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名著:嘉莉妹妹Sister Carrie

[日期:2014-04-22] 来源:  作者: [字体: ]

    Sister Carrie
     by Theodore Dreiser
    Chapter I
    When Caroline Meeber boarded the afternoon train for Chicago, her
    total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation
    alligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a
    yellow leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of
    paper with her sister's address in Van Buren Street, and four
    dollars in money.  It was in August, 1889.  She was eighteen
    years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of
    ignorance and youth.  Whatever touch of regret at parting
    characterised her thoughts, it was certainly not for advantages
    now being given up.  A gush of tears at her mother's farewell
    kiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by the flour
    mill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh as the
    familiar green environs of the village passed in review, and the
    threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home were
    irretrievably broken.
    To be sure there was always the next station, where one might
    descend and return.  There was the great city, bound more closely
    by these very trains which came up daily.  Columbia City was not
    so very far away, even once she was in Chicago.  What, pray, is a
    few hours--a few hundred miles?  She looked at the little slip
    bearing her sister's address and wondered.  She gazed at the
    green landscape, now passing in swift review, until her swifter
    thoughts replaced its impression 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 she rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and
    becomes worse.  Of an intermediate balance, under the
    circumstances, there is no possibility.  The city has its cunning
    wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more human
    tempter.  There are large forces which allure with all the
    soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human.
    The gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective as the
    persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye.  Half the
    undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished
    by forces wholly superhuman.  A blare of sound, a roar of life, a
    vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished senses in
    equivocal terms.  Without a counsellor at hand to whisper
    cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things
    breathe into the unguarded ear!  Unrecognised for what they are,
    their beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then
    perverts the simpler human perceptions.
    Caroline, or Sister Carrie, as she had been half affectionately
    termed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its
    power of observation and analysis.  Self-interest with her was
    high, but not strong.  It was, nevertheless, her guiding
    characteristic.  Warm with the fancies of youth, pretty with the
    insipid prettiness of the formative period, possessed of a figure
    promising eventual shapeliness and an eye alight with certain
    native intelligence, she was a fair example of the middle
    American class--two generations removed from the emigrant.  Books
    were beyond her interest--knowledge a sealed book.  In the
    intuitive graces she was still crude.  She could scarcely toss
    her head gracefully.  Her hands were almost ineffectual.  The
    feet, though small, were set flatly.  And yet she was interested
    in her charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life,
    ambitious to gain in material things.  A half-equipped little
    knight she was, venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and
    dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which
    should make it prey and subject--the proper penitent, grovelling
    at a woman's slipper.
    "That," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little
    resorts in Wisconsin."
    "Is it?" she answered nervously.
    The train was just pulling out of Waukesha.  For some time she
    had been conscious of a man behind.  She felt him observing her
    mass of hair.  He had been fidgetting, and with natural intuition
    she felt a certain interest growing in that quarter.  Her
    maidenly reserve, and a certain sense of what was conventional
    under the circumstances, called her to forestall and deny this
    familiarity, but the daring and magnetism of the individual, born
    of past experiences and triumphs, prevailed.  She answered.
    He leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and
    proceeded to make himself volubly agreeable.
    "Yes, that is a great resort for Chicago people.  The hotels are
    swell.  You are not familiar with this part of the country, are
    "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
    side of her eye.  Flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a
    grey fedora hat.  She now turned and looked upon him in full, the
    instincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in
    her brain.
    "I didn't say that," she said.
    "Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air
    of mistake, "I thought you did."
    Here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing
    house--a class which at that time was first being dubbed by the
    slang of the day "drummers." He came within the meaning of a
    still newer term, which had sprung into general use among
    Americans in 1880, and which concisely expressed the thought of
    one whose dress or manners are calculated to elicit the
    admiration of susceptible young women--a "masher."  His suit was
    of a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time,
    but since become familiar as a business suit.  The low crotch of
    the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes.
    From his coat sleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same
    pattern, fastened with large, gold plate buttons, set with the
    common yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes."  His fingers bore
    several rings--one, the ever-enduring heavy seal--and from his
    vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was suspended
    the secret insignia of the Order of Elks.  The whole suit was
    rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan
    shoes, highly polished, and the grey fedora hat.  He was, for the
    order of intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had
    to recommend him, you may be sure was not lost upon Carrie, in
    this, her first glance.
    Lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put
    down some of the most striking characteristics of his most
    successful manner and method.  Good clothes, of course, were the
    first essential, the things without which he was nothing.  A
    strong physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the
    feminine, was the next.  A mind free of any consideration of the
    problems or forces of the world and actuated not by greed, but an
    insatiable love of variable pleasure.  His method was always
    simple.  Its principal element was daring, backed, of course, by
    an intense desire and admiration for the sex.  Let him meet with
    a young woman once and he would approach her with an air of
    kindly familiarity, not unmixed with pleading, which would result
    in most cases in a tolerant acceptance.  If she showed 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.  If
    he visited a department store it was to lounge familiarly over
    the counter and ask some leading questions.  In more exclusive
    circles, on the train or in waiting stations, he went slower.  If
    some seemingly vulnerable object appeared he was all attention--
    to pass the compliments of the day, to lead the way to the parlor
    car, carrying her grip, or, failing that, to take a seat next her
    with the hope of being able to court her to her destination.
    Pillows, books, a footstool, the shade lowered; all these figured
    in the things which he could do.  If, when she reached her
    destination he did not alight and 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.
    No matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly
    comprehends.  There is an indescribably faint line in the matter
    of man's apparel which somehow divides for her those who are
    worth glancing at and those who are not.  Once an individual has
    passed this faint line on the way downward he will get no glance
    from her.  There is another line at which the dress of a man will
    cause her to study her own. This line the individual at her elbow
    now marked for Carrie.  She became conscious of an inequality.
    Her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape trimmings,
    now seemed to her shabby.  She felt the worn state of her shoes.
    "Let's see," he went on, "I know quite a number of people in your
    town.  Morgenroth the clothier and Gibson the dry goods man."
    "Oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings
    their show windows had cost her.
    At last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly.
    In a few minutes he had come about into her seat.  He talked of
    sales of clothing, his travels, Chicago, and the amusements of
    that city.
    "If you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. Have you
    "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'll like that."
    There was a little ache in her fancy of all he described.  Her
    insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly
    affected her.  She realised that hers was not to be a round of
    pleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the
    material prospect he set forth.  There was something satisfactory
    in the attention of this individual with his good clothes.  She
    could not help smiling as he told her of some popular actress of
    whom she reminded him.  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
    at one turn of the now easy conversation.
    "I don't know," said Carrie vaguely--a flash vision of the
    possibility 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.
    He recognised the indescribable thing that made up for
    fascination and beauty in her.  She realised that she was of
    interest to him from the one standpoint which a woman both
    delights in and fears. Her manner was simple, though for the very
    reason that she had not yet learned the many little affectations
    with which women conceal their true feelings.  Some things she
    did appeared bold.  A clever companion--had she ever had one--
    would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so
    "Why do you ask?" she said.
    "Well, I'm going to be there several weeks.  I'm going to study
    stock at our place and get new samples.  I might show you
    "I don't know whether you can or not.  I mean I don't know
    whether I can.  I shall be living with my sister, and----"
    "Well, if she minds, we'll fix that."  He took out his pencil and
    a little pocket note-book as if it were all settled.  "What is
    your address there?"
    She fumbled her purse which contained the address slip.
    He reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse.  It
    was filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of
    greenbacks.  It impressed her deeply. Such a purse had never been
    carried by any one attentive to her.  Indeed, an experienced
    traveller, a brisk man of the world, had never come within such
    close range before.  The purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart
    new suit, and the air 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 he might do.
    He took out a neat business card, on which was engraved Bartlett,
    Caryoe & Company, and down in the left-hand corner, Chas. H.
    "That's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching
    his name.  "It's pronounced Drew-eh.  Our family was French, on
    my father's side."
    She looked at it while he put up his purse.  Then he got out a
    letter from 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 be connected with such a place, and he made her
    feel that way.
    "What is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to
    She looked at his hand.
    "Carrie Meeber," she said slowly.  "Three hundred and fifty-four
    West Van Buren Street, care S. C. Hanson."
    He wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "You'll
    be at 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
    volumes we mean.  Little audible links, they are, chaining
    together great inaudible feelings and purposes.  Here were these
    two, bandying little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards,
    and both unconscious of how inarticulate all their real feelings
    were.  Neither was wise enough to be sure of the working of the
    mind of the other.  He could not tell how his luring succeeded.
    She could not realise that she was drifting, until he secured her
    address.  Now she felt that she had yielded something--he, that
    he had gained a victory.  Already they felt that they were
    somehow associated.  Already he took control in directing the
    conversation.  His words were easy.  Her manner was relaxed.
    They were nearing Chicago.  Signs were everywhere numerous.
    Trains flashed by them.  Across wide stretches of flat, open
    prairie they could see lines of telegraph poles stalking across
    the fields toward the great city.  Far away were indications of
    suburban towns, some big smokestacks towering high in the air.
    Frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the
    open fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the
    approaching army of homes.
    To the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly
    untravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is a
    wonderful thing.  Particularly if it be evening--that mystic
    period between the glare and gloom of the world when life is
    changing from one sphere or condition to another.  Ah, the
    promise of the night.  What does it not hold for the weary!  What
    old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated!  Says the soul
    of the toiler to itself, "I shall soon be free.  I shall be in
    the ways and the hosts of the merry.  The streets, the lamps, the
    lighted chamber set for dining, are for me.  The theatre, the
    halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song--these
    are mine in the night."  Though all humanity be still enclosed in
    the shops, the thrill runs abroad.  It is in the air.  The
    dullest feel something which they may not always express or
    describe.  It is the lifting of the burden of toil.
    Sister Carrie gazed out of the window.  Her companion, affected
    by her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some
    interest in the city and pointed out its marvels.
    "This is Northwest Chicago," said Drouet.  "This is the Chicago
    River," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the
    huge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted
    banks.  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 of terror.  The fact that she was alone, away from home,
    rushing into a great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell.
    She could not help but feel a little choked for breath--a little
    sick as her heart beat so fast.  She half closed her eyes and
    tried to think it was nothing, that Columbia 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 and clang of life.  She began to gather up her poor
    little grip and closed her hand firmly upon her purse.  Drouet
    arose, kicked his legs to straighten his trousers, and seized his
    clean yellow grip.
    "I suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said.  "Let
    me carry your grip."
    "Oh, no," she said.  "I'd rather you wouldn't.  I'd rather you
    wouldn't be with me when I meet my sister."
    "All right," he said in all kindness.  "I'll be near, though, in
    case she isn't here, and take you out there safely."
    "You're so kind," said Carrie, feeling the goodness of such
    attention in her strange situation.
    "Chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long.  They
    were under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were
    already beginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about and
    the train moving at a snail's pace.  The people in the car were
    all up and crowding 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.  A
    lean-faced, rather commonplace woman recognised Carrie on the
    platform and hurried forward.
    "Why, Sister Carrie!" she began, and there was embrace of
    Carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once.
    Amid all the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality
    taking her by 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,
    and mother?"
    Carrie answered, but was looking away.  Down the aisle, toward
    the gate leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood
    Drouet.  He was looking back.  When he saw that she saw him and
    was safe with her sister he turned to go, sending back the shadow
    of a smile.  Only Carrie saw it.  She felt something lost to her
    when he moved away.  When he disappeared she felt his absence
    thoroughly.  With her sister she was much alone, a lone figure in
    a tossing, thoughtless sea.
    Chapter II
    Minnie's flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were then
    being called, was in a part of West Van Buren Street inhabited by
    families of labourers and clerks, men who had come, and were
    still coming, with the rush of population pouring in at the rate
    of 50,000 a year. It was on the third floor, the front windows
    looking down into the street, where, at night, the lights of
    grocery stores were shining and children were playing. To Carrie,
    the sound of the little bells upon the horse-cars, as they
    tinkled in and out of hearing, was as pleasing as it was novel.
    She gazed into the lighted street when Minnie brought her into
    the front room, and wondered at the sounds, the movement, the
    murmur of the vast city which stretched for miles and miles in
    every direction.
    Mrs. Hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave Carrie the
    baby and proceeded to get supper.  Her husband asked a few
    questions and sat down to read the evening paper.  He was a
    silent man, American born, of a Swede father, and now employed as
    a cleaner of refrigerator cars at the stock-yards.  To him the
    presence or absence of his wife's sister was a matter of
    indifference.  Her personal appearance did not affect him one way
    or the other.  His one observation to the point was concerning
    the chances of work in Chicago.
    "It's a big place," he said.  "You can get in somewhere in a few
    days.  Everybody does."
    It had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get
    work and pay her board.  He was of a clean, saving disposition,
    and had already paid a number of monthly instalments on two lots
    far out on the West Side.  His ambition was some day to build a
    house on them.
    In the interval which marked the preparation of the meal Carrie
    found time to study the flat.  She had some slight gift of
    observation and that sense, so rich in every woman--intuition.
    She felt the drag of a lean and narrow life.  The walls of the
    rooms were discordantly papered.  The floors were covered with
    matting and the hall laid with a thin rag carpet.  One could see
    that the furniture was of that poor, hurriedly patched together
    quality sold by the instalment houses.
    She sat with Minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it
    began to cry.  Then she walked and sang to it, until Hanson,
    disturbed in his reading, came and took it.  A pleasant side to
    his nature came out here.  He was patient.  One could see that he
    was very much wrapped up in his offspring.
    "Now, now," he said, walking.  "There, there," and there was a
    certain Swedish accent noticeable in his voice.
    "You'll want to see the city first, won't you?" said Minnie, when
    they were eating.  "Well, we'll go out Sunday and see Lincoln
    Carrie noticed that Hanson had said nothing to this. He seemed to
    be thinking of something else.
    "Well," she said, "I think I'll look around tomorrow. I've got
    Friday and Saturday, and it won't be any trouble.  Which way is
    the business part?"
    Minnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of the
    conversation to himself.
    "It's that way," he said, pointing east.  "That's east."  Then he
    went off into the longest speech he had yet indulged in,
    concerning the lay of Chicago.  "You'd better look in those big
    manufacturing houses along Franklin Street and just the other
    side of the river," he concluded.  "Lots of girls work there.
    You could get home easy, too.  It isn't very far."
    Carrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighbourhood.  The
    latter talked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew
    about it, while Hanson concerned himself with the baby.  Finally
    he jumped up and handed the child to his wife.
    "I've got to get up early in the morning, so I'll go to bed," and
    off he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the
    hall, for the night.
    "He works way down at the stock-yards," explained Minnie, "so
    he's got to get up at half-past five."
    "What time do you get up to get breakfast?" asked Carrie.
    "At about twenty minutes of five."
    Together they finished the labour of the day, Carrie washing the
    dishes while Minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed.
    Minnie's manner was one of trained industry, and Carrie could see
    that it was a steady round of toil with her.
    She began to see that her relations with Drouet would have to be
    abandoned.  He could not come here.  She read from the manner of
    Hanson, in the subdued air of Minnie, and, indeed, the whole
    atmosphere of the flat, a settled opposition to anything save a
    conservative round of toil.  If Hanson sat every evening in the
    front room and read his paper, if he went to bed at nine, and
    Minnie a little later, what would they expect of her?  She saw
    that she would first need to get work and establish herself on a
    paying basis before she could think of having company of any
    sort.  Her little flirtation with Drouet seemed now an
    extraordinary thing.
    "No," she said to herself, "he can't come here."
    She asked Minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel in
    the dining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got
    out Drouet's card and wrote him.
    "I cannot have you call on me here.  You will have to wait until
    you hear from me again.  My sister's place is so small."
    She troubled herself over what else to put in the letter.  She
    wanted to make some reference to their relations upon the train,
    but was too timid.  She concluded by thanking him for his
    kindness in a crude way, then puzzled over the formality of
    signing her name, and finally decided upon the severe, winding up
    with a "Very truly," which she subsequently changed to
    "Sincerely."  She scaled and addressed the letter, and going in
    the front room, the alcove of which contained her bed, drew the
    one small rocking-chair up to the open window, and sat looking
    out upon the night and streets in silent wonder.  Finally,
    wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in her
    chair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for
    the night and went to bed.
    When she awoke at eight the next morning, Hanson had gone.  Her
    sister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-
    room, sewing.  She worked, after dressing, to arrange a little
    breakfast for herself, and then advised with Minnie as to which
    way to look. The latter had changed considerably since Carrie had
    seen her.  She was now a thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-
    seven, with ideas of life coloured by her husband's, and fast
    hardening into narrower conceptions of pleasure and duty than had
    ever been hers in a thoroughly circumscribed youth.  She had
    invited Carrie, not because she longed for her presence, but
    because the latter was dissatisfied at home, and could probably
    get work and pay her board here.  She was pleased to see her in a
    way but reflected her husband's point of view in the matter of
    work.  Anything was good enough so long as it paid--say, five
    dollars a week to begin with.  A shop girl was the destiny
    prefigured for the newcomer.  She would get in one of the great
    shops and do well enough until--well, until something happened.
    Neither of them knew exactly what.  They did not figure on
    promotion.  They did not exactly count on marriage.  Things would
    go on, though, in a dim kind of way until the better thing would
    eventuate, and Carrie would be rewarded for coming and toiling in
    the city. It was under such auspicious circumstances that she
    started out this morning to look for work.
