't I tell you?" said Lola. "It doesn't do you any good to goaway from New York. They forget all about you if you do." Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up theadvance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papersselected Carrie's photo along with others to illustrate theannouncement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellentspace and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted. Still, themanagement did not seem to have seen anything of it. At least, no moreattention was paid to her than before. At the same time there seemedvery little in her part. It consisted of standing around in allsorts of scenes, a silent little Quakeress. The author of the skit hadfancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to theright actress, but now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, hewould as leave have had it cut out. "Don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "If it don't go thefirst week we will cut it out." Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised herpart ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At thedress rehearsal she was disconsolate. "That isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the curiouseffect which Carrie's blues had upon the part. "Tell her to frown alittle more when Sparks dances." Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinklesbetween her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly. "Frown a little more, Miss Madenda," said the stage manager. Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as arebuke. "No; frown," he said. "Frown as you did before." Carrie looked at him in astonishment. "I mean it," he said. "Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I wantto see how it looks." It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was somethingso quaint and droll it caught even the manager. "That is good," he said. "If she'll do that all through, I thinkit will take." Going over to Carrie, he said: "Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It'llmake the part really funny." On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing toher part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem tosee her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect.Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars. In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation,roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was,gray-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the generalidea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuineand not fun at all. As she went on frowning, looking now at oneprincipal and now at the other, the audience began to smile. Theportly gentlemen in the front rows began to feel that she was adelicious little morsel. It was the kind of frown they would haveloved to force away with kisses. All the gentlemen yearned toward her.She was capital. At last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage,noticed a giggle where it was not expected. Then another andanother. When the place came for loud applause it was only moderate.What could be the trouble? He realised that something was up. All at once, after an exit, he caught sight of Carrie. She wasfrowning alone on the stage and the audience was giggling andlaughing. "By George, I won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "I'm notgoing to have my work cut up by some one else. Either she quits thatwhen I do my turn or I quit." "Why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came."That's what she's supposed to do. You needn't pay any attention tothat." "But she ruins my work." "No, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "It's only alittle fun on the side." "It is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "She killed my hand allright. I'm not going to stand that." "Well, wait until after the show. Wait until tomorrow. We'll seewhat we can do." The next act, however, settled what was to be done. Carrie was thechief feature of the play. The audience, the more it studied her,the more it indicated its delight. Every other feature paled besidethe quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which Carrie contributedwhile on the stage. Manager and company realised she had made a hit. The critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. There werelong notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched withrecurrent references to Carrie. The contagious mirth of the thingwas repeatedly emphasised. "Miss Madenda presents one of the most delightful bits ofcharacter work ever seen on the Casino stage," observed the sagecritic of the "Sun." "It is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollerywhich warms like good wine. Evidently the part was not intended totake precedence, as Miss Madenda is not often on the stage, but theaudience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies,selected for itself. The little Quakeress was marked for a favouritethe moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention andapplause. The vagaries of fortune are indeed curious." The critic of the "Evening World," seeking as usual to establish acatch phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by advising:"If you wish to be merry, see Carrie frown." The result was miraculous so far as Carrie's fortune wasconcerned. Even during the morning she received a congratulatorymessage from the manager. "You seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "This isdelightful. I am as glad for your sake as for my own." The author also sent word. That evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a mostpleasant greeting for her. "Mr. Stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing alittle song, which he would like you to sing next week." "Oh, I can't sing," returned Carrie. "It isn't anything difficult. 'It's something that is verysimple,' he says, 'and would suit you exactly.'" "Of course, I wouldn't mind trying," said Carrie, archly. "Would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before youdress?" observed the manager, in addition. "There's a little matterI want to speak to you about." "Certainly," replied Carrie. In that latter place the manager produced a paper. "Now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in thematter of salary. Your contract here only calls for thirty dollars aweek for the next three months. How would it do to make it, say, onehundred and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?" "Oh, very well," said Carrie, scarcely believing her ears. "Supposing, then, you just sign this." Carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one,with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. With ahand trembling from excitement she affixed her name. "One hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was againalone. She found, after all- as what millionaire has not?- thatthere was no realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums.It was only a shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world ofpossibilities. Down in a third-rate Bleecker Street hotel, the brooding Hurstwoodread the dramatic item covering Carrie's success, without at firstrealising who was meant. Then suddenly it came to him and he readthe whole thing over again. "That's her, all right, I guess," he said. Then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby. "I guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny,plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, itscarriages, and flowers. Ah, she was in the walled city now! Itssplendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, drearyoutside. She seemed a creature afar off- like every other celebrity hehad known. "Well, let her have it," he said. "I won't bother her." It was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbrokenpride. Chapter XLIV. AND THIS IS NOT ELF LAND: WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night herdressing-room had been changed. "You are to use this room, Miss Madenda," said one of the stagelackeys. No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a smallcoop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large andcommodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fryoverhead. She breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations weremore physical than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking atall. Heart and body were having their say. Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mentalappreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested,and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at herenviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which shewore all through the play. All those who had supposedly been herequals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much asto say: "How friendly we have always been." Only the star comedianwhose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself.Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him. Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning ofthe applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildlyguilty of something- perhaps unworthiness. When her associatesaddressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride anddaring of place were not for her. It never once crossed her mind to bereserved or haughty- to be other than she had been. After theperformances she rode to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided. Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offeredto her lips- bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendidsalary had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. Shebegan to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers- whom she did not knowfrom Adam- having learned by some hook or crook where she resided,bowed himself politely in. "You will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you beenthinking of changing your apartments?" "I hadn't thought of it," returned Carrie. "Well, I am connected with the Wellington- the new hotel onBroadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers." Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest andmost imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having asplendid restaurant. "Just so," went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment offamiliarity. "We have some very elegant rooms at present which wewould like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mindwhere you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments areperfect in every detail- hot and cold water, private baths, specialhall service for every floor, elevators and all that. You know whatour restaurant is." Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he tookher to be a millionaire. "What are your rates?" she inquired. "Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about.Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day." "Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that." "I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "Butjust let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like everyother hotel we make special ones, however. Possibly you have notthought about it, but your name is worth something to us." "Oh!" ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance. "Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. Awell-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrieflushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and- although you may notbelieve it- patrons." "Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curiousproposition in her mind. "Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly andbeating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want toarrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. Youneed not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them.Anything will do for the summer- a mere figure- anything that youthink you could afford to pay." Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance. "You can come to-day or to-morrow-the earlier the better- and wewill give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms- the very bestwe have." "You're very kind," said Carrie, touched by the agent's extremeaffability. "I should like to come very much. I would want to pay whatis right, however. I shouldn't want to-" "You need not trouble about that at all," interrupted Mr. Withers."We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If threedollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All youhave to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of, the weekor month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for whatthe rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates." The speaker paused. "Suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added. "I'd be glad to," said Carrie, "but I have a rehearsal thismorning." "I did not mean at once," he returned, "Any time will do. Would thisafternoon be inconvenient?" "Not at all," said Carrie. Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time. "I have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever I do.I forgot about that." "Oh, very well," said Mr. Withers, blandly. "It is for you to saywhom you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suityourself." He bowed and backed toward the door. "At four, then, we may expect you?" "Yes," said Carrie. "I will be there to show you," and so Mr. Withers withdrew. After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola. "Did they really?" exclaimed the latter, thinking of theWellington as a group of managers. "Isn't that fine? Oh, jolly! It'sso swell. That's where we dined that night we went with those twoCushing boys. Don't you know?" "I remember," said Carrie. "Oh, it's as fine as it can be." "We'd better be going up there," observed Carrie, later in theafternoon. The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola werethree and bath- a suite on the parlour floor. They were done inchocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windowslooked down into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side streetwhich crossed there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brassand white enamel beds, white, ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers tomatch. In the third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp,with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easyrockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled withoddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows uponthe divan, footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Suchaccommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week. "Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Lola, walking about. "It is comfortable," said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain andlooking down into crowded Broadway. The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with alarge, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright andcommodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end andincandescent lights arranged in three places. "Do you find these satisfactory?" observed Mr. Withers. "Oh, very," answered Carrie. "Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they areready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door." Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, themarbelled lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as shehad often dreamed of occupying. "I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" sheobserved to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in SeventeenthStreet. "Oh, by all means," said the latter. The next day her trunks left for the new abode. Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at herdressing-room door. Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shockof surprise. "Tell her I'll be right out," she said softly. Then, looking atthe card, added: "Mrs. Vance." "Why, you little sinner," the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carriecoming toward her across the now vacant stage. "How in the world didthis happen?" Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in herfriend's manner. You would have thought that the long separation hadcome about accidentally. "I don't know," returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her firsttroubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron. "Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but yourname threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that lookedjust like you, and I said: 'Well, now, I will go right down thereand see.' I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?" "Oh, very well," returned Carrie. "How have you been?" "Fine. But aren't you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talkingabout you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. Iwas almost afraid to come back here this afternoon." "Oh, nonsense," said Carrie, blushing. "You know I'd be glad tosee you." "Well, anyhow, here you are. Can't you come up and take dinnerwith me now? Where are you stopping?" "At the Wellington," said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch ofpride in the acknowledgment. "Oh, are you?" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was notwithout its proper effect. Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whomshe could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That muchshe surmised. "Oh, I don't think I can," said Carrie, "to-night. I have solittle time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won't you come and dine withme?" "I'd be delighted, but I can't to-night," said Mrs. Vance,studying Carrie's fine appearance. The latter's good fortune madeher seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the other's eyes."I promised faithfully to be home at six." Glancing at the smallgold watch pinned to her bosom, she added: "I must be going, too. Tellme when you're coming up, if at all." "Why, any time you like," said Carrie. "Well, to-morrow then. I'm living at the Chelsea now." "Moved again?" exclaimed Carrie, laughing. "Yes. You know I can't stay six months in one place. I just haveto move. Remember now- half-past five." "I won't forget," said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she wentaway. Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now-perhaps better. Something in the other's solicitude and interestmade her feel as if she were the one to condescend. Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by thedoorman at the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidlydeveloped since Monday. What they contained she well knew. Mashnotes were old affairs in their mildest form. She remembered havingreceived her first one far back in Columbia City. Since then, as achorus girl, she had received others- gentlemen who prayed for anengagement. They were common sport between her and Lola, whoreceived some also. They both frequently made light of them. Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunesdid not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiablecollection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages.Thus one: I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury.There isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. I saythis, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I loveyou and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that promptsme to write. Will you not give me one half-hour in which to plead mycause? Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in theSeventeenth Street place were read with more interest- though neverdelight- than those which arrived after she was installed in herluxurious quarters at the Wellington. Even there her vanity- or thatself-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity- wasnot sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation,being new in any form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wiseto distinguish between her old condition and her new one. She hadnot had fame or money before. Now they had come. She had not hadadulation and affectionate propositions before. Now they had come.Wherefore? She smiled to think that men should suddenly find her somuch more attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolnessand indifference. "Do look here," she remarked to Lola. "See what this man says: 'Ifyou will only deign to grant me one half-hour,'" she repeated, with animitation of languor. "The idea. Aren't men silly?" "He must have lots of money, the way he talks," observed Lola. "That's what they all say," said Carrie, innocently. "Why don't you see him," suggested Lola, "and hear what he has tosay?" "Indeed I won't," said Carrie. "I know what he'd say. I don't wantto meet anybody that way." Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes. "He couldn't hurt you," she returned. "You might have some funwith him." Carrie shook her head. "You're awfully queer," returned the little, blue-eyed soldier. Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salaryhad not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trustedher. Without money- or the requisite sum, at least- she enjoyed theluxuries which money could buy. For her the doors of fine placesseemed to open quite without the asking. These palatial chambers,how marvellously they came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs.Vance in the Chelsea- these were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes,offers of fortune. And still her dreams ran riot. The one hundredand fifty! the one hundred and fifty! What a door to an Aladdin's caveit seemed to be. Each day, her head almost turned by developments, herfancies of what her fortune must be, with ample money, grew andmultiplied. She conceived of delights which were not- saw lights ofjoy that never were on land or sea. Then, at last, after a world ofanticipation, came her first installment of one hundred and fiftydollars. It was paid to her in greenbacks- three twenties, six tens, andsix fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It wasaccompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it. "Ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "Miss Madenda- onehundred and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to havemade." "Yes, indeed," returned Carrie. Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company,and she heard the changed tone of address. "How much?" said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she hadonly recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took herback to the few weeks in which she had collected- or rather hadreceived- almost with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per weekfrom a lordly foreman in a shoe factory- a man who, in distributingthe envelopes, had the manner of a prince doling out favours to aservile group of petitioners. She knew that out in Chicago this veryday the same factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girlsworking in long lines at clattering machines; that at noon theywould eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour; that Saturday they wouldgather, as they had when she was one of them, and accept the small payfor work a hundred times harder than she was now doing. Oh, it wasso easy now! The world was so rosy and bright. She felt so thrilledthat she must needs walk back to the hotel to think, wondering whatshe should do. It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providingthe desires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred andfifty in hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. Initself, as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and lookupon, it was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed.Her hotel bill did not require its use. Her clothes had for sometime been wholly satisfactory. Another day or two and she wouldreceive another hundred and fifty. It began to appear as if thiswere not so startlingly necessary to maintain her present state. Ifshe wanted to do anything better or move higher she must have more-a great deal more. Now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews whichshine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, displaythe folly of celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie,and said so, publicly- adding, however, that she was merely pretty,good-natured, and lucky. This cut like a knife. The "Herald,"getting up an entertainment for the benefit of its free ice fund,did her the honour to beg her to appear along with celebrities fornothing. She was visited by a young author, who had a play which hethought she could produce. Alas, she could not judge. It hurt her tothink it. Then she found she must put her money in the bank forsafety, and so moving, finally reached the place where it struck herthat the door to life's perfect enjoyment was not open. Gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothingwas going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she wasstar. Fifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted theirmansions. Madison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full ofloafing thespians in search of next season engagements. The whole citywas quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. Hence thefeeling that there was little to do. "I don't know," she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of thewindows which looked down into Broadway, "I get lonely; don't you?" "No," said Lola, "not very often. You won't go anywhere. That'swhat's the matter with you." "Where can I go?" "Why, there're lots of places," returned Lola, who was thinking ofher own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. "You won't go withanybody." "I don't want to go with these people who write to me. I know whatkind they are." "You oughtn't to be lonely," said Lola, thinking of Carrie'ssuccess. "There're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes." Carrie looked out again at the passing crowd. "I don't know," she said. Unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary. Chapter