    Before following her in her round of seeking, let us look at the
    sphere in which her future was to lie.  In 1889 Chicago had the
    peculiar qualifications of growth which made such adventuresome
    pilgrimages even on the part of young girls plausible.  Its many
    and growing commercial opportunities gave it widespread fame,
    which made of it a giant magnet, drawing to itself, from all
    quarters, the hopeful and the hopeless--those who had their
    fortune yet to make and those whose fortunes and affairs had
    reached a disastrous climax elsewhere.  It was a city of over
    500,000, with the ambition, the daring, the activity of a
    metropolis of a million.  Its streets and houses were already
    scattered over an area of seventy-five square miles.  Its
    population was not so much thriving upon established commerce as
    upon the industries which prepared for the arrival of others. The
    sound of the hammer engaged upon the erection of new structures
    was everywhere heard.  Great industries were moving in.  The huge
    railroad corporations which had long before recognised the
    prospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of land for
    transfer and shipping purposes.  Street-car lines had been
    extended far out into the open country in anticipation of rapid
    growth.  The city had laid miles and miles of streets and sewers
    through regions where, perhaps, one solitary house stood out
    alone--a pioneer of the populous ways to be.  There were regions
    open to the sweeping winds and rain, which were yet lighted
    throughout the night with long, blinking lines of gas-lamps,
    fluttering in the wind.  Narrow board walks extended out, passing
    here a house, and there a store, at far intervals, eventually
    ending on the open prairie.
    In the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping
    district, to which the uninformed seeker for work usually
    drifted.  It was a characteristic of Chicago then, and one not
    generally shared by other cities, that individual firms of any
    pretension occupied individual buildings.  The presence of ample
    ground made this possible.  It gave an imposing appearance to
    most of the wholesale houses, whose offices were upon the ground
    floor and in plain view of the street.  The large plates of
    window glass, now so common, were then rapidly coming into use,
    and gave to the ground floor offices a distinguished and
    prosperous look.  The casual wanderer could see as he passed a
    polished array of office fixtures, much frosted glass, clerks
    hard at work, and genteel businessmen in "nobby" suits and clean
    linen lounging about or sitting in groups.  Polished brass or
    nickel signs at the square stone entrances announced the firm and
    the nature of the business in rather neat and reserved terms.
    The entire metropolitan centre possessed a high and mighty air
    calculated to overawe and abash the common applicant, and to make
    the gulf between poverty and success seem both wide and deep.
    Into this important commercial region the timid Carrie went.  She
    walked east along Van Buren Street through a region of lessening
    importance, until it deteriorated into a mass of shanties and
    coal-yards, and finally verged upon the river.  She walked
    bravely forward, led by an honest desire to find employment and
    delayed at every step by the interest of the unfolding scene, and
    a sense of helplessness amid so much evidence of power and force
    which she did not understand.  These vast buildings, what were
    they?  These strange energies and huge interests, for what
    purposes were they there?  She could have understood the meaning
    of a little stone-cutter's yard at Columbia City, carving little
    pieces of marble for individual use, but when the yards of some
    huge stone corporation came into view, filled with spur tracks
    and flat cars, transpierced by docks from the river and traversed
    overhead by immense trundling cranes of wood and steel, it lost
    all significance in her little world.
    It was so with the vast railroad yards, with the crowded array of
    vessels she saw at the river, and the huge factories over the
    way, lining the water's edge. Through the open windows she could
    see the figures of men and women in working aprons, moving busily
    about. The great streets were wall-lined mysteries to her; the
    vast offices, strange mazes which concerned far-off individuals
    of importance.  She could only think of people connected with
    them as counting money, dressing magnificently, and riding in
    carriages.  What they dealt in, how they laboured, to what end it
    all came, she had only the vaguest conception.  It was all
    wonderful, all vast, all far removed, and she sank in spirit
    inwardly and fluttered feebly at the heart as she thought of
    entering any one of these mighty concerns and asking for
    something to do--something that she could do--anything.
    Chapter III
    Once across the river and into the wholesale district, she
    glanced about her for some likely door at which to apply.  As she
    contemplated the wide windows and imposing signs, she became
    conscious of being gazed upon and understood for what she was--a
    wage-seeker. She had never done this thing before, and lacked
    courage.  To avoid a certain indefinable shame she felt at being
    caught spying about for a position, she quickened her steps and
    assumed an air of indifference supposedly common to one upon an
    errand.  In this way she passed many manufacturing and wholesale
    houses without once glancing in.  At last, after several blocks
    of walking, she felt that this would not do, and began to look
    about again, though without relaxing her pace.  A little way on
    she saw a great door which, for some reason, attracted her
    attention.  It was ornamented by a small brass sign, and seemed
    to be the entrance to a vast hive of six or seven floors.
    "Perhaps," she thought, "they may want some one," and crossed
    over to enter.  When she came within a score of feet of the
    desired goal, she saw through the window a young man in a grey
    checked suit.  That he had anything to do with the concern, she
    could not tell, but because he happened to be looking in her
    direction her weakening heart misgave her and she hurried by, too
    overcome with shame to enter.  Over the way stood a great six-
    story structure, labelled Storm and King, which she viewed with
    rising hope.  It was a wholesale dry goods concern and employed
    women.  She could see them moving about now and then upon the
    upper floors. This place she decided to enter, no matter what.
    She crossed over and walked directly toward the entrance. As she
    did so, two men came out and paused in the door. A telegraph
    messenger in blue dashed past her and up the few steps that led
    to the entrance and disappeared. Several pedestrians out of the
    hurrying throng which filled the sidewalks passed about her as
    she paused, hesitating.  She looked helplessly around, and then,
    seeing herself observed, retreated.  It was too difficult a task.
    She could not go past them.
    So severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves.  Her feet carried
    her mechanically forward, every foot of her progress being a
    satisfactory portion of a flight which she gladly made.  Block
    after block passed by. Upon streetlamps at the various corners
    she read names such as Madison, Monroe, La Salle, Clark,
    Dearborn, State, and still she went, her feet beginning to tire
    upon the broad stone flagging.  She was pleased in part that the
    streets were bright and clean.  The morning sun, shining down
    with steadily increasing warmth, made the shady side of the
    streets pleasantly cool. She looked at the blue sky overhead with
    more realisation of its charm than had ever come to her before.
    Her cowardice began to trouble her in a way.  She turned back,
    resolving to hunt up Storm and King and enter.  On the way, she
    encountered a great wholesale shoe company, through the broad
    plate windows of which she saw an enclosed executive department,
    hidden by frosted glass.  Without this enclosure, but just within
    the street entrance, sat a grey-haired gentleman at a small
    table, with a large open ledger before him.  She walked by this
    institution several times hesitating, but, finding herself
    unobserved, faltered past the screen door and stood humble
    "Well, young lady," observed the old gentleman, looking at her
    somewhat kindly, "what is it you wish?"
    "I am, that is, do you--I mean, do you need any help?" she
    "Not just at present," he answered smiling.  "Not just at
    present.  Come in some time next week.  Occasionally we need some
    She received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out.  The
    pleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her.  She had
    expected that it would be more difficult, that something cold and
    harsh would be said--she knew not what.  That she had not been
    put to shame and made to feel her unfortunate position, seemed
    Somewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure.
    It was a clothing company, and more people were in evidence--
    well-dressed men of forty and more, surrounded by brass railings.
    An office boy approached her.
    "Who is it you wish to see?" he asked.
    "I want to see the manager," she said.
    He ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who were
    conferring together.  One of these came towards her.
    "Well?" he said coldly.  The greeting drove all courage from her
    at once.
    "Do you need any help?" she stammered.
    "No," he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel.
    She went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging the
    door for her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd.  It was a
    severe setback to her recently pleased mental state.
    Now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and
    there, seeing one great company after another, but finding no
    courage to prosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with
    it hunger.  She hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered,
    but was disturbed to find that the prices were exorbitant for the
    size of her purse.  A bowl of soup was all that she could afford,
    and, with this quickly eaten, she went out again.  It restored
    her strength somewhat and made her moderately bold to pursue the
    In walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she
    again encountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time
    managed to get in.  Some gentlemen were conferring close at hand,
    but took no notice of her.  She was left standing, gazing
    nervously upon the floor.  When the limit of her distress had
    been nearly reached, she was beckoned to by a man at one of the
    many desks within the near-by railing.
    "Who is it you wish to see?" he required.
    "Why, any one, if you please," she answered.  "I am looking for
    something to do."
    "Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus," he returned.  "Sit down," and
    he pointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall.  He went on
    leisurely writing, until after a time a short, stout gentleman
    came in from the street.
    "Mr. McManus," called the man at the desk, "this young woman
    wants to see you."
    The short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose
    and came forward.
    "What can I do for you, miss?" he inquired, surveying her
    "I want to know if I can get a position," she inquired.
    "As what?" he asked.
    "Not as anything in particular," she faltered.
    "Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods
    business?" he questioned.
    "No, sir," she replied.
    "Are you a stenographer or typewriter?"
    "No, sir."
    "Well, we haven't anything here," he said.  "We employ only
    experienced help."
    She began to step backward toward the door, when something about
    her plaintive face attracted him.
    "Have you ever worked at anything before?" he inquired.
    "No, sir," she said.
    "Well, now, it's hardly possible that you would get anything to
    do in a wholesale house of this kind.  Have you tried the
    department stores?"
    She acknowledged that she had not.
    "Well, if I were you," he said, looking at her rather genially,
    "I would try the department stores.  They often need young women
    as clerks."
    "Thank you," she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of
    friendly interest.
    "Yes," he said, as she moved toward the door, "you try the
    department stores," and off he went.
    At that time the department store was in its earliest form of
    successful operation, and there were not many. The first three in
    the United States, established about 1884, were in Chicago.
    Carrie was familiar with the names of several through the
    advertisements in the "Daily News," and now proceeded to seek
    them.  The words of Mr. McManus had somehow managed to restore
    her courage, which had fallen low, and she dared to hope that
    this new line would offer her something.  Some time she spent in
    wandering up and down, thinking to encounter the buildings by
    chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting a hard but
    needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the semblance
    of search, without the reality, gives.  At last she inquired of a
    police officer, and was directed to proceed "two blocks up,"
    where she would find "The Fair."
    The nature of these vast retail combinations, should they ever
    permanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in the
    commercial history of our nation.  Such a flowering out of a
    modest trade principle the world had never witnessed up to that
    time.  They were along the line of the most effective retail
    organisation, with hundreds of stores coordinated into one and
    laid out upon the most imposing and economic basis.  They were
    handsome, bustling, successful affairs, with a host of clerks and
    a swarm of patrons.  Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much
    affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress goods,
    stationery, and jewelry.  Each separate counter was a show place
    of dazzling interest and attraction.  She could not help feeling
    the claim of each trinket and valuable upon her personally, and
    yet she did not stop.  There was nothing there which she could
    not have used--nothing which she did not long to own.  The dainty
    slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled skirts and
    petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all touched
    her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact that not
    any of these things were in the range of her purchase.  She was a
    work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average
    employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a
    It must not be thought that any one could have mistaken her for a
    nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold,
    calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not.  But
    women are peculiarly sensitive to their adornment.
    Not only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new
    and pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a
    touch at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her,
    brushing past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves
    eagerly enlisted in the materials which the store contained.
    Carrie was not familiar with the appearance of her more fortunate
    sisters of the city.  Neither had she before known the nature and
    appearance of the shop girls with whom she now compared poorly.
    They were pretty in the main, some even handsome, with an air of
    independence and indifference which added, in the case of the
    more favoured, a certain piquancy.  Their clothes were neat, in
    many instances fine, and wherever she encountered the eye of one
    it was only to recognise in it a keen analysis of her own
    position--her individual shortcomings of dress and that shadow of
    manner which she thought must hang about her and make clear to
    all who and what she was.  A flame of envy lighted in her heart.
    She realised in a dim way how much the city held--wealth,
    fashion, ease--every adornment for women, and she longed for
    dress and beauty with a whole heart.
    On the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after
    some inquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girls
    ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of that
    self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city
    lends; girls who scrutinised her in a painful manner.  After a
    wait of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she was called in
    "Now," said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a
    roll-top desk near the window, "have you ever worked in any other
    "No, sir," said Carrie.
    "Oh, you haven't," he said, eyeing her keenly.
    "No, sir," she replied.
    "Well, we prefer young women just now with some experience.  I
    guess we can't use you."
    Carrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether the
    interview had terminated.
    "Don't wait!" he exclaimed.  "Remember we are very busy here."
    Carrie began to move quickly to the door.
    "Hold on," he said, calling her back.  "Give me your name and
    address.  We want girls occasionally."
    When she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcely
    restrain the tears.  It was not so much the particular rebuff
    which she had just experienced, but the whole abashing trend of
    the day.  She was tired and nervous.  She abandoned the thought
    of appealing to the other department stores and now wandered on,
    feeling a certain safety and relief in mingling with the crowd.
    In her indifferent wandering she turned into Jackson Street, not
    far from the river, and was keeping her way along the south side
    of that imposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper,
    written on with marking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted
    her attention. It read, "Girls wanted--wrappers & stitchers."
    She hesitated a moment, then entered.
    The firm of Speigelheim & Co., makers of boys' caps, occupied one
    floor of the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet
    in depth.  It was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest
    portions having incandescent lights, filled with machines and
    work benches.  At the latter laboured quite a company of girls
    and some men.  The former were drabby-looking creatures, stained
    in face with oil and dust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton
    dresses and shod with more or less worn shoes.  Many of them had
    their sleeves rolled up, revealing bare arms, and in some cases,
    owing to the heat, their dresses were open at the neck.  They
    were a fair type of nearly the lowest order of shop-girls--
    careless, slouchy, and more or less pale from confinement.  They
    were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, and strong in
    daring and slang.
    Carrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that
    she did not want to work here.  Aside from making her
    uncomfortable by sidelong glances, no one paid her the least
    attention.  She waited until the whole department was aware of
    her presence.  Then some word was sent around, and a foreman, in
    an apron and shirt sleeves, the latter rolled up to his
    shoulders, approached.
    "Do you want to see me?" he asked.
    "Do you need any help?" said Carrie, already learning directness
    of address.
    "Do you know how to stitch caps?" he returned.
    "No, sir," she replied.
    "Have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?" he
    She answered that she had not.
    "Well," said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we do
    need a stitcher.  We like experienced help, though.  We've hardly
    got time to break people in."  He paused and looked away out of
    the window.  "We might, though, put you at finishing," he
    concluded reflectively.
    "How much do you pay a week?" ventured Carrie, emboldened by a
    certain softness in the man's manner and his simplicity of
    "Three and a half," he answered.
    "Oh," she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed
    her thoughts to die without expression.
    "We're not exactly in need of anybody," he went on vaguely,
    looking her over as one would a package.  "You can come on Monday
    morning, though," he added, "and I'll put you to work."
    "Thank you," said Carrie weakly.
    "If you come, bring an apron," he added.
    He walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never so
    much as inquiring her name.
    While the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the
    price paid per week operated very much as a blow to Carrie's
    fancy, the fact that work of any kind was offered after so rude a
    round of experience was gratifying.  She could not begin to
    believe that she would take the place, modest as her aspirations
    were. She had been used to better than that.  Her mere experience
    and the free out-of-door life of the country caused her nature to
    revolt at such confinement.  Dirt had never been her share.  Her
    sister's flat was clean. This place was grimy and low, the girls
    were careless and hardened.  They must be bad-minded and hearted,
    she imagined.  Still, a place had been offered her.  Surely
    Chicago was not so bad if she could find one place in one day.
    She might find another and better later.
    Her subsequent experiences were not of a reassuring nature,
    however.  From all the more pleasing or imposing places she was
    turned away abruptly with the most chilling formality.  In others
    where she applied only the experienced were required.  She met
    with painful rebuffs, the most trying of which had been in a
    manufacturing cloak house, where she had gone to the fourth floor
    to inquire.
    "No, no," said the foreman, a rough, heavily built individual,
    who looked after a miserably lighted workshop, "we don't want any
    one.  Don't come here."
    With the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, and
    her strength.  She had been astonishingly persistent.  So earnest
    an effort was well deserving of a better reward.  On every hand,
    to her fatigued senses, the great business portion grew larger,
    harder, more stolid in its indifference.  It seemed as if it was
    all closed to her, that the struggle was too fierce for her to
    hope to do anything at all.  Men and women hurried by in long,
    shifting lines.  She felt the flow of the tide of effort and
    interest--felt her own helplessness without quite realising the
    wisp on the tide that she was.  She cast about vainly for some
    possible place to apply, but found no door which she had the
    courage to enter.  It would be the same thing all over.  The old
    humiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial.  Sick at heart
    and in body, she turned to the west, the direction of Minnie's
    flat, which she had now fixed in mind, and began that wearisome,
    baffled retreat which the seeker for employment at nightfall too
    often makes.  In passing through Fifth Avenue, south towards Van
    Buren Street, where she intended to take a car, she passed the
    door of a large wholesale shoe house, through the plate-glass
    windows of which she could see a middle-aged gentleman sitting at
    a small desk.  One of those forlorn impulses which often grow out
    of a fixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting of a baffled and
    uprooted growth of ideas, seized upon her.  She walked
    deliberately through the door and up to the gentleman, who looked
    at her weary face with partially awakened interest.
    "What is it?" he said.
    "Can you give me something to do?" said Carrie.
    "Now, I really don't know," he said kindly.  "What kind of work
    is it you want--you're not a typewriter, are you?"
    "Oh, no," answered Carrie.
    "Well, we only employ book-keepers and typewriters here.  You
    might go around to the side and inquire upstairs.  They did want
    some help upstairs a few days ago.  Ask for Mr. Brown."
    She hastened around to the side entrance and was taken up by the
    elevator to the fourth floor.
    "Call Mr. Brown, Willie," said the elevator man to a boy near by.
    Willie went off and presently returned with the information that
    Mr. Brown said she should sit down and that he would be around in
    a little while.
    It was a portion of the stock room which gave no idea of the
    general character of the place, and Carrie could form no opinion
    of the nature of the work.
    "So you want something to do," said Mr. Brown, after he inquired
    concerning the nature of her errand.  "Have you ever been
    employed in a shoe factory before?"
    "No, sir," said Carrie.
    "What is your name?" he inquired, and being informed, "Well, I
    don't know as I have anything for you.  Would you work for four
    and a half a week?"
    Carrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it was
    considerable.  She had not expected that he would offer her less
    than six.  She acquiesced, however, and he took her name and
    "Well," he said, finally, "you report here at eight o'clock
    Monday morning.  I think I can find something for you to do."
    He left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found
    something at last.  Instantly the blood crept warmly over her
    body.  Her nervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy
    street and discovered a new atmosphere.  Behold, the throng was
    moving with a lightsome step.  She noticed that men and women
    were smiling.  Scraps of conversation and notes of laughter
    floated to her.  The air was light.  People were already pouring
    out of the buildings, their labour ended for the day.  She
    noticed that they were pleased, and thoughts of her sister's home
    and the meal that would be awaiting her quickened her steps.  She
    hurried on, tired perhaps, but no longer weary of foot.  What
    would not Minnie say!  Ah, the long winter in Chicago--the
    lights, the crowd, the amusement!  This was a great, pleasing
    metropolis after all.  Her new firm was a goodly institution.
    Its windows were of huge plate glass.  She could probably do well
    there.  Thoughts of Drouet returned--of the things he had told
    her.  She now felt that life was better, that it was livelier,
    sprightlier.  She boarded a car in the best of spirits, feeling
    her blood still flowing pleasantly.  She would live in Chicago,
    her mind kept saying to itself.  She would have a better time
    than she had ever had before--she would be happy.
    Chapter IV
    For the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flown
    Her fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements which
    would have been much more becoming had she been cradled a child
    of fortune.  With ready will and quick mental selection she
    scattered her meagre four-fifty per week with a swift and
    graceful hand. Indeed, as she sat in her rocking-chair these
    several evenings before going to bed and looked out upon the
    pleasantly lighted street, this money cleared for its prospective
    possessor the way to every joy and every bauble which the heart
    of woman may desire.  "I will have a fine time," she thought.
    Her sister Minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations,
    though they exhausted the markets of delight.  She was too busy
    scrubbing the kitchen woodwork and calculating the purchasing
    power of eighty cents for Sunday's dinner.  When Carrie had
    returned home, flushed with her first success and ready, for all
    her weariness, to discuss the now interesting events which led up
    to her achievement, the former had merely smiled approvingly and
    inquired whether she would have to spend any of it for car fare.
    This consideration had not entered in before, and it did not now
    for long affect the glow of Carrie's enthusiasm.  Disposed as she
    then was to calculate upon that vague basis which allows the
    subtraction of one sum from another without any perceptible
    diminution, she was happy.
    When Hanson came home at seven o'clock, he was inclined to be a
    little crusty--his usual demeanour before supper.  This never
    showed so much in anything he said as in a certain solemnity of
    countenance and the silent manner in which he slopped about.  He
    had a pair of yellow carpet slippers which he enjoyed wearing,
    and these he would immediately substitute for his solid pair of
    shoes.  This, and washing his face with the aid of common washing
    soap until it glowed a shiny red, constituted his only
    preparation for his evening meal. He would then get his evening
    paper and read in silence.
    For a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, and
    so affected Carrie.  Indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of
    the flat, as such things are inclined to do, and gave to his
    wife's mind its subdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid
    taciturn replies. Under the influence of Carrie's announcement he
    brightened up somewhat.
    "You didn't lose any time, did you?" he remarked, smiling a
    "No," returned Carrie with a touch of pride.
    He asked her one or two more questions and then turned to play
    with the baby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again
    by Minnie at the table.
    Carrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level of
    observation which prevailed in the flat.
    "It seems to be such a large company," she said, at one place.
    "Great big plate-glass windows and lots of clerks.  The man I saw
    said they hired ever so many people."
    "It's not very hard to get work now," put in Hanson, "if you look
    Minnie, under the warming influence of Carrie's good spirits and
    her husband's somewhat conversational mood, began to tell Carrie
    of some of the well-known things to see--things the enjoyment of
    which cost nothing.
    "You'd like to see Michigan Avenue.  There are such fine houses.
    It is such a fine street."
    "Where is H. R. Jacob's?" interrupted Carrie, mentioning one of
    the theatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the
    "Oh, it's not very far from here," answered Minnie. "It's in
    Halstead Street, right up here."
    "How I'd like to go there.  I crossed Halstead Street to-day,
    didn't I?"
    At this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. Thoughts
    are a strangely permeating factor.  At her suggestion of going to
    the theatre, the unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of
    those things which involved the expenditure of money--shades of
    feeling which arose in the mind of Hanson and then in Minnie--
    slightly affected the atmosphere of the table.  Minnie answered
    "yes," but Carrie could feel that going to the theatre was poorly
    advocated here.  The subject was put off for a little while until
    Hanson, through with his meal, took his paper and went into the
    front room.
    When they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freer
    conversation, Carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they
    worked at the dishes.
    "I should like to walk up and see Halstead Street, if it isn't
    too far," said Carrie, after a time.  "Why don't we go to the
    theatre to-night?"
    "Oh, I don't think Sven would want to go to-night," returned
    Minnie.  "He has to get up so early."
    "He wouldn't mind--he'd enjoy it," said Carrie.
    "No, he doesn't go very often," returned Minnie.
    "Well, I'd like to go," rejoined Carrie.  "Let's you and me go."
    Minnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go--
    for that point was already negatively settled with her--but upon
    some means of diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other
    "We'll go some other time," she said at last, finding no ready
    means of escape.
    Carrie sensed the root of the opposition at once.
    "I have some money," she said.  "You go with me." Minnie shook
    her head.
    "He could go along," said Carrie.
    "No," returned Minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown
    the conversation.  "He wouldn't."
    It had been several years since Minnie had seen Carrie, and in
    that time the latter's character had developed a few shades.
    Naturally timid in all things that related to her own
    advancement, and especially so when without power or resource,
    her craving for pleasure was so strong that it was the one stay
    of her nature.  She would speak for that when silent on all else.
    "Ask him," she pleaded softly.
    Minnie was thinking of the resource which Carrie's board would
    add.  It would pay the rent and would make the subject of
    expenditure a little less difficult to talk about with her
    husband.  But if Carrie was going to think of running around in
    the beginning there would be a hitch somewhere.  Unless Carrie
    submitted to a solemn round of industry and saw the need of hard
    work without longing for play, how was her coming to the city to
    profit them?  These thoughts were not those of a cold, hard
    nature at all.  They were the serious reflections of a mind which
    invariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, to such
    surroundings as its industry could make for it.
    At last she yielded enough to ask Hanson.  It was a half-hearted
    procedure without a shade of desire on her part.
    "Carrie wants us to go to the theatre," she said, looking in upon
    her husband.  Hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged
    a mild look, which said as plainly as anything: "This isn't what
    we expected."
    "I don't care to go," he returned.  "What does she want to see?"
    "H. R. Jacob's," said Minnie.
    He looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively.
    When Carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained
    a still clearer feeling of their way of life.  It weighed on her,
    but took no definite form of opposition.
    "I think I'll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs," she
    said, after a time.
    Minnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and
    went below.
    "Where has Carrie gone?" asked Hanson, coming back into the
    dining-room when he heard the door close.
    "She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs," answered
    Minnie.  "I guess she just wants to look out a while."
    "She oughtn't to be thinking about spending her money on theatres
    already, do you think?" he said.
    "She just feels a little curious, I guess," ventured Minnie.
    "Everything is so new."
    "I don't know," said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his
    forehead slightly wrinkled.
    He was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which
    a young girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie could
    contemplate such a course when she had so little, as yet, with
    which to do.
    On Saturday Carrie went out by herself--first toward the river,
    which interested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which
    was then lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which
    subsequently caused it to be made into a boulevard.  She was
    struck with the evidences of wealth, although there was, perhaps,
    not a person on the street worth more than a hundred thousand
    dollars.  She was glad to be out of the flat, because already she
    felt that it was a narrow, humdrum place, and that interest and
    joy lay elsewhere.  Her thoughts now were of a more liberal
    character, and she punctuated them with speculations as to the
    whereabouts of Drouet.  She was not sure but that he might call
    anyhow Monday night, and, while she felt a little disturbed at
    the possibility, there was, nevertheless, just the shade of a
    wish that he would.
    On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed
    herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of
    light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she
    had worn all summer at Columbia City.  Her shoes were old, and
    her necktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and
    much wearing impart.  She made a very average looking shop-girl
    with the exception of her features. These were slightly more even
    than common, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing
    It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is
    used to sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at
    home.  She gained some inkling of the character of Hanson's life
    when, half asleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six
    o'clock and saw him silently finishing his breakfast.  By the
    time she was dressed he was gone, and she, Minnie, and the baby
    ate together, the latter being just old enough to sit in a high
    chair and disturb the dishes with a spoon. Her spirits were
    greatly subdued now when the fact of entering upon strange and
    untried duties confronted her.  Only the ashes of all her fine
    fancies were remaining--ashes still concealing, nevertheless, a
    few red embers of hope.  So subdued was she by her weakening
    nerves, that she ate quite in silence going over imaginary
    conceptions of the character of the shoe company, the nature of
    the work, her employer's attitude.  She was vaguely feeling that
    she would come in contact with the great owners, that her work
    would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on.
    "Well, good luck," said Minnie, when she was ready to go.  They
    had agreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if
    she could do it every day--sixty cents a week for car fare being
    quite an item under the circumstances.
    "I'll tell you how it goes to-night," said Carrie.
    Once in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in either
    direction, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the
    small clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and
    men and women generally coming out of doors and passing about the
    neighbourhood, Carrie felt slightly reassured.  In the sunshine
    of the morning, beneath the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind
    astir, what fears, except the most desperate, can find a
    harbourage?  In the night, or the gloomy chambers of the day,
    fears and misgivings wax strong, but out in the sunlight there
    is, for a time, cessation even of the terror of death.
    Carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and
    then turned into Fifth Avenue.  The thoroughfare, in this part,
    was like a walled canon of brown stone and dark red brick.  The
    big windows looked shiny and clean.  Trucks were rumbling in
    increasing numbers; men and women, girls and boys were moving
    onward in all directions.  She met girls of her own age, who
    looked at her as if with contempt for her diffidence.  She
    wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the importance of
    knowing much in order to do anything in it at all.  Dread at her
    own inefficiency crept upon her.  She would not know how, she
    would not be quick enough.  Had not all the other places refused
    her because she did not know something or other?  She would be
    scolded, abused, ignominiously discharged.
    It was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that
    she came up to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue
    and entered the elevator.  When she stepped out on the fourth
    floor there was no one at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled
    to the ceiling. She stood, very much frightened, awaiting some
    Presently Mr. Brown came up.  He did not seem to recosnise her.
    "What is it you want?" he inquired.
    Carrie's heart sank.
    "You said I should come this morning to see about work--"
    "Oh," he interrupted.  "Um--yes.  What is your name?"
    "Carrie Meeber."
    "Yes," said he.  "You come with me."
    He led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell
    of new shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into
    the factory proper.  There was a large, low-ceiled room, with
    clacking, rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves
    and blue gingham aprons were working.  She followed him
    diffidently through the clattering automatons, keeping her eyes
    straight before her, and flushing slightly. They crossed to a far
    corner and took an elevator to the sixth floor.  Out of the array
    of machines and benches, Mr. Brown signalled a foreman.
    "This is the girl," he said, and turning to Carrie, "You go with
    him."  He then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to
    a little desk in a corner, which he used as a kind of official
    "You've never worked at anything like this before, have you?" he
    questioned, rather sternly.
    "No, sir," she answered.
    He seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but
    put down her name and then led her across to where a line of
    girls occupied stools in front of clacking machines.  On the
    shoulder of one of the girls who was punching eye-holes in one
    piece of the upper, by the aid of the machine, he put his hand.
    "You," he said, "show this girl how to do what you're doing.
    When you get through, come to me."
    The girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place.
    "It isn't hard to do," she said, bending over.  "You just take
    this so, fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine."
    She suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which
    was eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man's
    shoe, by little adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod
    at the side of the machine.  The latter jumped to the task of
    punching, with sharp, snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of
    leather out of the side of the upper, leaving the holes which
    were to hold the laces.  After observing a few times, the girl
    let her work at it alone.  Seeing that it was fairly well done,
    she went away.
    The pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her
    right, and were passed on to the girl at her left.  Carrie saw at
    once that an average speed was necessary or the work would pile
    up on her and all those below would be delayed.  She had no time
    to look about, and bent anxiously to her task.  The girls at her
    left and right realised her predicament and feelings, and, in a
    way, tried to aid her, as much as they dared, by working slower.
    At this task she laboured incessantly for some time, finding
    relief from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum,
    mechanical movement of the machine.  She felt, as the minutes
    passed, that the room was not very light.  It had a thick odour
    of fresh leather, but that did not worry her.  She felt the eyes
    of the other help upon her, and troubled lest she was not working
    fast enough.
    Once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a
    slight error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared
    before her eyes and fastened the clamp for her.  It was the
    foreman.  Her heart thumped so that she could scarcely see to go
    "Start your machine," he said, "start your machine. Don't keep
    the line waiting."
    This recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly
    breathing until the shadow moved away from behind her.  Then she
    heaved a great breath.
    As the morning wore on the room became hotter.  She felt the need
    of a breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not
    venture to stir.  The stool she sat on was without a back or
    foot-rest, and she began to feel uncomfortable.  She found, after
    a time, that her back was beginning to ache.  She twisted and
    turned from one position to another slightly different, but it
    did not ease her for long.  She was beginning to weary.
    "Stand up, why don't you?" said the girl at her right, without
    any form of introduction.  "They won't care."
    Carrie looked at her gratefully.  "I guess I will," she said.
    She stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, but
    it was a more difficult position.  Her neck and shoulders ached
    in bending over.
    The spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way.
    She did not venture to look around, but above the clack of the
    machine she could hear an occasional remark.  She could also note
    a thing or two out of the side of her eye.
    "Did you see Harry last night?" said the girl at her left,
    addressing her neighbour.
    "You ought to have seen the tie he had on.  Gee, but he was a
    "S-s-t," said the other girl, bending over her work. The first,
    silenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. The foreman passed
    slowly along, eyeing each worker distinctly.  The moment he was
    gone, the conversation was resumed again.
    "Say," began the girl at her left, "what jeh think he said?"
    "I don't know."
    "He said he saw us with Eddie Harris at Martin's last night."
    "No!"  They both giggled.
    A youth with tan-coloured hair, that needed clipping very badly,
    came shuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of
    leather findings under his left arm, and pressed against his
    stomach.  When near Carrie, he stretched out his right hand and
    gripped one girl under the arm.
    "Aw, let me go," she exclaimed angrily.  "Duffer."
    He only grinned broadly in return.
    "Rubber!" he called back as she looked after him. There was
    nothing of the gallant in him.
    Carrie at last could scarcely sit still.  Her legs began to tire
    and she wanted to get up and stretch. Would noon never come?  It
    seemed as if she had worked an entire day.  She was not hungry at
    all, but weak, and her eyes were tired, straining at the one
    point where the eye-punch came down.  The girl at the right
    noticed her squirmings and felt sorry for her.  She was
    concentrating herself too thoroughly--what she did really
    required less mental and physical strain.  There was nothing to
    be done, however.  The halves of the uppers came piling steadily
    down.  Her hands began to ache at the wrists and then in the
    fingers, and towards the last she seemed one mass of dull,
    complaining muscles, fixed in an eternal position and performing
    a single mechanical movement which became more and more
    distasteful, until as last it was absolutely nauseating.  When
    she was wondering whether the strain would ever cease, a dull-
    sounding bell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the
    end came.  In an instant there was a buzz of action and
    conversation. All the girls instantly left their stools and
    hurried away in an adjoining room, men passed through, coming
    from some department which opened on the right.  The whirling
    wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying key, until at last
    they died away in a low buzz.  There was an audible stillness, in
    which the common voice sounded strange.
    Carrie got up and sought her lunch box.  She was stiff, a little
    dizzy, and very thirsty.  On the way to the small space portioned
    off by wood, where all the wraps and lunches were kept, she
    encountered the foreman, who stared at her hard.
    "Well," he said, "did you get along all right?"
    "I think so," she replied, very respectfully.
    "Um," he replied, for want of something better, and walked on.
    Under better material conditions, this kind of work would not
    have been so bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant
    working conditions for employees had not then taken hold upon
    manufacturing companies.
    The place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather--
    a combination which, added to the stale odours of the building,
    was not pleasant even in cold weather.  The floor, though
    regularly swept every evening, presented a littered surface.  Not
    the slightest provision had been made for the comfort of the
    employees, the idea being that something was gained by giving
    them as little and making the work as hard and unremunerative as
    possible.  What we know of foot-rests, swivel-back chairs,
    dining-rooms for the girls, clean aprons and curling irons
    supplied free, and a decent cloak room, were unthought of.  The
    washrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foul places, and the
    whole atmosphere was sordid.
    Carrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of water
    from a bucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat.  The
    other girls had ranged themselves about the windows or the work-
    benches of those of the men who had gone out.  She saw no place
    which did not hold a couple or a group of girls, and being too
    timid to think of intruding herself, she sought out her machine
    and, seated upon her stool, opened her lunch on her lap.  There
    she sat listening to the chatter and comment about her.  It was,
    for the most part, silly and graced by the current slang.
    Several of the men in the room exchanged compliments with the
    girls at long range.
    "Say, Kitty," called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in
    a few feet of space near one of the windows, "are you going to
    the ball with me?"
    "Look out, Kitty," called another, "you'll jar your back hair."