XLV. CURIOUS SHIFTS OF THE POOR The gloomy Hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had takenrefuge with seventy dollars- the price of his furniture- between himand nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. Hewas not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slippingaway. As fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day'slodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room- thirty-fivecents a day- to make his money last longer. Frequently he sawnotices of Carrie. Her picture was in the "World" once or twice, andan old "Herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recentlyappeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. He readthese things with mingled feelings. Each one seemed to put her fartherand farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it recededfrom him. On the bill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing heras the Quaker Maid, demure and dainty. More than once he stopped andlooked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way.His clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to allthat she now seemed to be. Somehow, so long as he knew she was at the Casino, though he hadnever any intention of going near her, there was a subconsciouscomfort for him- he was not quite alone. The show seemed such afixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for grantedthat it was still running. In September it went on the road and he didnot notice it. When all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, hemoved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the Bowery, where there was abare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as somechairs. Here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of otherdays, a habit which grew upon him. It was not sleep at first, but amental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his Chicago life. Asthe present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all thatconcerned it stood in relief. He was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him untilone day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to oneof his friends. They were in Fitzgerald and Moy's. It was as if hestood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed,talking to Sagar Morrison about the value of South Chicago real estatein which the latter was about to invest. "How would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard Morrisonsay. "Not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "I have my handsfull now." The movement of his lips aroused him. He wondered whether he hadreally spoken. The next time he noticed anything of the sort he didtalk. "Why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "Jump!" It was a funny English story he was telling to a company ofactors, Even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. A crusty oldcodger, sitting near by seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in amost pointed way. Hurstwood straightened up. The humour of thememory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. For relief, he left hischair and strolled out into the streets. One day, looking down the ad. columns of the "Evening World," he sawwhere a new play was at the Casino. Instantly, he came to a mentalhalt. Carrie had gone! He remembered seeing a poster of her onlyyesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs.Curiously, this fact shook him up. He had almost to admit that somehowhe was depending upon her being in the city. Now she was gone. Hewondered how this important fact had skipped him. Goodness knowswhen she would be back now. Impelled by a nervous fear, he rose andwent into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money,unseen. There were but ten dollars in all. He wondered how all these other lodging-house people around himgot along. They didn't seem to do anything. Perhaps they begged-unquestionably they did. Many was the dime he had given to such asthey in his day. He had seen other men asking for money on thestreets. Maybe he could get some that way. There was horror in thisthought. Sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fiftycents. He had saved and counted until his health was affected. Hisstoutness had gone. With it, even the semblance of a fit in hisclothes. Now he decided he must do something, and, walking about,saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents- notenough to eat for the morrow. Summoning all his courage, he crossed to Broadway and up to theBroadway Central hotel. Within a block he halted, undecided. A big,heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances,looking out. Hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. Walking straight up,he was upon him before he could turn away. "My friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man'sinferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that I could get todo?" The porter stared at him the while he continued to talk. "I'm out of work and out of money and I've got to get something-it doesn't matter what. I don't care to talk about what I've been, butif you'd tell me how to get something to do, I'd be much obliged toyou. It wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. I'vegot to have something." The porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. Then, seeingthat Hurstwood was about to go on, he said: "I've nothing to do with it. You'll have to ask inside." Curiously, this stirred Hurstwood to further effort. "I thought you might tell me." The fellow shook his head irritably. Inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk'sdesk. One of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. Hurstwoodlooked him straight in the eye. "Could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "I'm ina position where I have to get something at once." The comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "Well, Ishould judge so." "I came here," explained Hurstwood, nervously, "because I've beena manager myself in my day. I've had bad luck in a way, but I'm nothere to tell you that. I want something to do, if only for a week." The man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye. "What hotel did you manage?" he inquired. "It wasn't a hotel," said Hurstwood. "I was manager of Fitzgeraldand Moy's place in Chicago for fifteen years." "Is that so?" said the hotel man. "How did you come to get out ofthat?" The figure of Hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to thefact. "Well, by foolishness of my own. It isn't anything to talk aboutnow. You could find out if you wanted to. I'm 'broke' now and, ifyou will believe me, I haven't eaten anything to-day." The hotel man was slightly interested in this story. He could hardlytell what to do with such a figure, and yet Hurstwood's earnestnessmade him wish to do something. "Call Olsen," he said, turning to the clerk. In reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, Olsen, the headporter, appeared. "Olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you couldfind for this man to do? I'd like to give him something." "I don't know, sir," said Olsen. "We have about all the help weneed. I think I could find something, sir, though, if you like." "Do. Take him to the kitchen and tell Wilson to give him somethingto eat." "All right, sir," said Olsen. Hurstwood followed. Out of the manager's sight, the head porter'smanner changed. "I don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed. Hurstwood said nothing. To him the big trunk hustler was a subjectfor private contempt. "You're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook. The latter looked Hurstwood over, and seeing something keen andintellectual in his eyes, said: "Well, sit down over there." Thus was Hurstwood installed in the Broadway Central, but not forlong. He was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that existsabout the foundation of every hotel. Nothing better offering, he wasset to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything andeverything that might offer. Porters, cooks, firemen, clerks- all wereover him. Moreover his appearance did not please these individuals-his temper was too lonely- and they made it disagreeable for him. With the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, heendured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house,eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, whichhe tried to save. His constitution was in no shape to endure. One day the following February he was sent on an errand to a largecoal company's office. It had been snowing and thawing and the streetswere sloppy. He soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feelingdull and weary. All the next day he felt unusually depressed and satabout as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admiredenergy in others. In the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for newculinary supplies. He was ordered to handle a truck. Encountering abig box, he could not lift it. "What's the matter there?" said the head porter. "Can't you handleit?" He was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit. "No," he said, weakly. The man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale. "Not sick, are you?" he asked. "I think I am," returned Hurstwood. "Well, you'd better go sit down, then." This he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. It seemed all he coulddo to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day. "That man Wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to thenight clerk. "What's the matter with him?" "I don't know. He's got a high fever." The hotel physician looked at him. "Better send him to Bellevue," he recommended. "He's got pneumonia." Accordingly, he was carted away. In three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first ofMay before his strength permitted him to be turned out. Then he wasdischarged. No more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the springsunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. All his corpulency hadfled. His face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby.Clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds.Some old garments had been given him- a cheap brown coat and misfitpair of trousers. Also some change and advice. He was told to apply tothe charities. Again he resorted to the Bowery lodging-house, brooding over whereto look. From this it was but a step to beggary. "What can a man do?" he said. "I can't starve." His first application was in sunny Second Avenue. A well-dressed mancame leisurely strolling toward him out of Stuyvesant Park.Hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near. "Would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "I'm in aposition where I must ask someone." The man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket andtook out a dime. "There you are," he said. "Much obliged," said Hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no moreattention to him. Satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, hedecided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, sincethat would be sufficient. He strolled about sizing up people, but itwas long before just the right face and situation arrived. When heasked, he was refused. Shocked by this result, he took an hour torecover and then asked again. This time a nickel was given him. By themost watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful. The next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing avariety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. At last itcrossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a mancould pick the liberal countenance if he tried. It was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by.He saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should bearrested. Nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating thatindefinite something which is always better. It was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced onemorning the return of the Casino Company, "with Miss CarrieMadenda." He had thought of her often enough in days past. Howsuccessful she was- how much money she must have! Even now, however,it took a severe run of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. Hewas truly hungry before he said: "I'll ask her. She won't refuse me a few dollars." Accordingly, he headed for the Casino one afternoon, passing itseveral times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. Then he satin Bryant Park, a block away, waiting. "She can't refuse to help mea little," he kept saying to himself. Beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about theThirty-ninth Street entrance, pretending always to be a hurryingpedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. He wasslightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; butbeing weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. At lasthe saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervoustension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more. Once he thought he saw Carrie coming and moved forward, only tosee that he was mistaken. "She can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing toencounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might havegone in by another way. His stomach was so empty that it ached. Individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed,almost all indifferent. He saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passingwith ladies- the evening's merriment was beginning in this region oftheatres and hotels. Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open thedoor. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broadwalk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie,but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardlytell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and thenseeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audiencewas arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away. "Lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the morefortunate were pouring, "I've got to get something." At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interestingaspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at thecorner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway- a spot which is alsointersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatreswere just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcingthe night's amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, theirlamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties ofthree and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured byin a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue wereloungers- a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress withhis lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking-room toanother. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleamingwindows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable,well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night,pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration- the citybent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways. This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turnedreligionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of ourpeculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God whichhe conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which hechose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consistedof securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply tohim at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal toprovide a comfortable habitation for himself. Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, hisstocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protectedby a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various wayslearned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone,gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. On the eveningin question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in afriendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped togaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in thematter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling andidling for his own amusement. As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Hereand there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, aloiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed theopposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another camedown Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a generalsurvey, and bobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery typesedged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did notventure over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short lineof ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling. As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hourpassed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air,too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving- watchersand peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraidto enter- a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keenersense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from outthe shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitousway, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was somethingshamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention wereto conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Thensuddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt. The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especialgreeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like onewho waits for gifts. The other simply motioned toward the edge ofthe walk. "Stand over there," he said. By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed hisshort, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not somuch as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitchingand scraping their feet. "Cold, ain't it?" "I'm glad winter's over." "Looks as though it might rain." The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew eachother and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be inthe crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty,silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet. There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them nochance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward. "Beds, eh, all of you?" There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval. "Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a centmyself." They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now,some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a woodenleg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill becomea second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were allwarped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glareof the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; otherswere red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes;one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A fewspectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, thenmore and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some onein the line began to talk. "Silence!" exclaimed the captain. "Now, then, gentlemen, these menare without beds. They have to have some place to sleep to-night. Theycan't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of themto bed. Who will give it to me?" No reply. "Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelvecents isn't so very much for one man." "Here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward withstrained eyes. "It's all I can afford." "All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line," and seizingone by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way andstood him up alone. Coming back, he resumed his place and began again. "I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow.There are"- counting- "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next manto bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go rightalong and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents?" One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him afive-cent piece. "Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed.Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all havegood beds. How about these?" "Here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand. "That," said the, captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two bedsfor two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give meseven cents more?" "I will," said a voice. Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to crosseast through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was whollydisconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortalextent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It wouldbe eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, shewould go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most tryingcircumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best awhole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try againto-night. He had no food and no bed. When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering ofwanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher orsome patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossingthe street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of menwhose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main bodyof the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light herecognised a type of his own kind- the figures whom he saw about thestreets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body likehimself. He wondered what it could be and turned back. There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard withastonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "Thesemen must have a bed." Before him was the line of unfortunates whosebeds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up andtake a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise.What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out ofone difficulty, at least. Tomorrow, maybe, he would do better. Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, arelaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed,he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning towardsociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, somenewspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over,found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voicespronounced forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and ramblingobservations were made in reply. There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares fromthose who were too dull or too weary to converse. Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought heshould drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. Atlast his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to theblessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain wastalking for him. "Twelve cents, gentlemen- twelve cents puts this man to bed. Hewouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go."Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger andweakness had made a coward of him. "Here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain. Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. "Line up over there," he said. Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the worldwere not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed tofeel like himself about this. "Captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead- alittle, woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked asthough he had ever been the sport and care of fortune. "Yes," said Hurstwood, indifferently. "Hub! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up,leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captainwas pleading. "Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night," said another. "Look at the guy in the cab," observed a third. A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out abill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away tohis line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in thewhite shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gapedin awe. "That fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, countingout as many of the line near him. "Line up over there. Now, then,there are only seven. I need twelve cents." Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out toa meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or footpassenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians.Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handedout a coin, and went away, unheeding. The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, veryslowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, asthough he could not fail. "Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are gettingtired and cold. Some one give me four cents." There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him,and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in theother line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at theground. The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven.Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men. "Come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteencents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six.Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklynyet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put themto bed. Eighteen cents." No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for severalminutes, occasionally saying softly: "Eighteen cents." It seemed as ifthis paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than allthe rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line ofwhich he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was soweak. At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down FifthAvenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, remindedby her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he hadescorted his own wife in like manner. While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkablecompany, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers,all elegant and graceful. "Here you are," he said. "Thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants."Now we have some for to-morrow night," he added. Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head,counting as he went. "One hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "Now, boys, line up.Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now." He placed himself at the head and called out "Forward." Hurstwoodmoved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square bythe winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down ThirdAvenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians andloiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chattingpolicemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to theleader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, aseemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was alodging-house, closed, apparently, for the night. They wereexpected, however. Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within.Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "Steady, now." Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delayfor keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back andsaw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being includedin his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him andstrolled out into the night. "I can't stand much of this," said Hurstwood, whose legs ached himpainfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small,lightless chamber allotted to him. "I've got to eat, or I'll die." Chapter XLVI. STIRRING TROUBLED WATERS Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie wasputting the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for thenight, when a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. Itincluded a familiar voice. "Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda." "You'll have to send in your card." "Oh, come off! Here." A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at herdressing-room door. Carrie opened it. "Well, well!" said Drouet. "I do swear! Why, how are you? I knewthat was you the moment I saw you." Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation. "Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy!That's all right, shake hands." Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man'sexuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed.The same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosycountenance. "That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until Ipaid him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a greatshow. You do your part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to bepassing tonight and thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I sawyour name on the programme, but I didn't remember it until you came onthe stage. Then it struck me all at once. Say, you could haveknocked me down with a feather. That's the same name you used outthere in Chicago, isn't it?" "Yes," answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance. "I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been,anyhow?" "Oh, very well," said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. Shewas rather dazed by the assault. "How have you been?" "Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now." "Is that so?" said Carrie. "Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branchhere." "How nice!" "Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet. "About three years ago," said Carrie. "You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it.I knew you would, though. I always said you could act- didn't I?" Carrie smiled. "Yes, you did," she said. "Well, you do look great," he said. "I never saw anybody improve so.You're taller, aren't you?" "Me? Oh, a little, maybe." He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat wasset jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion toavert. Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at onceand without modification. "Well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, andthe like, preparatory to departing, "I want you to come out todinner with me; won't you? I've got a friend out here." "Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "Not to-night. I have an earlyengagement to-morrow." "Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want tohave a good talk with you." "No, no," said Carrie; "I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. Idon't care for a late dinner." "Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow." "Not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "We'll have a talksome other time." As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over hisface, as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed.Good-nature dictated something better than this for one who had alwaysliked her. "You come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort ofpenance for error. "You can take dinner with me." "All right," said Drouet, brightening. "Where are you stopping?" "At the Waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionablehostelry then but newly erected. "What time?" "Well, come at three," said Carrie, pleasantly. The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight thatCarrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome asever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as towhether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked asvolubly as ever. "They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his first remark. "Yes; they do," said Carrie. Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailedaccount of his own career. "I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed inone place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars." Carrie listened most good-naturedly. "Say," he said, suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?" Carrie flushed a little. "He's here in New York, I guess," she said. "I haven't seen himfor some time." Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that theex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. Heimagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be thatCarrie had got rid of him- as well she ought, he thought. "A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that," heobserved. "Like what?" said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming. "Oh, you know," and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were,with his hand. "No, I don't," she answered. "What do you mean?" "Why that affair in Chicago- the time he left." "I don't know what you are talking about," said Carrie. Could itbe he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her? "Oho!" said Drouet, incredulously. "You knew he took ten thousanddollars with him when he left, didn't you?" "What!" said Carrie. "You don't mean to say he stole money, do you?" "Why," said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn'tyou?" "Why, no," said Carrie. "Of course I didn't." "Well, that's funny," said Drouet. "He did, you know. It was inall the papers." "How much did you say he took?" said Carrie. "Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards,though." Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light wasshining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She rememberednow a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that hetook it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was akind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have hadhanging over his head all the time. At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened inmood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time good-naturedregard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult toenter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! hethought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical andWaldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all-desirable. "Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery?" heasked. Carrie smiled to think of it. "I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad," he addedruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "I thought you and Iwere going to get along fine those days." "You mustn't talk that way," said Carrie, bringing in the leasttouch of coldness. "Won't you let me tell you-" "No," she answered, rising. "Besides, it's time I was gettingready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now." "Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet. "You've got plenty of time." "No," said Carrie, gently. Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw herto the elevator and, standing there, said: "When do I see you again?" "Oh, some time, possibly," said Carrie. "I'll be here all summer.Good-night!" The elevator door was open. "Good-night!" said Drouet, as she rustled in. Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived,because she was now so far off. He thought himself hardly dealtwith. Carrie, however, had other thoughts. That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at theCasino, without observing him. The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him faceto face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to seeher, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise theshabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, aseemingly hungry stranger. "Carrie," he half whispered, "can I have a few words with you?" She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever hadlurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now.Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen themoney. "Why, George," she said; "what's the matter with you?" "I've been sick," he answered. "I've just got out of the hospital.For God's sake, let me have a little money, will you?" "Of course," said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort tomaintain her composure. "But what's the matter with you, anyhow?" She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it- afive and two twos. "I've been sick, I told you," he said, peevishly, almost resentingher excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such asource. "Here," she said. "It's all I have with me." "All right," he answered, softly. "I'll give it back to you someday." Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She feltthe strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood. "Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked,hardly knowing what to do. "Where are you living?" "Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery," he answered. "There's nouse trying to tell you here. I'm all right now." He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries- so much betterhad fate dealt with her. "Better go on in," he said. "I'm much obliged, but I won't botheryou any more." She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off towardthe east. For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began towear partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seenby her. His attentions seemed out of place. "I'm out," was her reply to the boy. So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, thatshe was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye- she was soquiet and reserved. Not long after the management decided to transfer the show toLondon. A second summer season did not seem to promise well here. "How would you like to try subduing London?" asked her manager,one afternoon. "It might be just the other way," said Carrie. "I think we'll go in June," he answered. In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he andDrouet were left to discover that she was gone. The latter calledonce, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewingthe ends of his moustache. At last he reached a conclusion- the olddays had gone for good. "She isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he didnot believe this. Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. Asmall job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month.Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park,carried him over more days. Resorting to those peculiar charities,several of which, in the press of hungry search, he accidentallystumbled upon, did the rest. Toward the dead of winter, Carrie cameback, appearing on Broadway in a new play; but he was not aware of it.For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the fire sign,announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street ofamusements. Drouet saw it, but did not venture in. About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a littlesuccess in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Ofcourse, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there wasnothing responsive between them. He thought she was still united toHurstwood, until otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, hedid not profess to understand, and refrained from comment. With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himselfaccordingly. "She ought not to be in comedy," he said. "I think she could dobetter than that." One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a veryfriendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one-time keeninterest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was becauseat that time he had represented something which she did not have;but this she did not understand. Success had given her the momentaryfeeling that she was now blessed with much of which he wouldapprove. As a matter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing atall to him. He thought she could have done better, by far. "You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, rememberingher interest in that form of art. "No," she answered; "I haven't, so far." He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she hadfailed. It moved her to add: "I want to, though." "I should think you would," he said. "You have the sort ofdisposition that would do well in comedy-drama." It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then,so clearly in his mind? "Why?" she asked. "Well," he said, "I should judge you were rather sympathetic in yournature." Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank withher that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the idealwas sounding. "I don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond allconcealment. "I saw your play," he remarked. "It's very good." "I'm glad you liked it." "Very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy." This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, butlater they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staringat the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hardwork had given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not forCarrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her. "All alone?" she said. "I was listening to the music." "I'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing inthe inventor. Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, whilehe sat. "Isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening. "Oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attentionwas called. "Sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him. They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling,only hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as inthe old days. "I don't know what it is about music," she started to say, movedby the inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it alwaysmakes me feel as if I wanted something- I-" "Yes," he replied; "I know how you feel." Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of herdisposition, expressing her feelings so frankly. "You ought not to be melancholy," he said. He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alienobservation which, however, accorded with their feelings. "The world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, wecan occupy but one at a time. It doesn't do us any good to wring ourhands over the far-off things." The music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position beforeher, as if to rest himself. "Why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. Hewas looking directly at her now, studying her face. Her large,sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs ofhis judgment. "Perhaps I shall," she returned. "That's your field," he added. "Do you think so?" "Yes," he said; "I do. I don't suppose you're aware of it, but thereis something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort ofwork." Carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. For the moment, lonelinessdeserted her. Here was praise which was keen and analytical. "It's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "Iremember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there wassomething peculiar about your mouth. I thought you were about to cry." "How odd," said Carrie, warm with delight. This was what her heartcraved. "Then I noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night Isaw it again. There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which givesyour face much this same character. It's in the depth of them, Ithink." Carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused. "You probably are not aware of it," he added. She looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to beequal to this feeling written upon her countenance. It unlocked thedoor to a new desire. She had cause to ponder over this until they met again- severalweeks or more. It showed her she was drifting away from the oldideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the Avery stageand thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it? "I know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if youhad a more dramatic part. I've studied it out-" "What is it?" said Carrie. "Well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression inyour face is one that comes out in different things. You get thesame thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves youdeeply. It's a thing the world likes to see, because it's a naturalexpression of its longing." Carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant. "The world is always struggling to express itself," he went on."Most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. They dependupon others. That is what genius is for. One man expresses theirdesires for them in music; another one in poetry; another one in aplay. Sometimes nature does it in a face- it makes the facerepresentative of all desire. That's what has happened in your case." He looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyesthat she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look wassomething which represented the world's longing. She took it toheart as a creditable thing, until he added: "That puts a burden of duty on you. It so happens that you have thisthing. It is no credit to you- that is, I mean, you might not have hadit. You paid nothing to get it. But now that you have it, you mustdo something with it." "What?" asked Carrie. "I should say, turn to the dramatic field. You have so much sympathyand such a melodious voice. Make them valuable to others. It will makeyour powers endure." Carrie did not understand this last. All her comedy success waslittle or nothing. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Why, just this. You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and inyour nature. You can lose it, you know. If you turn away from it andlive to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. The lookwill leave your eyes. Your mouth will change. Your power to act willdisappear. You may think they won't, but they will. Nature takescare of that." He was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimesbecame enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. Something inCarrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up. "I know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect. "If I were you," he said, "I'd change." The effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. Carrie troubledover it in her rocking-chair for days. "I don't believe I'll stay in comedy so very much longer," sheeventually remarked to Lola. "Oh, why not?" said the latter. "I think," she said, "I can do better in a serious play." "What put that idea in your head?" "Oh, nothing," she answered; "I've always thought so." Still, she did nothing- grieving. It was a long way to this betterthing- or seemed so- and comfort was about her; hence the inactivityand longing. Chapter XLVII. THE WAY OF THE BEATEN: A HARP IN THE WIND In the city, at that time, there were a number of charitiessimilar in nature to that of the captain's, which Hurstwood nowpatronised in a like unfortunate way. One was a conventmission-house of the Sisters of Mercy in Fifteenth Street- a row ofred brick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plainwooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement that everynoon a meal was given free to all those who might apply and ask foraid. This simple announcement was modest in the extreme, covering,as it did, charity so broad. Institutions and charities are so largeand so numerous in New York that such things as this are not oftennoticed by the more comfortably situated. But to one whose mind isupon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection. Unless onewere looking up this matter in particular, he could have stood atSixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days around the noon hour andnever have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along thatbusy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, someweather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt incountenance and dilapidated in the matter of clothes. The fact is nonethe less true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent itbecame. Space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house,compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirtyeating at one time, so that a line had to be formed outside and anorderly entrance effected. This caused a daily spectacle which,however, had become so common by repetition during a number of yearsthat now nothing was thought of it. The men waited patiently, likecattle, in the coldest weather- waited for several hours before theycould be admitted. No questions were asked and no service rendered.They ate and went away again, some of them returning regularly dayafter day the winter through. A big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the doorduring the entire operation and counted the admissible number. The menmoved up in solemn order. There was no haste and no eagernessdisplayed. It was almost a dumb procession. In the bitterest weatherthis line was to be found here. Under an icy wind there was aprodigious slapping of hands and a dancing of feet. Fingers and thefeatures of the face looked as if severely nipped by the cold. A studyof these men in broad light proved them to be nearly all of a type.They belonged to the class that sit on the park benches during theendurable days and sleep upon them during the summer nights. Theyfrequent the Bowery and those down-at-the-heels East Side streetswhere poor clothes and shrunken features are not singled out ascurious. They are the men who are in the lodging-house sitting-roomsduring bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the cheapershelters which only open at six in a number of the lower East Sidestreets. Miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had playedhavoc with bone and muscle. They were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed,hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that werea sickly red by contrast. Their hair was but half attended to, theirears anaemic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down atheel and toe. They were of the class which simply floats and drifts,every wave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon astormy shore. For nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city,Fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who wouldcome for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner ofBroadway and Tenth Street, at midnight. Every night during twentyyears about three hundred men had formed in line and at theappointed time marched past the doorway, picked their loaf from agreat box placed just outside, and vanished again into the night. Fromthe beginning to the present time there had been little change inthe character or number of these men. There were two or threefigures that had grown familiar to those who had seen this littleprocession pass year after year. Two of them had missed scarcely anight in fifteen years. There were about forty, more or less,regular callers. The remainder of the line was formed of strangers. Intimes of panic and unusual hardships there were seldom more than threehundred. In times of prosperity, when little is heard of theunemployed, there were seldom less. The same number, winter andsummer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held thismelancholy midnight rendezvous at Fleischmann's bread box. At both of these two charities, during the severe winter which wasnow on, Hurstwood was a frequent visitor. On one occasion it waspeculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about thestreets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offering to thepoor. Already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, several such as hehad shambled forward out of Sixth Avenue, their thin clothesflapping and fluttering in the wind. They leaned against the ironrailing which protects the walls of the Ninth Regiment