    "Go on, Rubber," was her only comment.
    As Carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiar
    badinage among the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew into
    herself.  She was not used to this type, and felt that there was
    something hard and low about it all.  She feared that the young
    boys about would address such remarks to her--boys who, beside
    Drouet, seemed uncouth and ridiculous.  She made the average
    feminine distinction between clothes, putting worth, goodness,
    and distinction in a dress suit, and leaving all the unlovely
    qualities and those beneath notice in overalls and jumper.
    She was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheels
    began to whirr again.  Though wearied, she would be
    inconspicuous.  This illusion ended when another young man passed
    along the aisle and poked her indifferently in the ribs with his
    thumb.  She turned about, indignation leaping to her eyes, but he
    had gone on and only once turned to grin.  She found it difficult
    to conquer an inclination to cry.
    The girl next her noticed her state of mind.  "Don't you mind,"
    she said.  "He's too fresh."
    Carrie said nothing, but bent over her work.  She felt as though
    she could hardly endure such a life.  Her idea of work had been
    so entirely different.  All during the long afternoon she thought
    of the city outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine
    buildings.  Columbia City and the better side of her home life
    came back.  By three o'clock she was sure it must be six, and by
    four it seemed as if they had forgotten to note the hour and were
    letting all work overtime.  The foreman became a true ogre,
    prowling constantly about, keeping her tied down to her miserable
    task.  What she heard of the conversation about her only made her
    feel sure that she did not want to make friends with any of
    these.  When six o'clock came she hurried eagerly away, her arms
    aching and her limbs stiff from sitting in one position.
    As she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a young
    machine hand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her.
    "Say, Maggie," he called, "if you wait, I'll walk with you."
    It was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who was
    meant, but never turned to look.
    In the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth tried
    to make an impression on her by leering in her face.
    One young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance of
    another, grinned at her as she passed.
    "Ain't going my way, are you?" he called jocosely.
    Carrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart.  As she
    turned the corner, she saw through the great shiny window the
    small desk at which she had applied.  There were the crowds,
    hurrying with the same buzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm.  She
    felt a slight relief, but it was only at her escape.  She felt
    ashamed in the face of better dressed girls who went by.  She
    felt as though she should be better served, and her heart
    Chapter V
    Drouet did not call that evening.  After receiving the letter, he
    had laid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was
    floating around having what he considered a gay time.  On this
    particular evening he dined at "Rector's," a restaurant of some
    local fame, which occupied a basement at Clark and Monroe
    Streets. There--after he visited the resort of Fitzgerald and
    Moy's in Adams Street, opposite the imposing Federal Building.
    There he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a glass of
    plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars, one of which he
    lighted.  This to him represented in part high life--a fair
    sample of what the whole must be.  Drouet was not a drinker in
    excess. He was not a moneyed man.  He only craved the best, as
    his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed to him a part of
    the best.  Rector's, with its polished marble walls and floor,
    its profusion of lights, its show of china and silverware, and,
    above all, its reputation as a resort for actors and professional
    men, seemed to him the proper place for a successful man to go.
    He loved fine clothes, good eating, and particularly the company
    and acquaintanceship of successful men.  When dining, it was a
    source of keen satisfaction to him to know that Joseph Jefferson
    was wont to come to this same place, or that Henry E. Dixie, a
    well-known performer of the day, was then only a few tables off.
    At Rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction, for there
    one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some rich young
    "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz of
    popular commonplace conversation.
    "That's So-and-so over there," was a common remark of these
    gentlemen among themselves, particularly among those who had not
    yet reached, but hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money
    to dine here lavishly represented.
    "You don't say so," would be the reply.
    "Why, yes, didn't you know that?  Why, he's manager of the Grand
    Opera House."
    When these things would fall upon Drouet's ears, he would
    straighten himself a little more stiffly and eat with solid
    comfort.  If he had any vanity, this augmented it, and if he had
    any ambition, this stirred it.  He would be able to flash a roll
    of greenbacks too some day.  As it was, he could eat where THEY
    His preference for Fitzgerald and Moy's Adams Street place was
    another yard off the same cloth.  This was really a gorgeous
    saloon from a Chicago standpoint. Like Rector's, it was also
    ornamented with a blaze of incandescent lights, held in handsome
    chandeliers.  The floors were of brightly coloured tiles, the
    walls a composition of rich, dark, polished wood, which reflected
    the light, and coloured stucco-work, which gave the place a very
    sumptuous appearance.  The long bar was a blaze of lights,
    polished woodwork, coloured and cut glassware, and many fancy
    bottles.  It was a truly swell saloon, with rich screens, fancy
    wines, and a line of bar goods unsurpassed in the country.
    At Rector's, Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of
    Fitzgerald and Moy's.  He had been pointed out as a very
    successful and well-known man about town. Hurstwood looked the
    part, for, besides being slightly under forty, he had a good,
    stout constitution, an active manner, and a solid, substantial
    air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes, his clean
    linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his
    importance.  Drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as
    being some one worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him,
    but to visit the Adams Street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a
    drink or a cigar.
    Hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. He was
    shrewd and clever in many little things, and capable of creating
    a good impression.  His managerial position was fairly important--
    a kind of stewardship which was imposing, but lacked financial
    control.  He had risen by perseverance and industry, through long
    years of service, from the position of barkeeper in a commonplace
    saloon to his present altitude.  He had a little office in the
    place, set off in polished cherry and grill-work, where he kept,
    in a roll-top desk, the rather simple accounts of the place--
    supplies ordered and needed.  The chief executive and financial
    functions devolved upon the owners--Messrs. Fitzgerald and Moy--
    and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken in.
    For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored
    suits of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in
    his tie, a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain
    of solid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of
    the latest make and engraving.  He knew by name, and could greet
    personally with a "Well, old fellow," hundreds of actors,
    merchants, politicians, and the general run of successful
    characters about town, and it was part of his success to do so.
    He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship,
    which improved from the "How do you do?" addressed to the
    fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches, who, by long
    frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the
    "Why, old man, how are you?" which he addressed to those noted or
    rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly.
    There was a class, however, too rich, too famous, or too
    successful, with whom he could not attempt any familiarity of
    address, and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a
    grave and dignified attitude, paying them the deference which
    would win their good feeling without in the least compromising
    his own bearing and opinions.  There were, in the last place, a
    few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yet
    remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of
    good-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would
    converse longest and most seriously.  He loved to go out and have
    a good time once in a while--to go to the races, the theatres,
    the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs.  He kept a
    horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who were well
    established in a neat house on the North Side near Lincoln Park,
    and was altogether a very acceptable individual of our great
    American upper class--the first grade below the luxuriously rich.
    Hurstwood liked Drouet.  The latter's genial nature and dressy
    appearance pleased him.  He knew that Drouet was only a
    travelling salesman--and not one of many years at that--but the
    firm of Bartlett, Caryoe & Company was a large and prosperous
    house, and Drouet stood well. Hurstwood knew Caryoe quite well,
    having drunk a glass now and then with him, in company with
    several others, when the conversation was general.  Drouet had
    what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of humour, and
    could tell a good story when the occasion required.  He could
    talk races with Hurstwood, tell interesting incidents concerning
    himself and his experiences with women, and report the state of
    trade in the cities which he visited, and so managed to make
    himself almost invariably agreeable.  To-night he was
    particularly so, since his report to the company had been
    favourably commented upon, his new samples had been
    satisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six
    "Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in
    that evening about eight o'clock.  "How goes it?"  The room was
    Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled
    towards the bar.
    "Oh, all right."
    "I haven't seen you in six weeks.  When did you get in?"
    "Friday," said Drouet.  "Had a fine trip."
    "Glad of it," said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth
    which half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in
    them.  "What are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper,
    in snowy jacket and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.
    "Old Pepper," said Drouet.
    "A little of the same for me," put in Hurstwood.
    "How long are you in town this time?" inquired Hurstwood.
    "Only until Wednesday.  I'm going up to St. Paul."
    "George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in
    Milwaukee last week."
    "Yes, I saw George," returned Drouet.  "Great old boy, isn't he?
    We had quite a time there together."
    The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them,
    and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet
    filling his to within a third of full, as was considered proper,
    and Hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and
    modifying it with seltzer.
    "What's become of Caryoe?" remarked Hurstwood.  "I haven't seen
    him around here in two weeks."
    "Laid up, they say," exclaimed Drouet.  "Say, he's a gouty old
    "Made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?"
    "Yes, wads of it," returned Drouet.  "He won't live much longer.
    Barely comes down to the office now."
    "Just one boy, hasn't he?" asked Hurstwood.
    "Yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed Drouet.
    "I guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the
    other members all there."
    "No, he can't injure that any, I guess."
    Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets,
    the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable
    distinctness.  He was the picture of fastidious comfort.
    To one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn
    of mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must
    ever seem an anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life.
    Here come the moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light
    of the flame. Such conversation as one may hear would not warrant
    a commendation of the scene upon intellectual grounds. It seems
    plain that schemers would choose more sequestered quarters to
    arrange their plans, that politicians would not gather here in
    company to discuss anything save formalities, where the sharp-
    eared may hear, and it would scarcely be justified on the score
    of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent these more
    gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. Nevertheless, the
    fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and
    rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds.  It must be that
    a strange bundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such
    a curious social institution or it would not be.
    Drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as
    by his desire to shine among his betters. The many friends he met
    here dropped in because they craved, without, perhaps,
    consciously analysing it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere
    which they found. One might take it, after all, as an augur of
    the better social order, for the things which they satisfied
    here, though sensory, were not evil.  No evil could come out of
    the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber.  The worst
    effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the
    material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a
    similarly splendid basis. In the last analysis, that would
    scarcely be called the fault of the decorations, but rather of
    the innate trend of the mind.  That such a scene might stir the
    less expensively dressed to emulate the more expensively dressed
    could scarcely be laid at the door of anything save the false
    ambition of the minds of those so affected.  Remove the element
    so thoroughly and solely complained of--liquor--and there would
    not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm
    which would remain.  The pleased eye with which our modern
    restaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this
    Yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy
    company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized,
    aimless, wandering mental action which it represents--the love of
    light and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serene
    light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing.
    Under the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it
    must bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding,
    insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure.
    "See that fellow coming in there?" said Hurstwood, glancing at a
    gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert
    coat, his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.
    "No, where?" said Drouet.
    "There," said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of
    his eye, "the man with the silk hat."
    "Oh, yes," said Drouet, now affecting not to see.  "Who is he?"
    "That's Jules Wallace, the spiritualist."
    Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
    "Doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said
    "Oh, I don't know," returned Hurstwood.  "He's got the money, all
    right," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
    "I don't go much on those things, do you?" asked Drouet.
    "Well, you never can tell," said Hurstwood.  "There may be
    something to it.  I wouldn't bother about it myself, though.  By
    the way," he added, "are you going anywhere to-night?"
    "'The Hole in the Ground,'" said Drouet, mentioning the popular
    farce of the time.
    "Well, you'd better be going.  It's half after eight already,"
    and he drew out his watch.
    The crowd was already thinning out considerably--some bound for
    the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most
    fascinating of all the pleasures--for the type of man there
    represented, at least--the ladies.
    "Yes, I will," said Drouet.
    "Come around after the show.  I have something I want to show
    you," said Hurstwood.
    "Sure," said Drouet, elated.
    "You haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added
    "Not a thing."
    "Well, come round, then."
    "I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday," remarked
    Drouet, by way of parting.  "By George, that's so, I must go and
    call on her before I go away."
    "Oh, never mind her," Hurstwood remarked.
    "Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you," went on Drouet
    confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.
    "Twelve o'clock," said Hurstwood.
    "That's right," said Drouet, going out.
    Thus was Carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and
    gay of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning
    her narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early
    stages of this, her unfolding fate.
    Chapter VI
    At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its
    atmosphere.  The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings
    were different, increased her knowledge of its character.
    Minnie, after the good spirits Carrie manifested at first,
    expected a fair report.  Hanson supposed that Carrie would be
    "Well," he said, as he came in from the hall in his working
    clothes, and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, "how
    did you make out?"
    "Oh," said Carrie, "it's pretty hard.  I don't like it."
    There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words
    that she was both weary and disappointed.
    "What sort of work is it?" he asked, lingering a moment as he
    turned upon his heel to go into the bathroom.
    "Running a machine," answered Carrie.
    It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from
    the side of the flat's success.  He was irritated a shade because
    it could not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie
    to be pleased.
    Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie
    arrived.  The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so
    pleasing now that Carrie had reported her discontent.  To Carrie,
    the one relief of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a
    sympathetic reception, a bright supper table, and some one to
    say: "Oh, well, stand it a little while.  You will get something
    better," but now this was ashes. She began to see that they
    looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and that she was
    supposed to work on and say nothing.  She knew that she was to
    pay four dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that it
    would be an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people.
    Minnie was no companion for her sister--she was too old.  Her
    thoughts were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition.  If
    Hanson had any pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed
    them.  He seemed to do all his mental operations without the aid
    of physical expression.  He was as still as a deserted chamber.
    Carrie, on the other hand, had the blood of youth and some
    imagination.  Her day of love and the mysteries of courtship were
    still ahead.  She could think of things she would like to do, of
    clothes she would like to wear, and of places she would like to
    visit.  These were the things upon which her mind ran, and it was
    like meeting with opposition at every turn to find no one here to
    call forth or respond to her feelings.
    She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of
    her day, that Drouet might come.  Now, when she saw how
    unreceptive these two people were, she hoped he would not.  She
    did not know exactly what she would do or how she would explain
    to Drouet, if he came. After supper she changed her clothes.
    When she was trimly dressed she was rather a sweet little being,
    with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face expressed the mingled
    expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt.  She
    wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little
    with Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at
    the foot of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him there.
    Her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as she put
    on her hat to go below.
    "Carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well," said Minnie to
    her husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in
    the dining-room a few minutes.
    "She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow," said Hanson. "Has she
    gone downstairs?"
    "Yes," said Minnie.
    "I'd tell her to keep it if I were you.  She might be here weeks
    without getting another one."
    Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper.
    "If I were you," he said a little later, "I wouldn't let her
    stand in the door down there.  It don't look good."
    "I'll tell her," said Minnie.
    The life of the streets continued for a long time to interest
    Carrie.  She never wearied of wondering where the people in the
    cars were going or what their enjoyments were.  Her imagination
    trod a very narrow round, always winding up at points which
    concerned money, looks, clothes, or enjoyment.  She would have a
    far-off thought of Columbia City now and then, or an irritating
    rush of feeling concerning her experiences of the present day,
    but, on the whole, the little world about her enlisted her whole
    The first floor of the building, of which Hanson's flat was the
    third, was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was
    standing there, Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread.  She was
    not aware of his presence until he was quite near her.
    "I'm after bread," was all he said as he passed.
    The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson
    really came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he
    would see what Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her
    with that in mind than she felt it.  Of course, she had no
    understanding of what put it into her head, but, nevertheless, it
    aroused in her the first shade of real antipathy to him.  She
    knew now that she did not like him.  He was suspicious.
    A thought will colour a world for us.  The flow of Carrie's
    meditations had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone
    upstairs before she followed.  She had realised with the lapse of
    the quarter hours that Drouet was not coming, and somehow she
    felt a little resentful, a little as if she had been forsaken--
    was not good enough.  She went upstairs, where everything was
    silent.  Minnie was sewing by a lamp at the table. Hanson had
    already turned in for the night.  In her weariness and
    disappointment Carrie did no more than announce that she was
    going to bed.
    "Yes, you'd better," returned Minnie.  "You've got to get up
    early, you know."
    The morning was no better.  Hanson was just going out the door as
    Carrie came from her room.  Minnie tried to talk with her during
    breakfast, but there was not much of interest which they could
    mutually discuss.  As on the previous morning, Carrie walked down
    town, for she began to realise now that her four-fifty would not
    even allow her car fare after she paid her board.  This seemed a
    miserable arrangement.  But the morning light swept away the
    first misgivings of the day, as morning light is ever wont to do.
    At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome
    as the preceding, but considerably less novel.  The head foreman,
    on his round, stopped by her machine.
    "Where did you come from?" he inquired.
    "Mr. Brown hired me," she replied.
    "Oh, he did, eh!" and then, "See that you keep things going."
    The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed
    satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense "common." Carrie
    had more imagination than they. She was not used to slang.  Her
    instinct in the matter of dress was naturally better.  She
    disliked to listen to the girl next to her, who was rather
    hardened by experience.
    "I'm going to quit this," she heard her remark to her neighbour.
    "What with the stipend and being up late, it's too much for me
    They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place,
    and exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her.
    She saw that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed
    "Hello," remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at
    noon.  "You're a daisy." He really expected to hear the common
    "Aw! go chase yourself!" in return, and was sufficiently abashed,
    by Carrie's silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning.
    That night at the flat she was even more lonely--the dull
    situation was becoming harder to endure.  She could see that the
    Hansons seldom or never had any company.  Standing at the street
    door looking out, she ventured to walk out a little way.  Her
    easy gait and idle manner attracted attention of an offensive but
    common sort.  She was slightly taken back at the overtures of a
    well-dressed man of thirty, who in passing looked at her, reduced
    his pace, turned back, and said:
    "Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?"
    Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient
    thought to reply: "Why, I don't know you," backing away as she
    did so.
    "Oh, that don't matter," said the other affably.
    She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching
    her own door quite out of breath.  There was something in the
    man's look which frightened her.
    During the remainder of the week it was very much the same.  One
    or two nights she found herself too tired to walk home, and
    expended car fare.  She was not very strong, and sitting all day
    affected her back.  She went to bed one night before Hanson.
    Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers
    or maidens.  It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better
    atmosphere to continue even a natural growth.  It would have been
    better if her acclimatization had been more gradual--less rigid.
    She would have done better if she had not secured a position so
    quickly, and had seen more of the city which she constantly
    troubled to know about.
    On the first morning it rained she found that she had no
    umbrella.  Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and
    faded.  There was the kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at
    this.  She went to one of the great department stores and bought
    herself one, using a dollar and a quarter of her small store to
    pay for it.
    "What did you do that for, Carrie?" asked Minnie when she saw it.
    "Oh, I need one," said Carrie.
    "You foolish girl."
    Carrie resented this, though she did not reply.  She was not
    going to be a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think
    it, either.
    On the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars.
    Minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not
    know how to explain to Hanson if she took less.  That worthy gave
    up just four dollars less toward the household expenses with a
    smile of satisfaction.  He contemplated increasing his Building
    and Loan payments.  As for Carrie, she studied over the problem
    of finding clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week.  She
    brooded over this until she was in a state of mental rebellion.
    "I'm going up the street for a walk," she said after supper.
    "Not alone, are you?" asked Hanson.
    "Yes," returned Carrie.
    "I wouldn't," said Minnie.
    "I want to see SOMETHING," said Carrie, and by the tone she put
    into the last word they realised for the first time she was not
    pleased with them.
    "What's the matter with her?" asked Hanson, when she went into
    the front room to get her hat.
    "I don't know," said Minnie.
    "Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone."
    Carrie did not go very far, after all.  She returned and stood in
    the door.  The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it
    did not please her.  She did not look well enough.  In the shop
    next day she heard the highly coloured reports which girls give
    of their trivial amusements.  They had been happy.  On several
    days it rained and she used up car fare.  One night she got
    thoroughly soaked, going to catch the car at Van Buren Street.
    All that evening she sat alone in the front room looking out upon
    the street, where the lights were reflected on the wet pavements,
    thinking. She had imagination enough to be moody.
    On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty
    cents in despair.  The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed
    with some of the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact
    that they had more of their earnings to use for themselves than
    she did.  They had young men of the kind whom she, since her
    experience with Drouet, felt above, who took them about.  She
    came to thoroughly dislike the light-headed young fellows of the
    shop.  Not one of them had a show of refinement.  She saw only
    their workday side.
    There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept
    over the city.  It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens,
    trailed long, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and
    raced about the streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs.
    Carrie now felt the problem of winter clothes.  What was she to
    do? She had no winter jacket, no hat, no shoes.  It was difficult
    to speak to Minnie about this, but at last she summoned the
    "I don't know what I'm going to do about clothes," she said one
    evening when they were together.  "I need a hat."
    Minnie looked serious.
    "Why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?" she
    suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of
    Carrie's money would create.
    "I'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind," ventured
    "Could you pay two dollars?" asked Minnie.
    Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation,
    and liberal now that she saw a way out.  She was elated and began
    figuring at once.  She needed a hat first of all.  How Minnie
    explained to Hanson she never knew.  He said nothing at all, but
    there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable
    The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not
    intervened.  It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when
    Carrie was still without a jacket.  She came out of the warm shop
    at six and shivered as the wind struck her.  In the morning she
    was sneezing, and going down town made it worse.  That day her
    bones ached and she felt light-headed.  Towards evening she felt
    very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry.  Minnie
    noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself.
    "I don't know," said Carrie.  "I feel real bad."
    She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went
    to bed sick.  The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.
    Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly
    demeanour.  Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a
    while.  When she got up after three days, it was taken for
    granted that her position was lost.  The winter was near at hand,
    she had no clothes, and now she was out of work.
    "I don't know," said Carrie; "I'll go down Monday and see if I
    can't get something."
    If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial
    than the last.  Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall
    wearing.  Her last money she had spent for a hat.  For three days
    she wandered about, utterly dispirited.  The attitude of the flat
    was fast becoming unbearable.  She hated to think of going back
    there each evening.  Hanson was so cold.  She knew it could not
    last much longer.  Shortly she would have to give up and go home.
    On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten
    cents for lunch from Minnie.  She had applied in the cheapest
    kind of places without success. She even answered for a waitress
    in a small restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but
    they wanted an experienced girl.  She moved through the thick
    throng of strangers, utterly subdued in spirit.  Suddenly a hand
    pulled her arm and turned her about.
    "Well, well!" said a voice.  In the first glance she beheld
    Drouet.  He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant.  He was the
    essence of sunshine and good-humour.  "Why, how are you, Carrie?"
    he said.  "You're a daisy.  Where have you been?"
    Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.
    "I've been out home," she said.
    "Well," he said, "I saw you across the street there. I thought it
    was you.  I was just coming out to your place.  How are you,
    "I'm all right," said Carrie, smiling.
    Drouet looked her over and saw something different.
    "Well," he said, "I want to talk to you.  You're not going
    anywhere in particular, are you?"
    "Not just now," said Carrie.
    "Let's go up here and have something to eat.  George! but I'm
    glad to see you again."
    She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked
    after and cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the
    slightest air of holding back.
    "Well," he said, as he took her arm--and there was an exuberance
    of good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of
    her heart.
    They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room,
    which was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent
    cuisine and substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by
    the window, where the busy rout of the street could be seen.  He
    loved the changing panorama of the street--to see and be seen as
    he dined.
    "Now," he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled,
    "what will you have?"
    Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed
    her without really considering it.  She was very hungry, and the
    things she saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices
    held her attention. "Half broiled spring chicken--seventy-five.
    Sirloin steak with mushrooms--one twenty-five." She had dimly
    heard of these things, but it seemed strange to be called to
    order from the list.
    "I'll fix this," exclaimed Drouet.  "Sst! waiter."
    That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro,
    approached, and inclined his ear.
    "Sirloin with mushrooms," said Drouet.  "Stuffed tomatoes."
    "Yassah," assented the negro, nodding his head.
    "Hashed brown potatoes."
    "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
    Carrie smiled and smiled.
    "What have you been doing?" he went on.  "Tell me all about
    yourself.  How is your sister?"
    "She's well," returned Carrie, answering the last query.
    He looked at her hard.
    "Say," he said, "you haven't been sick, have you?"
    Carrie nodded.
    "Well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it?  You don't look
    very well.  I thought you looked a little pale.  What have you
    been doing?"
    "Working," said Carrie.
    "You don't say so!  At what?"
    She told him.
    "Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott--why, I know that house. over here
    on Fifth Avenue, isn't it?  They're a close-fisted concern.  What
    made you go there?"
    "I couldn't get anything else," said Carrie frankly.
    "Well, that's an outrage," said Drouet.  "You oughtn't to be
    working for those people.  Have the factory right back of the
    store, don't they?"
    "Yes," said Carrie.
    "That isn't a good house," said Drouet.  "You don't want to work
    at anything like that, anyhow."
    He chatted on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining
    things about himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was,
    until the waiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot
    savoury dishes which had been ordered.  Drouet fairly shone in
    the matter of serving.  He appeared to great advantage behind the
    white napery and silver platters of the table and displaying his
    arms with a knife and fork.  As he cut the meat his rings almost
    spoke.  His new suit creaked as he stretched to reach the plates,
    break the bread, and pour the coffee.  He helped Carrie to a
    rousing plateful and contributed the warmth of his spirit to her
    body until she was a new girl.  He was a splendid fellow in the
    true popular understanding of the term, and captivated Carrie
    That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way.
    She felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her
    and the view of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid
    thing.  Ah, what was it not to have money!  What a thing it was
    to be able to come in here and dine!  Drouet must be fortunate.
    He rode on trains, dressed in such nice clothes, was so strong,
    and ate in these fine places.  He seemed quite a figure of a man,
    and she wondered at his friendship and regard for her.
    "So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?" he said.
    "What are you going to do now?"
    "Look around," she said, a thought of the need that hung outside
    this fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into
    her eyes.
    "Oh, no," said Drouet, "that won't do.  How long have you been
    "Four days," she answered.
    "Think of that!" he said, addressing some problematical
    individual.  "You oughtn't to be doing anything like that.  These
    girls," and he waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls,
    "don't get anything.  Why, you can't live on it, can you?"
    He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had
    scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack.
    Carrie was really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace
    garb, her figure was evidently not bad, and her eyes were large
    and gentle. Drouet looked at her and his thoughts reached home.
    She felt his admiration.  It was powerfully backed by his
    liberality and good-humour.  She felt that she liked him--that
    she could continue to like him ever so much.  There was something
    even richer than that, running as a hidden strain, in her mind.
    Every little while her eyes would meet his, and by that means the
    interchanging current of feeling would be fully connected.
    "Why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?" he
    said, hitching his chair closer.  The table was not very wide.
    "Oh, I can't," she said.
    "What are you going to do to-night?"
    "Nothing," she answered, a little drearily.
    "You don't like out there where you are, do you?"
    "Oh, I don't know."
    "What are you going to do if you don't get work?"
    "Go back home, I guess."
    There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this.
    Somehow, the influence he was exerting was powerful.  They came
    to an understanding of each other without words--he of her
    situation, she of the fact that he realised it.
    "No," he said, "you can't make it!" genuine sympathy filling his
    mind for the time.  "Let me help you.  You take some of my
    "Oh, no!" she said, leaning back.
    "What are you going to do?" he said.
    She sat meditating, merely shaking her head.
    He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind.  There were some
    loose bills in his vest pocket--greenbacks. They were soft and
    noiseless, and he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up
    in his hand.
    "Come on," he said, "I'll see you through all right. Get yourself
    some clothes."
    It was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now
    she realised how bad off she was.  In his crude way he had struck
    the key-note.  Her lips trembled a little.
    She had her hand out on the table before her.  They were quite
    alone in their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over
    "Aw, come, Carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? Let me help
    He pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it.  At this
    he held it fast, and she no longer protested.  Then he slipped
    the greenbacks he had into her palm, and when she began to
    protest, he whispered:
    "I'll loan it to you--that's all right.  I'll loan it to you."
    He made her take it.  She felt bound to him by a strange tie of
    affection now.  They went out, and he walked with her far out
    south toward Polk Street, talking.
    "You don't want to live with those people?" he said in one place,
    abstractedly.  Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight
    "Come down and meet me to morrow," he said, "and we'll go to the
    matinee.  Will you?"
    Carrie protested a while, but acquiesced.
    "You're not doing anything.  Get yourself a nice pair of shoes
    and a jacket."
    She scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would
    trouble her when he was gone.  In his presence, she was of his
    own hopeful, easy-way-out mood.
    "Don't you bother about those people out there," he said at
    parting.  "I'll help you."
    Carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out
    before her to draw off trouble.  The money she had accepted was
    two soft, green, handsome ten-dollar bills.
    Chapter VII
    The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained
    and comprehended.  When each individual realises for himself that
    this thing primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a
    moral due--that it should be paid out as honestly stored energy,
    and not as a usurped privilege--many of our social, religious,
    and political troubles will have permanently passed. As for
    Carrie, her understanding of the moral significance of money was
    the popular understanding, nothing more.  The old definition:
    "Money: something everybody else has and I must get," would have
    expressed her understanding of it thoroughly.  Some of it she now
    held in her hand--two soft, green ten-dollar bills--and she felt
    that she was immensely better off for the having of them.  It was
    something that was power in itself.  One of her order of mind
    would have been content to be cast away upon a desert island with
    a bundle of money, and only the long strain of starvation would
    have taught her that in some cases it could have no value.  Even
    then she would have had no conception of the relative value of
    the thing; her one thought would, undoubtedly, have concerned the
    pity of having so much power and the inability to use it.
    The poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Drouet. She felt
    ashamed in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but
    her need was so dire, she was still glad.  Now she would have a
    nice new jacket!  Now she would buy a nice pair of pretty button
    shoes.  She would get stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and--
    until already, as in the matter of her prospective salary, she
    had got beyond, in her desires, twice the purchasing power of her
    She conceived a true estimate of Drouet.  To her, and indeed to
    all the world, he was a nice, good-hearted man.  There was
    nothing evil in the fellow.  He gave her the money out of a good
    heart--out of a realisation of her want.  He would not have given
    the same amount to a poor young man, but we must not forget that
    a poor young man could not, in the nature of things, have
    appealed to him like a poor young girl. Femininity affected his
    feelings.  He was the creature of an inborn desire.  Yet no
    beggar could have caught his eye and said, "My God, mister, I'm
    starving," but he would gladly have handed out what was
    considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more
    about it.  There would have been no speculation, no
    philosophising.  He had no mental process in him worthy the
    dignity of either of those terms.  In his good clothes and fine
    health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp.  Deprived of
    his position, and struck by a few of the involved and baffling
    forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been as
    helpless as Carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, as
    pitiable, if you will, as she.
    Now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm,
    because he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to
    hold with them as being harmful.  He loved to make advances to
    women, to have them succumb to his charms, not because he was a
    cold-blooded, dark, scheming villain, but because his inborn
    desire urged him to that as a chief delight.  He was vain, he was
    boastful, he was as deluded by fine clothes as any silly-headed
    girl.  A truly deep-dyed villain could have hornswaggled him as
    readily as he could have flattered a pretty shop-girl.  His fine
    success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the thoroughly
    reputable standing of his house.  He bobbed about among men, a
    veritable bundle of enthusiasm--no power worthy the name of
    intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings
    long continued in one strain.  A Madame Sappho would have called
    him a pig; a Shakespeare would have said "my merry child"; old,
    drinking Caryoe thought him a clever, successful businessman.  In
    short, he was as good as his intellect conceived.
    The best proof that there was something open and commendable
    about the man was the fact that Carrie took the money.  No deep,
    sinister soul with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen
    cents under the guise of friendship.  The unintellectual are not
    so helpless.  Nature has taught the beasts of the field to fly
    when some unheralded danger threatens.  She has put into the
    small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored fear of poisons.
    "He keepeth His creatures whole," was not written of beasts
    alone.  Carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the sheep in its
    unwisdom, strong in feeling.  The instinct of self-protection,
    strong in all such natures, was roused but feebly, if at all, by
    the overtures of Drouet.
    When Carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good
    opinion.  By George, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked
    around like that.  Cold weather coming on and no clothes.  Tough.
    He would go around to Fitzgerald and Moy's and get a cigar.  It
    made him feel light of foot as he thought about her.
    Carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could
    scarcely conceal.  The possession of the money involved a number
    of points which perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any
    clothes when Minnie knew that she had no money?  She had no
    sooner entered the flat than this point was settled for her.  It
    could not be done.  She could think of no way of explaining.
    "How did you come out?" asked Minnie, referring to the day.
    Carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing
    and say something directly opposed.  She would prevaricate, but
    it would be in the line of her feelings at least.  So instead of
    complaining when she felt so good, she said:
    "I have the promise of something."
    "At the Boston Store."
    "Is it sure promised?" questioned Minnie.
    "Well, I'm to find out to-morrow," returned Carrie disliking to
    draw out a lie any longer than was necessary.
    Minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Carrie brought
    with her.  She felt now was the time to express to Carrie the
    state of Hanson's feeling about her entire Chicago venture.
    "If you shouldn't get it--" she paused, troubled for an easy way.
    "If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home."
    Minnie saw her chance.
    "Sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow."
    The situation flashed on Carrie at once.  They were unwilling to
    keep her any longer, out of work.  She did not blame Minnie, she
    did not blame Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting
    the remark, she was glad she had Drouet's money.
    "Yes," she said after a few moments, "I thought of doing that."
    She did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all
    the antagonism of her nature.  Columbia City, what was there for
    her?  She knew its dull, little round by heart.  Here was the
    great, mysterious city which was still a magnet for her.  What
    she had seen only suggested its possibilities.  Now to turn back
    on it and live the little old life out there--she almost
    exclaimed against the thought.
    She had reached home early and went in the front room to think.
    What could she do?  She could not buy new shoes and wear them
    here.  She would need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare
    home.  She did not want to borrow of Minnie for that.  And yet,
    how could she explain where she even got that money?  If she
    could only get enough to let her out easy.
    She went over the tangle again and again.  Here, in the morning,
    Drouet would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't
    be.  The Hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get
    away, and yet she did not want to go home.  In the light of the
    way they would look on her getting money without work, the taking
    of it now seemed dreadful.  She began to be ashamed.  The whole
    situation depressed her.  It was all so clear when she was with
    Drouet.  Now it was all so tangled, so hopeless--much worse than
    it was before, because she had the semblance of aid in her hand
    which she could not use.
    Her spirits sank so that at supper Minnie felt that she must have
    had another hard day.  Carrie finally decided that she would give
    the money back.  It was wrong to take it.  She would go down in
    the morning and hunt for work.  At noon she would meet Drouet as
    agreed and tell him.  At this decision her heart sank, until she
    was the old Carrie of distress.
    Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without
    feeling some relief.  Even after all her depressing conclusions,
    she could sweep away all thought about the matter and then the
    twenty dollars seemed a wonderful and delightful thing.  Ah,
    money, money, money!  What a thing it was to have.  How plenty of
    it would clear away all these troubles.
    In the morning she got up and started out a little early.  Her
    decision to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in
    her pocket, after all her troubling over it, made the work
    question the least shade less terrible.  She walked into the
    wholesale district, but as the thought of applying came with each
    passing concern, her heart shrank.  What a coward she was, she
    thought to herself.  Yet she had applied so often.  It would be
    the same old story.  She walked on and on, and finally did go
    into one place, with the old result.  She came out feeling that
    luck was against her.  It was no use.
    Without much thinking, she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the
    great Fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about its
    long window display, its crowd of shoppers.  It readily changed
    her thoughts, she who was so weary of them.  It was here that she
    had intended to come and get her new things.  Now for relief from
    distress; she thought she would go in and see.  She would look at
    the jackets.