Armory, whichfronts upon that section of Fifteenth Street, having come early inorder to be first in. Having an hour to wait, they at first lingeredat a respectful distance; but others coming up, they moved closer inorder to protect their right of precedence. To this collectionHurstwood came up from the west out of Seventh Avenue and stoppedclose to the door, nearer than all the others. Those who had beenwaiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by acertain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicatedthat they were first. Seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along theline, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. When order hadbeen restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed. "Must be pretty near noon," ventured one. "It is," said another. "I've been waiting nearly an hour." "Gee, but it's cold!" They peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. A grocery mandrove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. This started somewords upon grocery men and the cost of food in general. "I see meat's gone up," said one. "If there wuz war, it would help this country a lot." The line was growing rapidly. Already there were fifty or more,and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulatedthemselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. Therewas much jerking of heads, and looking down the line. "It don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're inthe first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "Youall go in together." "Humph!" ejaculated Hurstwood, who bad been so sturdily displaced. "This here Single Tax is the thing," said another. "There ain'tgoing to be no order till it comes." For the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling,glancing, and beating their arms. At last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared.She only looked an order. Slowly the line moved up and, one by one,passed in, until twenty-five were counted. Then she interposed a stoutarm, and the line halted, with six men on the steps. Of these theex-manager was one. Waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculatedconcerning the misery of it; some brooded, as did Hurstwood. At lasthe was admitted, and, having eaten, came away, almost angeredbecause of his pains in getting it. At eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, hewas at the midnight offering of a loaf- waiting patiently. It had beenan unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touchof philosophy. If he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in theevening, here was a place he could come. A few minutes beforetwelve, a great box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour aportly, round-faced German took position by it, calling "Ready." Thewhole line at once moved forward, each taking his loaf in turn andgoing his separate way. On this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as hewent, plodding the dark streets in silence to his bed. By January he had about concluded that the game was up with him.Life had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want andweakened vitality had made the charms of earth rather dull andinconspicuous. Several times, when fortune pressed most harshly, hethought he would end his troubles; but with a change of weather, orthe arrival of a quarter or a dime, his mood would change, and hewould wait. Each day he would find some old paper lying about and lookinto it, to see if there was any trace of Carrie, but all summer andfall he had looked in vain. Then he noticed that his eyes werebeginning to hurt him, and this ailment rapidly increased until, inthe dark chambers of the lodgings he frequented, he did not attempt toread. Bad and irregular eating was weakening every function of hisbody. The one recourse left him was to doze when a place offered andhe could get the money to occupy it. He was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagrestate of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum andbeggar. Police bustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepersturned him out promptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians wavedhim off. He found it more and more difficult to get anything fromanybody. At last he admitted to himself that the game was up. It was aftera long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had beenrefused and refused- every one hastening from contact. "Give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to thelast one. "For God's sake, do; I'm starving." "Aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common typehimself. "You're no good. I'll give you nawthin'." Hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. Tearscame into his eyes. "That's right," he said; "I'm no good now. I was all right. I hadmoney. I'm going to quit this," and, with death in his heart, hestarted down toward the Bowery. People had turned on the gas beforeand died; why shouldn't he? He remembered a lodging-house wherethere were little, close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almostpre-arranged, he thought, for what he wanted to do, which rented forfifteen cents. Then he remembered that he had no fifteen cents. On the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming,clean-shaven, out of a fine barber shop. "Would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this manboldly. The gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. Nothing butquarters were in his pocket. "Here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "Be off, now." Hurstwood moved on, wondering. The sight of the large, bright coinpleased him a little. He remembered that he was hungry and that hecould get a bed for ten cents. With this, the idea of death passed,for the time being, out of his mind. It was only when he could getnothing but insults that death seemed worth while. One day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of theseason set in. It broke grey and cold in the first day, and on thesecond snowed. Poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents bynightfall, and this he bad spent for food. At evening he found himselfat the Boulevard and Sixty-seventh Street, where he finally turned hisface Bowery-ward. Especially fatigued because of the wanderingpropensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half draggedhis wet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. An old, thin coatwas turned up about his red ears-his cracked derby hat was pulled downuntil it turned them outward. His hands were in his pockets. "I'll just go down Broadway," he said to himself. When he reached Forty-second Street, the fire signs were alreadyblazing brightly. Crowds were hastening to dine. Through brightwindows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriantrestaurants. There were coaches and crowded cable cars. In his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. Thecontrast was too sharp. Even he was recalled keenly to better things. "What's the use?" he thought. "It's all up with me. I'll quit this." People turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shamblingfigure. Several officers followed him with their eyes, to see thathe did not beg of anybody. Once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and lookedthrough the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed afire sign, and through the large, plate windows of which could be seenthe red and gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shiningglassware, and, above all, the comfortable crowd. Weak as his mind hadbecome, his hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. Hestopped stock still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, andpeered foolishly in. "Eat," he mumbled. "That's right, eat. Nobody else wants any." Then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost thefancy it had. "It's mighty cold," he said. "Awful cold." At Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street was blazing, in incandescentfire, Carrie's name. "Carrie Madenda," it read, "and the CasinoCompany." All the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiatedfire. It was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood's gaze. He lookedup, and then at a large, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a finelithograph of Carrie, life-size. Hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder,as if something were scratching him. He was so run down, however, thathis mind was not exactly clear. "That's you," he said at last, addressing her. "Wasn't good enoughfor you, was I? Huh!" He lingered, trying to think logically. This was no longerpossible with him. "She's got it," he said, incoherently, thinking of money. "Let hergive me some." He started around to the side door. Then he forgot what he was goingfor and paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists.Suddenly it returned. The stage door! That was it. He approached that entrance and went in. "Well?" said the attendant, staring at him. Seeing him pause, hewent over and shoved him. "Get out of here," he said. "I want to see Miss Madenda," he said. "You do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle."Get out of here," and he shoved him again. Hurstwood had nostrength to resist. "I want to see Miss Madenda," he tried to explain, even as he wasbeing hustled away. "I'm all right. I-" The man gave him a last push and closed the door. As he did so,Hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. It hurt him, and some vaguesense of shame returned. He began to cry and swear foolishly. "God damned dog!" he said. "Damned old cur," wiping the slush fromhis worthless coat. "I- I hired such people as you once." Now a fierce feeling against Carrie welled up- just one fierce,angry thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind. "She owes me something to eat," he said. "She owes it to me." Hopelessly he turned back into Broadway again and slopped onward andaway, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one afteranother, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do. It was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his onedistinct mental decision was reached. Already, at four o'clock, thesombre hue of night was thickening the air. A heavy snow wasfalling- a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swiftwind in long, thin lines. The streets were bedded with it- sixinches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by the crushof teams and the feet of men. Along Broadway men picked their way inulsters and umbrellas. Along the Bowery, men slouched through itwith collars and hats pulled over their ears. In the formerthoroughfare business men and travellers were making for comfortablehotels. In the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past dingystores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already gleaming.There were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter wasreduced by the mantle about the wheels. The whole city was muffledby this fast-thickening mantle. In her comfortable chambers at the Waldorf, Carrie was reading atthis time "Pere Goriot," which Ames had recommended to her. It wasso strong, and Ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest,that she caught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. Forthe first time, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthlesshad been her earlier reading, as a whole. Becoming wearied, however,she yawned and came to the window, looking out upon the old windingprocession of carriages rolling up Fifth Avenue. "Isn't it bad?" she observed to Lola. "Terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "I hope it snowsenough to go sleigh riding." "Oh, dear," said Carrie, with whom the sufferings of Father Goriotwere still keen. "That's all you think of. Aren't you sorry for thepeople who haven't anything to-night?" "Of course I am," said Lola; "but what can I do? I haven'tanything." Carrie smiled. "You wouldn't care, if you had," she returned. "I would, too," said Lola. "But people never gave me anything when Iwas hard up." "Isn't it just awful?" said Carrie, studying the winter's storm. "Look at that man over there," laughed Lola, who had caught sight ofsome one falling down. "How sheepish men look when they fall, don'tthey?" "We'll have to take a coach to-night," answered Carrie, absently. In the lobby of the Imperial, Mr. Charles Drouet was justarriving, shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. Bad weatherhad driven him home early and stirred his desire for those pleasureswhich shut out the snow and gloom of life. A good dinner, thecompany of a young woman, and an evening at the theatre were the chiefthings for him. "Why, hello, Harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of thecomfortable lobby chairs. "How are you?" "Oh, about six and six," said the other. "Rotten weather, isn't it?" "Well, I should say," said the other. "I've been just sitting herethinking where I'd go to-night." "Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you to somethingdead swell." "Who is it?" said the other. "Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have adandy time. I was just looking for you." "Supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?" "Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes." "Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want to get ashave." "All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes towardthe elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever. On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hourthrough the snow of the evening, were three others, all related. "First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor wasannouncing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron andjacket. "I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, ablack-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed aeuchre hand away from her. "Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all thatfine raiment can make. "Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more,though." "Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what goodclothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie- it'scoming up." Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and lookingat a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty,even cold, is fascinating from one point of view. "Well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "It onlytakes two weeks to get to Rome." Mrs. Hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. Itwas so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man- one whosefinancial state had borne her personal inspection. "Do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked Jessica, "ifit keeps up like this?" "Oh, yes," answered her husband. "This won't make any difference." Passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also ofChicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. Even now he didnot hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. With aspecially conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty facewholly away. It was not wifely modesty at all. By so much was herpride satisfied. At this moment Hurstwood stood before a dirty four-story building ina side street quite near the Bowery, whose one-time coat of buff hadbeen changed by soot and rain. He mingled with a crowd of men- a crowdwhich had been, and was still, gathering by degrees. It began with the approach of two or three, who hung about theclosed wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. They had onfaded derby hats with dents in them. Their misfit coats were heavywith melted snow and turned up at the collars. Their trousers weremere bags, frayed at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes,torn at the sides and worn almost to shreds. They made no effort to goin, but shifted ruefully about, digging their hands deep in theirpockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps. With theminutes, increased the number. Three were old men with grizzled beardsand sunken eyes, men who were comparatively young but shrunken bydiseases, men who were middle-aged. None were fat. There was a face inthe thick of the collection which was as white as drained veal.There was another red as brick. Some came with thin, roundedshoulders, others with wooden legs, still others with frames so leanthat clothes only flapped about them. There were great ears, swollennoses, thick lips, and, above all, red, blood-shot eyes. Not a normal,healthy face in the whole mass; not a straight figure; not astraightforward, steady glance. In the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another.There were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were redwith cold. There were ears, half covered by every conceivablesemblance of a hat, which still looked stiff and bitten. In the snowthey shifted, now one foot, now another, almost rocking in unison. With the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. It wasnot conversation, but a running comment directed at any one ingeneral. It contained oaths and slang phrases. "By damn, I wish they'd hurry up." "Look at the copper watchin'." "Maybe it ain't winter, nuther!" "I wisht I was in Sing Sing." Now a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. Itwas an edging, shifting, pushing throng. There was no anger, nopleading, no threatening words. It was all sullen endurance,unlightened by either wit or good fellowship. A carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. One ofthe men nearest the door saw it. "Look at the bloke ridin'." "He ain't so cold." "Eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long sincepassed out of hearing. Little by little the night crept on. Along the walk a crowd turnedout on its way home. Men and shop-girls went by with quick steps.The cross-town cars began to be crowded. The gas lamps were blazing,and every window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. Still the crowdhung about the door, unwavering. "Ain't they ever goin' to open up?" queried a hoarse voice,suggestively. This seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, andmany gazed in that direction. They looked at it as dumb brutes look,as dogs paw and whine and study the knob. They shifted and blinked andmuttered, now a curse, now a comment. Still they waited and stillthe snow whirled and cut them with biting flakes. On the old hatsand peaked shoulders it was piling. It gathered in little heaps andcurves and no one brushed it off. In the centre of the crowd thewarmth and steam melted it, and water trickled off hat rims and downnoses, which the owners could not reach to scratch. On the outer rimthe piles remained unmelted. Hurstwood, who could not get in thecentre, stood with head lowered to the weather and bent his form. A light appeared through the transom overhead. It sent a thrill ofpossibility through the watchers. There was a murmur of recognition.At last the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears.Footsteps shuffled within and it murmured again. Some one called:"Slow up there, now," and then the door opened. It was push and jamfor a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove its quality, andthen it melted inward, like logs floating, and disappeared. There werewet hats and wet shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass,pouring in between bleak walls. It was just six o'clock and therewas supper in every hurrying pedestrian's face. And yet no supperwas provided here- nothing but beds. Hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary stepsto his allotted room. It was a dingy affair- wooden, dusty, hard. Asmall gas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner. "Hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door. Now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped firstwith his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. Hisvest he arranged in the same place. His old wet, cracked hat he laidsoftly upon the table. Then he pulled off his shoes and lay down. It seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turnedthe gas out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. Aftera few moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated,he turned the gas on again, but applied no match. Even then he stoodthere, hidden wholly in that kindness which is night, while theuprising fumes filled the room. When the odour reached his nostrils,he quit his attitude and fumbled for the bed. "What's the use?" he said weakly, as he stretched himself to rest. And now Carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemedlife's object, or at least, such fraction of it as human beings everattain of their original desires. She could look about on her gownsand carriage, her furniture and bank account. Friends there were, asthe world takes it- those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment ofher success. For these she had once craved. Applause there was, andpublicity- once far off, essential things, but now grown trivial andindifferent. Beauty also- her type of loveliness- and yet she waslonely. In her rocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged-singing and dreaming. Thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotionalnature- the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. Of one comethe men of action- generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets anddreamers- artists all. As harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy,voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal. Man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has theideal. For him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe.Ever hearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of itsdistant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet intravelling. So watched Carrie, so followed, rocking and singing. And it must be remembered that reason had little part in this.Chicago dawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than shehad ever known, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone,clung to it. In fine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed tobe contented. Hence, she drew near these things. Chicago, New York;Drouet, Hurstwood; the world of fashion and the world of stage-these were but incidents. Not them, but that which they represented,she longed for. Time proved the representation false. Oh, the tangle of human life! How dimly as yet we see. Here wasCarrie, in the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional;responding with desire to everything most lovely in life, yetfinding herself turned as by a wall. Laws to say: "Be allured, ifyou will, by everything lovely, but draw not nigh unless byrighteousness." Convention to say: "You shall not better yoursituation save by honest labour." If honest labour be unremunerativeand difficult to endure; if it be the long, long road which neverreaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if the drag tofollow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, taking ratherthe despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall cast thefirst stone? Not evil, but longing for that which is better, moreoften directs the steps of the erring. Not evil, but goodness moreoften allures the feeling mind unused to reason. Amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked Carrie, unhappy. Aswhen Drouet took her, she had thought: "Now am I lifted into thatwhich is best"; as when Hurstwood seemingly offered her the betterway: "Now am I happy." But since the world goes its way past all whowill not partake of its folly, she now found herself alone. Herpurse was open to him whose need was greatest. In her walks onBroadway, she no longer thought of the elegance of the creatures whopassed her. Had they more of that peace and beauty which glimmeredafar off, then were they to be envied. Drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. Of Hurstwood'sdeath she was not even aware. A slow, black boat setting out fromthe pier at Twenty-seventh Street upon its weekly errand bore, withmany others, his nameless body to the Potter's Field. Thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in theirrelation to her. Their influence upon her life is explicable aloneby the nature of her longings. Time was when both represented forher all that was most potent in earthly success. They were thepersonal representatives of a state most blessed to attain- the titledambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. Itis but natural that when the world which they represented no longerallured her, its ambassadors should be discredited. Even had Hurstwoodreturned in his original beauty and glory, he could not now haveallured her. She had learned that in his world, as in her ownpresent state, was not happiness. Sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways bywhich one who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit ofbeauty. Though often disillusioned, she was still waiting for thathalcyon day when she should be led forth among dreams become real.Ames had pointed out a farther step, but on and on beyond that, ifaccomplished, would lie others for her. It was forever to be thepursuit of that radiance of delight which tints the distant hilltopsof the world. Oh, Carrie, Carrie! Oh, blind strivings of the human heart!Onward, onward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows.Whether it be the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quietlandscape, or the glimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show ofsoul in some passing eye, the heart knows and makes answer, following.It is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartachesand the longings arise. Know, then, that for you is neither surfeitnor content. In your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall youlong, alone. In your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dreamsuch happiness as you may never feel. THE END.
Colophon
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