    There is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle
    state in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the
    means, lured by desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of
    decision.  When Carrie began wandering around the store amid the
    fine displays she was in this mood.  Her original experience in
    this same place had given her a high opinion of its merits.  Now
    she paused at each individual bit of finery, where before she had
    hurried on.  Her woman's heart was warm with desire for them.
    How would she look in this, how charming that would make her!
    She came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as
    she noted the dainty concoctions of colour and lace there
    displayed.  If she would only make up her mind, she could have
    one of those now.  She lingered in the jewelry department.  She
    saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins, the chains.  What
    would she not have given if she could have had them all!  She
    would look fine too, if only she had some of these things.
    The jackets were the greatest attraction.  When she entered the
    store, she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little
    tan jacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the
    rage that fall.  Still she delighted to convince herself that
    there was nothing she would like better.  She went about among
    the glass cases and racks where these things were displayed, and
    satisfied herself that the one she thought of was the proper one.
    All the time she wavered in mind, now persuading herself that she
    could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to herself
    the actual condition.  At last the noon hour was dangerously
    near, and she had done nothing.  She must go now and return the
    Drouet was on the corner when she came up.
    "Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"--looking down--"the
    Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent
    way, but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the
    "I came to tell you that--that I can't take the money."
    "Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned.  "Well, you come on with me.
    Let's go over here to Partridge's."
    Carrie walked with him.  Behold, the whole fabric of doubt and
    impossibility had slipped from her mind.  She could not get at
    the points that were so serious, the things she was going to make
    plain to him.
    "Have you had lunch yet?  Of course you haven't.  Let's go in
    here," and Drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished
    restaurants off State Street, in Monroe.
    "I mustn't take the money," said Carrie, after they were settled
    in a cosey corner, and Drouet had ordered the lunch.  "I can't
    wear those things out there. They--they wouldn't know where I got
    "What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"
    "I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.
    "Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long.
    I'll tell you what you do.  You say you can't wear them out
    there.  Why don't you rent a furnished room and leave them in
    that for a week?"
    Carrie shook her head.  Like all women, she was there to object
    and be convinced.  It was for him to brush the doubts away and
    clear the path if he could.
    "Why are you going home?" he asked.
    "Oh, I can't get anything here."
    They won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively.
    "They can't," said Carrie.
    "I'll tell you what you do," he said.  "You come with me.  I'll
    take care of you."
    Carrie heard this passively.  The peculiar state which she was in
    made it sound like the welcome breath of an open door.  Drouet
    seemed of her own spirit and pleasing.  He was clean, handsome,
    well-dressed, and sympathetic.  His voice was the voice of a
    "What can you do back at Columbia City?" he went on, rousing by
    the words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had
    left.  "There isn't anything down there.  Chicago's the place.
    You can get a nice room here and some clothes, and then you can
    do something."
    Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street.  There
    it was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor.
    An elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by,
    carrying in its upholstered depths a young lady.
    "What will you have if you go back?" asked Drouet. There was no
    subtle undercurrent to the question.  He imagined that she would
    have nothing at all of the things he thought worth while.
    Carrie sat still, looking out.  She was wondering what she could
    do.  They would be expecting her to go home this week.
    Drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy.
    "Why not get yourself a nice little jacket?  You've got to have
    it.  I'll loan you the money.  You needn't worry about taking it.
    You can get yourself a nice room by yourself.  I won't hurt you."
    Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts.  She
    felt more than ever the helplessness of her case.
    "If I could only get something to do," she said.
    "Maybe you can," went on Drouet, "if you stay here. You can't if
    you go away.  They won't let you stay out there.  Now, why not
    let me get you a nice room?  I won't bother you--you needn't be
    afraid.  Then, when you get fixed up, maybe you could get
    He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental
    resources.  She was a sweet little mortal to him--there was no
    doubt of that.  She seemed to have some power back of her
    actions.  She was not like the common run of store-girls.  She
    wasn't silly.
    In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he--more taste.  It
    was a finer mental strain in her that made possible her
    depression and loneliness.  Her poor clothes were neat, and she
    held her head unconsciously in a dainty way.
    "Do you think I could get something?" she asked.
    "Sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea.
    "I'll help you."
    She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly.
    "Now I'll tell you what we'll do.  We'll go over here to
    Partridge's and you pick out what you want.  Then we'll look
    around for a room for you.  You can leave the things there.  Then
    we'll go to the show to-night."
    Carrie shook her head.
    "Well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right.  You
    don't need to stay in the room.  Just take it and leave your
    things there."
    She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over.
    "Let's go over and look at the jackets," he said.
    Together they went.  In the store they found that shine and
    rustle of new things which immediately laid hold of Carrie's
    heart.  Under the influence of a good dinner and Drouet's
    radiating presence, the scheme proposed seemed feasible.  She
    looked about and picked a jacket like the one which she had
    admired at The Fair.  When she got it in her hand it seemed so
    much nicer.  The saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by
    accident, it fitted perfectly.  Drouet's face lightened as he saw
    the improvement.  She looked quite smart.
    "That's the thing," he said.
    Carrie turned before the glass.  She could not help feeling
    pleased as she looked at herself.  A warm glow crept into her
    "That's the thing," said Drouet.  "Now pay for it."
    "It's nine dollars," said Carrie.
    "That's all right--take it," said Drouet.
    She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman
    asked if she would wear the coat and went off.  In a few minutes
    she was back and the purchase was closed.
    From Partridge's they went to a shoe store, where Carrie was
    fitted for shoes.  Drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they
    looked, said, "Wear them." Carrie shook her head, however.  She
    was thinking of returning to the flat.  He bought her a purse for
    one thing, and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy the
    "To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a
    In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving.  The
    deeper she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that
    the thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done.
    Since she had not done these, there was a way out.
    Drouet knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms.  He
    showed Carrie the outside of these, and said: "Now, you're my
    sister." He carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it
    came to the selection, looking around, criticising, opining.
    "Her trunk will be here in a day or so," he observed to the
    landlady, who was very pleased.
    When they were alone, Drouet did not change in the least.  He
    talked in the same general way as if they were out in the street.
    Carrie left her things.
    "Now," said Drouet, "why don't you move to-night?"
    "Oh, I can't," said Carrie.
    "Why not?"
    "I don't want to leave them so."
    He took that up as they walked along the avenue.  It was a warm
    afternoon.  The sun had come out and the wind had died down.  As
    he talked with Carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the
    atmosphere of the flat.
    "Come out of it," he said, "they won't care.  I'll help you get
    She listened until her misgivings vanished.  He would show her
    about a little and then help her get something.  He really
    imagined that he would.  He would be out on the road and she
    could be working.
    "Now, I'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and
    get whatever you want and come away."
    She thought a long time about this.  Finally she agreed.  He
    would come out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her.  She was
    to meet him at half-past eight. At half-past five she reached
    home, and at six her determination was hardened.
    "So you didn't get it?" said Minnie, referring to Carrie's story
    of the Boston Store.
    Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "No," she
    "I don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said Minnie.
    Carrie said nothing.
    When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour.  He
    washed in silence and went off to read his paper.  At dinner
    Carrie felt a little nervous. The strain of her own plans were
    considerable, and the feeling that she was not welcome here was
    "Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson.
    He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden
    to have her here dwelling in his mind.  She would have to go
    home, that was all.  Once she was away, there would be no more
    coming back in the spring.
    Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was
    relieved to know that this condition was ending. They would not
    care.  Hanson particularly would be glad when she went.  He would
    not care what became of her.
    After dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not
    disturb her, and wrote a little note.
    "Good-bye, Minnie," it read.  "I'm not going home.  I'm going to
    stay in Chicago a little while and look for work.  Don't worry.
    I'll be all right."
    In the front room Hanson was reading his paper.  As usual, she
    helped Minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up.  Then she
    "I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while." She could
    scarcely prevent her voice from trembling.
    Minnie remembered Hanson's remonstrance.
    "Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said.
    "Doesn't he?" said Carrie.  "I won't do it any more after this."
    She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little
    bedroom, wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it
    under Minnie's hair-brush.
    When she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and
    wondered what they would think.  Some thought of the queerness of
    her deed affected her.  She went slowly down the stairs.  She
    looked back up the lighted step, and then affected to stroll up
    the street.  When she reached the corner she quickened her pace.
    As she was hurrying away, Hanson came back to his wife.
    "Is Carrie down at the door again?" he asked.
    "Yes," said Minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any
    He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and
    began to poke his finger at it.
    Drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits.
    "Hello, Carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew
    near him.  "Got here safe, did you?  Well, we'll take a car."
    Chapter VIII
    Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe,
    untutored man is but a wisp in the wind.  Our civilisation is
    still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer
    wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet
    wholly guided by reason.  On the tiger no responsibility rests.
    We see him aligned by nature with the forces of life--he is born
    into their keeping and without thought he is protected.  We see
    man far removed from the lairs of the jungles, his innate
    instincts dulled by too near an approach to free-will, his free-
    will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and
    afford him perfect guidance.
    He is becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and
    desires; he is still too weak to always prevail against them.  As
    a beast, the forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he
    has not yet wholly learned to align himself with the forces.  In
    this intermediate stage he wavers--neither drawn in harmony with
    nature by his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into
    harmony by his own free-will.  He is even as a wisp in the wind,
    moved by every breath of passion, acting now by his will and now
    by his instincts, erring with one, only to retrieve by the other,
    falling by one, only to rise by the other--a creature of
    incalculable variability.  We have the consolation of knowing
    that evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light that
    cannot fail.  He will not forever balance thus between good and
    evil.  When this jangle of free-will instinct shall have been
    adjusted, when perfect under standing has given the former the
    power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longer vary.
    The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and
    unwavering to the distinct pole of truth.
    In Carrie--as in how many of our worldlings do they not?--
    instinct and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for
    the mastery.  She followed whither her craving led.  She was as
    yet more drawn than she drew.
    When Minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled
    wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning,
    sorrow, or love, she exclaimed: "Well, what do you think of
    "What?" said Hanson.
    "Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else."
    Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually
    displayed and looked at the note.  The only indication of his
    thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his
    tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a
    "Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly
    "I don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "Now she
    has gone and done it."
    Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way.
    "Oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done."
    "Well," said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before
    him, "what can you do?"
    Minnie's womanly nature was higher than this.  She figured the
    possibilities in such cases.
    "Oh," she said at last, "poor Sister Carrie!"
    At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5
    A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather
    troubled sleep in her new room, alone.
    Carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities
    in it.  She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the
    lap of luxury.  She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of
    her release, wondering whether she would get something to do,
    wondering what Drouet would do.  That worthy had his future fixed
    for him beyond a peradventure.  He could not help what he was
    going to do.  He could not see clearly enough to wish to do
    differently.  He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old
    pursuing part.  He would need to delight himself with Carrie as
    surely as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast.  He might
    suffer the least rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he
    did, and in just so far he was evil and sinning.  But whatever
    twinges of conscience he might have would be rudimentary, you may
    be sure.
    The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her
    chamber.  He was the same jolly, enlivening soul.
    "Aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? Come on out
    to breakfast.  You want to get your other clothes to-day."
    Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her
    large eyes.
    "I wish I could get something to do," she said.
    "You'll get that all right," said Drouet.  "What's the use
    worrying right now?  Get yourself fixed up.  See the city.  I
    won't hurt you."
    "I know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully.
    "Got on the new shoes, haven't you?  Stick 'em out. George, they
    look fine.  Put on your jacket."
    Carrie obeyed.
    "Say, that fits like a T, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set
    of it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real
    pleasure.  "What you need now is a new skirt.  Let's go to
    Carrie put on her hat.
    "Where are the gloves?" he inquired.
    "Here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.
    "Now, come on," he said.
    Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away.
    It went this way on every occasion.  Drouet did not leave her
    much alone.  She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he
    filled her hours with sight-seeing.  At Carson, Pirie's he bought
    her a nice skirt and shirt waist.  With his money she purchased
    the little necessaries of toilet, until at last she looked quite
    another maiden.  The mirror convinced her of a few things which
    she had long believed.  She was pretty, yes, indeed!  How nice
    her hat set, and weren't her eyes pretty.  She caught her little
    red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill of power.
    Drouet was so good.
    They went to see "The Mikado" one evening, an opera which was
    hilariously popular at that time.  Before going, they made off
    for the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a
    considerable distance from Carrie's room.  It was blowing up
    cold, and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky,
    still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top
    where it met the darkness.  A long, thin cloud of pink hung in
    midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the
    swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought
    back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from
    their front window in December days at home.
    She paused and wrung her little hands.
    "What's the matter?" said Drouet.
    "Oh, I don't know," she said, her lip trembling.
    He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder,
    patting her arm.
    "Come on," he said gently, "you're all right."
    She turned to slip on her jacket.
    "Better wear that boa about your throat to night."
    They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west.  The
    lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden
    hue.  The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were
    the lighted windows of the tall office buildings.  The chill wind
    whipped in and out in gusty breaths.  Homeward bound, the six
    o'clock throng bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up
    about the ears, hats were pulled down.  Little shop-girls went
    fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing.  It was a
    spectacle of warm-blooded humanity.
    Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie's in recognition. They were
    looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls.  Their clothes
    were faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general
    make-up shabby.
    Carrie recognised the glance and the girl.  She was one of those
    who worked at the machines in the shoe factory.  The latter
    looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked.
    Carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them.  The
    old dress and the old machine came back.  She actually started.
    Drouet didn't notice until Carrie bumped into a pedestrian.
    "You must be thinking," he said.
    They dined and went to the theatre.  That spectacle pleased
    Carrie immensely.  The colour and grace of it caught her eye.
    She had vain imaginings about place and power, about far-off
    lands and magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of
    coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare.
    "Wait a minute," said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer
    where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts
    rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through
    parted lips. "Let's see."
    "Sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a
    sort of euphonious cry.  "Sixty-seven."
    "Isn't it fine?" said Carrie.
    "Great," said Drouet.  He was as much affected by this show of
    finery and gayety as she.  He pressed her arm warmly.  Once she
    looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips,
    her eyes alight.  As they were moving out he whispered down to
    her, "You look lovely!"  They were right where the coach-caller
    was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in two ladies.
    "You stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed Drouet.
    Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life.
    They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch.
    Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie's head, but
    there was no household law to govern her now.  If any habits ever
    had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here.  Habits
    are peculiar things.  They will drive the really non-religious
    mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a
    devotion.  The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing
    which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the
    brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of
    the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the
    still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness.  If
    the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy
    enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the
    perfunctory thing.  "Now, bless me," says such a mind, "I have
    done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its
    old, unbreakable trick once again.
    Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she
    had, she would have been more consciously distressed.  Now the
    lunch went off with considerable warmth.  Under the influence of
    the varied occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was
    emanating from Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she
    relaxed and heard with open ears.  She was again the victim of
    the city's hypnotic influence.
    "Well," said Drouet at last, "we had better be going."
    They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had
    frequently met.  Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of
    force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze.  He had a way
    of touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon
    her.  He touched it now as he spoke of going.
    They arose and went out into the street.  The downtown section
    was now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars,
    a few open resorts whose windows were still bright.  Out Wabash
    Avenue they strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of
    small information.  He had Carrie's arm in his, and held it
    closely as he explained.  Once in a while, after some witticism,
    he would look down, and his eyes would meet hers.  At last they
    came to the steps, and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head
    now coming even with his own.  He took her hand and held it
    genially.  He looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly
    At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long
    evening of troubled thought.  She had her elbow in an awkward
    position under her side.  The muscles so held irritated a few
    nerves, and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind.  She
    fancied she and Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine.
    She could see the tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast
    out.  There was a deep pit, into which they were looking; they
    could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall
    disappeared in vague shadows.  An old basket, used for
    descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn rope.
    "Let's get in," said Carrie.
    "Oh, no," said Minnie.
    "Yes, come on," said Carrie.
    She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all
    protest, she had swung over and was going down.
    "Carrie," she called, "Carrie, come back"; but Carrie was far
    down now and the shadow had swallowed her completely.
    She moved her arm.
    Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters
    she had never seen.  They were upon some board or ground or
    something that reached far out, and at the end of this was
    Carrie.  They looked about, and now the thing was sinking, and
    Minnie heard the low sip of the encroaching water.
    "Come on, Carrie," she called, but Carrie was reaching farther
    out.  She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to
    "Carrie," she called, "Carrie," but her own voice sounded far
    away, and the strange waters were blurring everything.  She came
    away suffering as though she had lost something.  She was more
    inexpressibly sad than she had ever been in life.
    It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those
    curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange
    scenes, one with the other.  The last one made her cry out, for
    Carrie was slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers
    had let loose and she had seen her falling.
    "Minnie!  What's the matter?  Here, wake up," said Hanson,
    disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder.
    "Wha--what's the matter?" said Minnie, drowsily.
    "Wake up," he said, "and turn over.  You're talking in your
    A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy's,
    spruce in dress and manner.
    "Hello, Charley," said Hurstwood, looking out from his office
    Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk.
    "When do you go out on the road again?" he inquired.
    "Pretty soon," said Drouet.
    "Haven't seen much of you this trip," said Hurstwood.
    "Well, I've been busy," said Drouet.
    They talked some few minutes on general topics.
    "Say," said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "I want you to
    come out some evening."
    "Out where?" inquired Hurstwood.
    "Out to my house, of course," said Drouet, smiling.
    Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile
    hovering about his lips.  He studied the face of Drouet in his
    wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said:
    "Certainly; glad to."
    "We'll have a nice game of euchre."
    "May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?" asked Hurstwood.
    "Certainly," said Drouet.  "I'll introduce you."
    Chapter IX
    Hurstwood's residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a
    brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair
    with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the
    street.  It had a large bay window bulging out from the second
    floor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-
    five feet wide and ten feet deep.  There was also a small rear
    yard, walled in by the fences of the neighbours and holding a
    stable where he kept his horse and trap.
    The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife
    Julia, and his son and daughter, George, Jr., and Jessica.  There
    were besides these a maid-servant, represented from time to time
    by girls of various extraction, for Mrs. Hurstwood was not always
    easy to please.
    "George, I let Mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent
    salutation at the dinner table.
    "All right," was his only reply.  He had long since wearied of
    discussing the rancorous subject.
    A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than
    which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate,
    nothing more calculated to make strong and just the natures
    cradled and nourished within it. Those who have never experienced
    such a beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the
    tear springs glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in
    lovely music.  The mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart
    of the nation, they will never know.
    Hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with
    this home spirit.  It lacked that toleration and regard without
    which the home is nothing.  There was fine furniture, arranged as
    soothingly as the artistic perception of the occupants warranted.
    There were soft rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a
    grand piano, a marble carving of some unknown Venus by some
    unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes gathered from
    heaven knows where, but generally sold by the large furniture
    houses along with everything else which goes to make the
    "perfectly appointed house."
    In the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening
    decanters and other utilities and ornaments in glass, the
    arrangement of which could not be questioned.  Here was something
    Hurstwood knew about. He had studied the subject for years in his
    business. He took no little satisfaction in telling each Mary,
    shortly after she arrived, something of what the art of the thing
    required.  He was not garrulous by any means. On the contrary,
    there was a fine reserve in his manner toward the entire domestic
    economy of his life which was all that is comprehended by the
    popular term, gentlemanly.  He would not argue, he would not talk
    freely.  In his manner was something of the dogmatist. What he
    could not correct, he would ignore.  There was a tendency in him
    to walk away from the impossible thing.
    There was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his
    Jessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in his
    success.  Now, however, in her seventeenth year, Jessica had
    developed a certain amount of reserve and independence which was
    not inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was in
    the high school, and had notions of life which were decidedly
    those of a patrician.  She liked nice clothes and urged for them
    constantly.  Thoughts of love and elegant individual
    establishments were running in her head.  She met girls at the
    high school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had
    standing locally as partners or owners of solid businesses.
    These girls gave themselves the airs befitting the thriving
    domestic establishments from whence they issued.  They were the
    only ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself.
    Young Hurstwood, Jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already
    connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm.
    He contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family,
    but was thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate.
    He had some ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure
    that had not, as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they
    were.  He came in and went out, pursuing his own plans and
    fancies, addressing a few words to his mother occasionally,
    relating some little incident to his father, but for the most
    part confining himself to those generalities with which most
    conversation concerns itself.  He was not laying bare his desires
    for any one to see.  He did not find any one in the house who
    particularly cared to see.
    Mrs. Hurstwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavoured to
    shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of
    superior capability in this direction elsewhere.  Her knowledge
    of life extended to that little conventional round of society of
    which she was not--but longed to be--a member.  She was not
    without realisation already that this thing was impossible, so
    far as she was concerned.  For her daughter, she hoped better
    things.  Through Jessica she might rise a little.  Through
    George, Jr.'s, possible success she might draw to herself the
    privilege of pointing proudly.  Even Hurstwood was doing well
    enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures
    should prosper.  His property holdings, as yet, were rather
    small, but his income was pleasing and his position with
    Fitzgerald and Moy was fixed.  Both those gentlemen were on
    pleasant and rather informal terms with him.
    The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be
    apparent to all.  It worked out in a thousand little
    conversations, all of which were of the same calibre.
    "I'm going up to Fox Lake to-morrow," announced George, Jr., at
    the dinner table one Friday evening.
    "What's going on up there?" queried Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "Eddie Fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come
    up and see how it works."
    "How much did it cost him?" asked his mother.
    "Oh, over two thousand dollars.  He says it's a dandy."
    "Old Fahrway must be making money," put in Hurstwood.
    "He is, I guess.  Jack told me they were shipping Vegacura to
    Australia now--said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last
    "Just think of that!" said Mrs. Hurstwood, "and only four years
    ago they had that basement in Madison Street."
    "Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next
    spring in Robey Street."
    "Just think of that!" said Jessica.
    On this particular occasion Hurstwood wished to leave early.
    "I guess I'll be going down town," he remarked, rising.
    "Are we going to McVicker's Monday?" questioned Mrs. Hurstwood,
    without rising.
    "Yes," he said indifferently.
    They went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat.
    Presently the door clicked.
    "I guess papa's gone," said Jessica.
    The latter's school news was of a particular stripe.
    "They're going to give a performance in the Lyceum, upstairs,"
    she reported one day, "and I'm going to be in it."
    "Are you?" said her mother.
    "Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress.  Some of the nicest
    girls in the school are going to be in it.  Miss Palmer is going
    to take the part of Portia."
    "Is she?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "They've got that Martha Griswold in it again.  She thinks she
    can act."
    "Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said Mrs.
    Hurstwood sympathetically.  "They haven't anything, have they?"
    "No," returned Jessica, "they're poor as church mice."
    She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the
    school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty.
    "What do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening;
    "that Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me."
    "Who is he, my dear?" inquired Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "Oh, no one," said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "He's just a
    student there.  He hasn't anything."
    The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of
    Blyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs.
    Hurstwood was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair
    reading, and happened to look out at the time.
    "Who was that with you, Jessica?" she inquired, as Jessica came
    "It's Mr. Blyford, mamma," she replied.
    "Is it?" said Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him,"
    explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs.
    "All right, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood.  "Don't be gone long."
    As the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of
    the window.  It was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most
    In this atmosphere Hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not
    thinking deeply concerning it.  His was not the order of nature
    to trouble for something better, unless the better was
    immediately and sharply contrasted.  As it was, he received and
    gave, irritated sometimes by the little displays of selfish
    indifference, pleased at times by some show of finery which
    supposedly made for dignity and social distinction.  The life of
    the resort which he managed was his life.  There he spent most of
    his time.  When he went home evenings the house looked nice.
    With rare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kind
    that an ordinary servant can arrange.  In part, he was interested
    in the talk of his son and daughter, who always looked well.  The
    vanity of Mrs. Hurstwood caused her to keep her person rather
    showily arrayed, but to Hurstwood this was much better than
    plainness. There was no love lost between them.  There was no
    great feeling of dissatisfaction.  Her opinion on any subject was
    not startling.  They did not talk enough together to come to the
    argument of any one point.  In the accepted and popular phrase,
    she had her ideas and he had his.  Once in a while he would meet
    a woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his
    wife seem rather deficient by contrast, but the temporary
    dissatisfaction which such an encounter might arouse would be
    counterbalanced by his social position and a certain matter of
    policy.  He could not complicate his home life, because it might
    affect his relations with his employers.  They wanted no
    scandals. A man, to hold his position, must have a dignified
    manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. Therefore
    he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in the
    public ways in the afternoon, or on Sunday, it was with his wife,
    and sometimes his children.  He would visit the local resorts, or
    those near by in Wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days
    strolling about conventional places doing conventional things.
    He knew the need of it.
    When some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew,
    who had money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head.
    It didn't do to talk about those things.  If it came up for
    discussion among such friends as with him passed for close, he
    would deprecate the folly of the thing.  "It was all right to do
    it--all men do those things--but why wasn't he careful?  A man
    can't be too careful."  He lost sympathy for the man that made a
    mistake and was found out.
    On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife
    about--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not
    been for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which
    did not depend upon her presence or absence.  He watched her with
    considerable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in
    a way and men looked at her.  She was affable, vain, subject to
    flattery, and this combination, he knew quite well, might produce
    a tragedy in a woman of her home position.  Owing to his order of
    mind, his confidence in the sex was not great.  His wife never
    possessed the virtues which would win the confidence and
    admiration of a man of his nature.  As long as she loved him
    vigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when that
    was no longer the binding chain--well, something might happen.
    During the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a
    large thing.  Jessica wanted fine clothes, and Mrs. Hurstwood,
    not to be outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her
    apparel.  Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he
    "Jessica must have a new dress this month," said Mrs. Hurstwood
    one morning.
    Hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests
    before the glass at the time.
    "I thought she just bought one," he said.
    "That was just something for evening wear," returned his wife
    "It seems to me," returned Hurstwood, "that she's spending a good
    deal for dresses of late."
    "Well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of
    his voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard
    there before.
    He was not a man who traveled much, but when he did, he had been
    accustomed to take her along.  On one occasion recently a local
    aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia--a
    junket that was to last ten days.  Hurstwood had been invited.
    "Nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face
    was a slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality.  He
    always wore a silk hat of most imposing proportions.  "We can
    have a good time." His left eye moved with just the semblance of
    a wink. "You want to come along, George."
    The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife.
    "I'm going away, Julia," he said, "for a few days."
    "Where?" she asked, looking up.
    "To Philadelphia, on business."
    She looked at him consciously, expecting something else.
    "I'll have to leave you behind this time."
    "All right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking
    that it was a curious thing.  Before he went she asked him a few
    more questions, and that irritated him.  He began to feel that
    she was a disagreeable attachment.
    On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over
    he was sorry to get back.  He was not willingly a prevaricator,
    and hated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it.  The
    whole incident was glossed over with general remarks, but Mrs.
    Hurstwood gave the subject considerable thought.  She drove out
    more, dressed better, and attended theatres freely to make up for
    Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home
    life.  It ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional
    opinion.  With the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer
    and dryer--must eventually be tinder, easily lighted and
    Chapter X
    In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties,
    the nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration.
    Actions such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale.  Society
    possesses a conventional standard whereby it judges all things.
    All men should be good, all women virtuous.  Wherefore, villain,
    hast thou failed?
    For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern
    naturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of
    morals.  There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a
    law of evolution.  It is yet deeper than conformity to things of
    earth alone.  It is more involved than we, as yet, perceive.
    Answer, first, why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some
    plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying; make
    clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light
    and rain.  In the essence of these facts lie the first principles
    of morals.
    "Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest."
    "Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I
    have lost?"
    Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
    confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the
    true answer to what is right.
    In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was
    comfortably established--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by
    every wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon
    harbour.  Drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden
    Place, facing Union Park, on the West Side.  That was a little,
    green-carpeted breathing spot, than which, to-day, there is
    nothing more beautiful in Chicago.  It afforded a vista pleasant
    to contemplate.  The best room looked out upon the lawn of the
    park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered.
    Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry
    wind, rose the steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church,
    and far off the towers of several others.
    The rooms were comfortably enough furnished.  There was a good
    Brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades,
    and representing large jardinieres filled with gorgeous,
    impossible flowers.  There was a large pier-glass mirror between
    the two windows.  A large, soft, green, plush-covered couch
    occupied one corner, and several rocking-chairs were set about.
    Some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-a-brac,
    and the tale of contents is told.
    In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by
    Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
    clothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very
    becoming designs.  There was a third room for possible use as a
    kitchen, where Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas
    stove for the preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh
    rarebits, and the like, of which he was exceedingly fond; and,
    lastly, a bath.  The whole place was cosey, in that it was
    lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers, possessing also a
    small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of cheerful
    warming which was then first coming into use.  By her industry
    and natural love of order, which now developed, the place
    maintained an air pleasing in the extreme.
    Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free
    of certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her,
    laden with many new ones which were of a mental order, and
    altogether so turned about in all of her earthly relationships
    that she might well have been a new and different individual.
    She looked into her glass and saw a prettier Carrie than she had
    seen before; she looked into her mind, a mirror prepared of her
    own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse.  Between these two
    images she wavered, hesitating which to believe.
    "My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to
    She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.
    "You know it, don't you?" he would continue.
    "Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact
    that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she
    really did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself.
    Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise.
    There she heard a different voice, with which she argued,
    pleaded, excused.  It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its
    last analysis.  It was only an average little conscience, a thing
    which represented the world, her past environment, habit,
    convention, in a confused way.  With it, the voice of the people
    was truly the voice of God.
    "Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.
    "Why?" she questioned.
    "Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those
    who are good.  How would they scorn to do what you have done.
    Look at the good girls; how will they draw away from such as you
    when they know you have been weak.  You had not tried before you
    It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that
    she would be listening to this.  It would come infrequently--when
    something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not
    too apparent, when Drouet was not there.  It was somewhat clear
    in utterance at first, but never wholly convincing.  There was
    always an answer, always the December days threatened.  She was
    alone; she was desireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind.
    The voice of want made answer for her.
    Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that
    sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours
    during the long winter.  Its endless buildings look grey, its sky
    and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless
    trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general
    solemnity of colour.  There seems to be something in the chill
    breezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares
    productive of rueful thoughts.  Not poets alone, nor artists, nor
    that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all
    refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men.  These feel as much
    as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression.
    The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse
    tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter.
    It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate.  If
    it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of
    profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if the
    various merchants failed to make the customary display within and
    without their establishments; if our streets were not strung with
    signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we
    would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays
    upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun
    withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth.  We are
    more dependent upon these things than is often thought.  We are
    insects produced by heat, and pass without it.
    In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert
    itself, feebly and more feebly.
    Such mental conflict was not always uppermost.  Carrie was not by
    any means a gloomy soul.  More, she had not the mind to get firm
    hold upon a definite truth.  When she could not find her way out
    of the labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject
    created, she would turn away entirely.
    Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for
    one of his sort.  He took her about a great deal, spent money
    upon her, and when he travelled took her with him.  There were
    times when she would be alone for two or three days, while he
    made the shorter circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she
    saw a great deal of him.
    "Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so
    established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come
    out some day and spend the evening with us."
    "Who is he?" asked Carrie.  doubtfully.
    "Oh, he's a nice man.  He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."
    "What's that?" said Carrie.
    "The finest resort in town.  It's a way-up, swell place."
    Carrie puzzled a moment.  She was wondering what Drouet had told
    him, what her attitude would be.
    "That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn't
    know anything.  You're Mrs. Drouet now."
    There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
    inconsiderate.  She could see that Drouet did not have the
    keenest sensibilities.
    "Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble
    promises he had made.
    "Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal
    of mine closed up."
    He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
    required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that
    somehow or other it interfered with his free moral, personal
    "Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll
    do it."
    Carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to
    her conscience, a pleasant way out.  Under the circumstances,
    things would be righted.  Her actions would be justified.
    She really was not enamoured of Drouet.  She was more clever than
    he.  In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked.  If
    it had not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and
    judge him in a way, she would have been worse off than she was.
    She would have adored him.  She would have been utterly wretched
    in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his interest,
    of being swept away and left without an anchorage.  As it was,
    she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him
    completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting.  She was not
    exactly sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do.
    When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than
    Drouet in a hundred ways.  He paid that peculiar deference to
    women which every member of the sex appreciates.  He was not
    overawed, he was not overbold.  His great charm was
    attentiveness.  Schooled in winning those birds of fine feather
    among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who visited
    his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring to
    prove agreeable to some one who charmed him.  In a pretty woman
    of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest
    incentive.  He was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression
    that he wished to be of service only--to do something which would
    make the lady more pleased.
    Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth
    the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish
    which Hurstwood possessed.  He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy
    life, too assured.  He succeeded with many who were not quite
    schooled in the art of love.  He failed dismally where the woman
    was slightly experienced and possessed innate refinement. In the
    case of Carrie he found a woman who was all of the latter, but
    none of the former.  He was lucky in the fact that opportunity
    tumbled into his lap, as it were.  A few years later, with a
    little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had
    not been able to approach Carrie at all.
    "You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling
    at Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could
    Drouet had not thought of that.
    "So we ought," he observed readily.
    "Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.
    "It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood.  "You could do
    very well in a few weeks."
    He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His
    clothes were particularly new and rich in appearance.  The coat
    lapels stood out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth
    possesses.  The vest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a
    double row of round mother-of-pearl buttons.  His cravat was a
    shiny combination of silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous.
    What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly as that which
    Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance of the material.
    Hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a
    dull shine.  Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could not help
    feeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft
    leather, where all else was so rich.  She noticed these things
    almost unconsciously.  They were things which would naturally
    flow from the situation. She was used to Drouet's appearance.
    "Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood,
    after a light round of conversation.  He was rather dexterous in
    avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of
    Carrie's past.  He kept away from personalities altogether, and
    confined himself to those things which did not concern
    individuals at all.  By his manner, he put Carrie at her ease,
    and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her.  He
    pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.
    "I don't know how to play," said Carrie.
    "Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to
    Drouet most affably.  "Between us, though," he went on, "we can
    show you."
    By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice.
    There was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased
    to be there.  Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before.
    It gave him more respect for Carrie.  Her appearance came into a
    new light, under Hurstwood's appreciation.  The situation livened
    "Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder
    very deferentially.  "What have you?" He studied for a moment.
    "That's rather good," he said.
    "You're lucky.  Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband.
    You take my advice."
    "Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, I
    won't stand a ghost of a show.  Hurstwood's a regular sharp."
    "No, it's your wife.  She brings me luck.  Why shouldn't she
    Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet.  The
    former took the air of a mere friend.  He was simply there to
    enjoy himself.  Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him,
    nothing more.
    "There," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and
    giving Carrie a chance to take a trick.  "I count that clever
    playing for a beginner."
    The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way.
    It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.
    He did not look at her often.  When he did, it was with a mild
    light in his eye.  Not a shade was there of anything save
    geniality and kindness.  He took back the shifty, clever gleam,
    and replaced it with one of innocence.  Carrie could not guess
    but that it was pleasure with him in the immediate thing.  She
    felt that he considered she was doing a great deal.
    "It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something,"
    he said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin
    pocket of his coat.  "Let's play for dimes."
    "All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills.
    Hurstwood was quicker.  His fingers were full of new ten-cent
    pieces.  "Here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little
    "Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie.  "It's bad."
    "No," said Drouet, "only fun.  If you never play for more than
    that, you will go to Heaven."
    "Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, "until you
    see what becomes of the money."
    Drouet smiled.
    "If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is."
    Drouet laughed loud.
    There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the
    insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of
    "When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet.
    "On Wednesday," he replied.
    "It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that,
    isn't it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.
    "She's going along with me this time," said Drouet.
    "You must both go with me to the theatre before you go."
    "Certainly," said Drouet.  "Eh, Carrie?"
    "I'd like it ever so much," she replied.
    Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money.  He
    rejoiced in her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally
    gathered and put them in her extended hand.  They spread a little
    lunch, at which he served the wine, and afterwards he used fine
    tact in going.
    "Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his
    eyes, "you must be ready at 7.30.  I'll come and get you."
    They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its
    red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.
    "Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship,
    "when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around
    a little.  It will break up her loneliness."
    "Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.
    "You're so kind," observed Carrie.
    "Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your husband to do as
    much for me."
    He smiled and went lightly away.  Carrie was thoroughly
    impressed.  She had never come in contact with such grace.  As
    for Drouet, he was equally pleased.
    "There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to
    their cosey chamber.  "A good friend of mine, too."
    "He seems to be," said Carrie.
    Chapter XI
    Carrie was an apt student of fortune's ways--of fortune's
    superficialities.  Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to
    inquiring how she would look, properly related to it.  Be it
    known that this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom.  The
    greatest minds are not so afflicted; and on the contrary, the
    lowest order of mind is not so disturbed.  Fine clothes to her
    were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and Jesuitically for
    themselves.  When she came within earshot of their pleading,
    desire in her bent a willing ear.  The voice of the so-called
    inanimate!  Who shall translate for us the language of the
    "My dear," said the lace collar she secured from Partridge's, "I
    fit you beautifully; don't give me up."
    "Ah, such little feet," said the leather of the soft new shoes;
    "how effectively I cover them.  What a pity they should ever want
    my aid."
    Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might
    dream of giving them up; the method by which they came might
    intrude itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the
    thought of it, but she would not give them up.  "Put on the old
    clothes--that torn pair of shoes," was called to her by her
    conscience in vain.  She could possibly have conquered the fear
    of hunger and gone back; the thought of hard work and a narrow
    round of suffering would, under the last pressure of conscience,
    have yielded, but spoil her appearance?--be old-clothed and poor-
    Drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such
    a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence.  It
    is so easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of
    what we desire. In his hearty way, he insisted upon her good
    looks.  He looked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full
    value.  Under the circumstances, she did not need to carry
    herself as pretty women do.  She picked that knowledge up fast
    enough for herself.  Drouet had a habit, characteristic of his
    kind, of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the
    street and remarking upon them.  He had just enough of the
    feminine love of dress to be a good judge--not of intellect, but
    of clothes.  He saw how they set their little feet, how they
    carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they swung
    their bodies.  A dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips by a
    woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a
    toper.  He would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his
    eyes.  He would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion
    that was in him.  He loved the thing that women love in
    themselves, grace.  At this, their own shrine, he knelt with
    them, an ardent devotee.
    "Did you see that woman who went by just now?" he said to Carrie
    on the first day they took a walk together. "Fine stepper, wasn't
    Carrie looked, and observed the grace commended.
    "Yes, she is," she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion of
    possible defect in herself awakening in her mind.  If that was so
    fine, she must look at it more closely.  Instinctively, she felt
    a desire to imitate it.  Surely she could do that too.
    When one of her mind sees many things emphasized and re-
    emphasized and admired, she gathers the logic of it and applies
    accordingly.  Drouet was not shrewd enough to see that this was
    not tactful.  He could not see that it would be better to make
    her feel that she was competing with herself, not others better
    than herself. He would not have done it with an older, wiser
    woman, but in Carrie he saw only the novice.  Less clever than
    she, he was naturally unable to comprehend her sensibility.  He
    went on educating and wounding her, a thing rather foolish in one
    whose admiration for his pupil and victim was apt to grow.
    Carrie took the instructions affably.  She saw what Drouet liked;
    in a vague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's
    opinion of a man when she learns that his admiration is so
    pointedly and generously distributed.  She sees but one object of
    supreme compliment in this world, and that is herself.  If a man
    is to succeed with many women, he must be all in all to each.
    In her own apartments Carrie saw things which were lessons in the
    same school.
    In the same house with her lived an official of one of the
    theatres, Mr. Frank A. Hale, manager of the Standard, and his
    wife, a pleasing-looking brunette of thirty-five.  They were
    people of a sort very common in America today, who live
    respectably from hand to mouth.  Hale received a salary of forty-
    five dollars a week.  His wife, quite attractive, affected the
    feeling of youth, and objected to that sort of home life which
    means the care of a house and the raising of a family.  Like
    Drouet and Carrie, they also occupied three rooms on the floor
    Not long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relations
    with her, and together they went about.  For a long time this was
    her only companionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife
    formed the medium through which she saw the world.  Such
    trivialities, such praises of wealth, such conventional
    expression of morals as sifted through this passive creature's
    mind, fell upon Carrie and for the while confused her.
    On the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence.
    The constant drag to something better was not to be denied.  By
    those things which address the heart was she steadily recalled.
    In the apartments across the hall were a young girl and her
    mother.  They were from Evansville, Indiana, the wife and
    daughter of a railroad treasurer.  The daughter was here to study
    music, the mother to keep her company.
    Carrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughter
    coming in and going out.  A few times she had seen her at the
    piano in the parlour, and not infrequently had heard her play.
    This young woman was particularly dressy for her station, and
    wore a jewelled ring or two which flashed upon her white fingers
    as she played.
    Now Carrie was affected by music.  Her nervous composition
    responded to certain strains, much as certain strings of a harp
    vibrate when a corresponding key of a piano is struck.  She was
    delicately moulded in sentiment, and answered with vague
    ruminations to certain wistful chords.  They awoke longings for
    those things which she did not have.  They caused her to cling
    closer to things she possessed.  One short song the young lady
    played in a most soulful and tender mood.  Carrie heard it
    through the open door from the parlour below.  It was at that
    hour between afternoon and night when, for the idle, the
    wanderer, things are apt to take on a wistful aspect.  The mind
    wanders forth on far journeys and returns with sheaves of
    withered and departed joys.  Carrie sat at her window looking
    out.  Drouet had been away since ten in the morning.  She had
    amused herself with a walk, a book by Bertha M. Clay which Drouet
    had left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and
    by changing her dress for the evening.  Now she sat looking out
    across the park as wistful and depressed as the nature which
    craves variety and life can be under such circumstances.  As she
    contemplated her new state, the strain from the parlour below
    stole upward.  With it her thoughts became coloured and enmeshed.
    She reverted to the things which were best and saddest within the
    small limit of her experience.  She became for the moment a
    While she was in this mood Drouet came in, bringing with him an
    entirely different atmosphere.  It was dusk and Carrie had
    neglected to light the lamp.  The fire in the grate, too, had
    burned low.
    "Where are you, Cad?" he said, using a pet name he had given her.
    "Here," she answered.
    There was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he
    could not hear it.  He had not the poetry in him that would seek
    a woman out under such circumstances and console her for the
    tragedy of life.  Instead, he struck a match and lighted the gas.
    "Hello," he exclaimed, "you've been crying."
    Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears.
    "Pshaw," he said, "you don't want to do that."
    He took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was
    probably lack of his presence which had made her lonely.
    "Come on, now," he went on; "it's all right.  Let's waltz a
    little to that music."
    He could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition.  It
    made clear to Carrie that he could not sympathise with her.  She
    could not have framed thoughts which would have expressed his
    defect or made clear the difference between them, but she felt
    it.  It was his first great mistake.
    What Drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out
    evenings accompanied by her mother, caused Carrie to perceive the
    nature and value of those little modish ways which women adopt
    when they would presume to be something.  She looked in the
    mirror and pursed up her lips, accompanying it with a little toss
    of the head, as she had seen the railroad treasurer's daughter
    do.  She caught up her skirts with an easy swing, for had not
    Drouet remarked that in her and several others, and Carrie was
    naturally imitative.  She began to get the hang of those little
    things which the pretty woman who has vanity invariably adopts.
    In short, her knowledge of grace doubled, and with it her
    appearance changed.  She became a girl of considerable taste.
    Drouet noticed this.  He saw the new bow in her hair and the new
    way of arranging her locks which she affected one morning.
    "You look fine that way, Cad," he said.
    "Do I?" she replied, sweetly.  It made her try for other effects
    that selfsame day.
    She used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by
    her attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful
    carriage.  How much influence the presence of that young woman in
    the same house had upon her it would be difficult to say.  But,
    because of all these things, when Hurstwood called he had found a
    young woman who was much more than the Carrie to whom Drouet had
    first spoken.  The primary defects of dress and manner had
    passed.  She was pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity born of
    uncertainty, and with a something childlike in her large eyes
    which captured the fancy of this starched and conventional poser
    among men.  It was the ancient attraction of the fresh for the
    stale.  If there was a touch of appreciation left in him for the
    bloom and unsophistication which is the charm of youth, it
    rekindled now.  He looked into her pretty face and felt the
    subtle waves of young life radiating therefrom.  In that large
    clear eye he could see nothing that his blase nature could
    understand as guile.  The little vanity, if he could have
    perceived it there, would have touched him as a pleasant thing.
    "I wonder," he said, as he rode away in his cab, "how Drouet came
    to win her."
    He gave her credit for feelings superior to Drouet at the first
    The cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps
    on either hand.  He folded his gloved hands and saw only the
    lighted chamber and Carrie's face.  He was pondering over the
    delight of youthful beauty.
    "I'll have a bouquet for her," he thought.  "Drouet won't mind."
    He never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for
    himself.  He troubled himself not at all about Drouet's priority.
    He was merely floating those gossamer threads of thought which,
    like the spider's, he hoped would lay hold somewhere.  He did not
    know, he could not guess, what the result would be.
    A few weeks later Drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered one
    of his well-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return
    from a short trip to Omaha.  He had intended to hurry out to
    Ogden Place and surprise Carrie, but now he fell into an
    interesting conversation and soon modified his original
    "Let's go to dinner," he said, little recking any chance meeting
    which might trouble his way.
    "Certainly," said his companion.
    They visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat.  It
    was five in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty
    before the last bone was picked.
    Drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and
    his face was expanding into a smile, when Hurstwood's eye caught
    his own.  The latter had come in with several friends, and,
    seeing Drouet and some woman, not Carrie, drew his own
    "Ah, the rascal," he thought, and then, with a touch of righteous
    sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl."
    Drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught
    Hurstwood's eye.  He felt but very little misgiving, until he saw
    that Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see.  Then some
    of the latter's impression forced itself upon him.  He thought of
    Carrie and their last meeting.  By George, he would have to
    explain this to Hurstwood.  Such a chance half-hour with an old
    friend must not have anything more attached to it than it really
    For the first time he was troubled.  Here was a moral
    complication of which he could not possibly get the ends.
    Hurstwood would laugh at him for being a fickle boy.  He would
    laugh with Hurstwood.  Carrie would never hear, his present
    companion at table would never know, and yet he could not help
    feeling that he was getting the worst of it--there was some faint
    stigma attached, and he was not guilty.  He broke up the dinner
    by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car.  Then he went
    "He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames," thought
    Hurstwood to himself.  "He thinks I think he cares for the girl
    out there."
    "He ought not to think I'm knocking around, since I have just
    introduced him out there," thought Drouet.
    "I saw you," Hurstwood said, genially, the next time Drouet
    drifted in to his polished resort, from which he could not stay
    away.  He raised his forefinger indicatively, as parents do to
    "An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming
    up from the station," explained Drouet.  "She used to be quite a
    "Still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting to
    "Oh, no," said Drouet, "just couldn't escape her this time."
    "How long are you here?" asked Hurstwood.
    "Only a few days."
    "You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me," he said.
    "I'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there.  I'll get a box for
    Joe Jefferson."
    "Not me," answered the drummer.  "Sure I'll come."
    This pleased Hurstwood immensely.  He gave Drouet no credit for
    any feelings toward Carrie whatever.  He envied him, and now, as
    he looked at the well-dressed jolly salesman, whom he so much
    liked, the gleam of the rival glowed in his eye.  He began to
    "size up" Drouet from the standpoints of wit and fascination.  He
    began to look to see where he was weak.  There was no disputing
    that, whatever he might think of him as a good fellow, he felt a
    certain amount of contempt for him as a lover.  He could hoodwink
    him all right.  Why, if he would just let Carrie see one such
    little incident as that of Thursday, it would settle the matter.
    He ran on in thought, almost exulting, the while he laughed and
    chatted, and Drouet felt nothing.  He had no power of analysing
    the glance and the atmosphere of a man like Hurstwood.  He stood
    and smiled and accepted the invitation while his friend examined
    him with the eye of a hawk.
    The object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of
    either.  She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to
    newer conditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing
    pangs from either quarter.
    One evening Drouet found her dressing herself before the glass.
    "Cad," said he, catching her, "I believe you're getting vain."
    "Nothing of the kind," she returned, smiling.
    "Well, you're mighty pretty," he went on, slipping his arm around
    her.  "Put on that navy-blue dress of yours and I'll take you to
    the show."
    "Oh, I've promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the Exposition to-
    night," she returned, apologetically.
    "You did, eh?" he said, studying the situation abstractedly.  "I
    wouldn't care to go to that myself."
    "Well, I don't know," answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering
    to break her promise in his favour.
    Just then a knock came at their door and the maidservant handed a
    letter in.
    "He says there's an answer expected," she explained.
    "It's from Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the superscription as
    he tore it open.
    "You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me to-night," it
    ran in part.  "It's my turn, as we agreed the other day.  All
    other bets are off."
    "Well, what do you say to this?" asked Drouet, innocently, while
    Carrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies.
    "You had better decide, Charlie," she said, reservedly.
    "I guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement
    upstairs," said Drouet.
    "Oh, I can," returned Carrie without thinking.
    Drouet selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her
    dress.  She hardly explained to herself why this latest
    invitation appealed to her most
    "Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday?" she asked, as she came
    out with several articles of apparel pending.
    "Sure," he returned, pleasantly.
    She was relieved to see that he felt nothing.  She did not credit
    her willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her.
    It seemed that the combination of Hurstwood, Drouet, and herself
    was more agreeable than anything else that had been suggested.
    She arrayed herself most carefully and they started off,
    extending excuses upstairs.
    "I say," said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, "we
    are exceedingly charming this evening."
    Carrie fluttered under his approving glance.
    "Now, then," he said, leading the way up the foyer into the
    If ever there was dressiness it was here.  It was the
    personification of the old term spick and span.
    "Did you ever see Jefferson?" he questioned, as he leaned toward
    Carrie in the box.
    "I never did," she returned.
    "He's delightful, delightful," he went on, giving the commonplace
    rendition of approval which such men know.  He sent Drouet after
    a programme, and then discoursed to Carrie concerning Jefferson
    as he had heard of him.  The former was pleased beyond
    expression, and was really hypnotised by the environment, the
    trappings of the box, the elegance of her companion.  Several
    times their eyes accidentally met, and then there poured into
    hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before experienced.
    She could not for the moment explain it, for in the next glance
    or the next move of the hand there was seeming indifference,
    mingled only with the kindest attention.
    Drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in
    comparison.  Hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was
    driven into Carrie's mind that here was the superior man.  She
    instinctively felt that he was stronger and higher, and yet
    withal so simple.  By the end of the third act she was sure that
    Drouet was only a kindly soul, but otherwise defective.  He sank
    every moment in her estimation by the strong comparison.
    "I have had such a nice time," said Carrie, when it was all over
    and they were coming out.
    "Yes, indeed," added Drouet, who was not in the least aware that
    a battle had been fought and his defences weakened.  He was like
    the Emperor of China, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that
    his fairest provinces were being wrested from him.
    "Well, you have saved me a dreary evening," returned Hurstwood.
    He took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from
    one to the other.
    "I'm so tired," said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Drouet
    began to talk.
    "Well, you rest a little while I smoke," he said, rising, and
    then he foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and
    left the game as it stood.
    Chapter XII
    Mrs. Hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moral
    defections, though she might readily have suspected his
    tendencies, which she well understood.  She was a woman upon
    whose action under provocation you could never count.  Hurstwood,
    for one, had not the slightest idea of what she would do under
    certain circumstances.  He had never seen her thoroughly aroused.
    In fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a passion.  She
    had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were
    erring.  She was too calculating to jeopardize any advantage she
    might gain in the way of information by fruitless clamour.  Her
    wrath would never wreak itself in one fell blow.  She would wait
    and brood, studying the details and adding to them until her
    power might be commensurate with her desire for revenge.  At the
    same time, she would not delay to inflict any injury, big or
    little, which would wound the object of her revenge and still
    leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil.  She was a
    cold, self-centred woman, with many a thought of her own which
    never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an
    Hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not
    actually perceive it.  He dwelt with her in peace and some
    satisfaction.  He did not fear her in the least--there was no
    cause for it.  She still took a faint pride in him, which was
    augmented by her desire to have her social integrity maintained.
    She was secretly somewhat pleased by the fact that much of her
    husband's property was in her name, a precaution which Hurstwood
    had taken when his home interests were somewhat more alluring
    than at present.  His wife had not the slightest reason to feel
    that anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet
    the shadows which run before gave her a thought of the good of it
    now and then.  She was in a position to become refractory with
    considerable advantage, and Hurstwood conducted himself
    circumspectly because he felt that he could not be sure of
    anything once she became dissatisfied.
    It so happened that on the night when Hurstwood, Carrie, and
    Drouet were in the box at McVickar's, George, Jr., was in the
    sixth row of the parquet with the daughter of H. B. Carmichael,
    the third partner of a wholesale dry-goods house of that city.
    Hurstwood did not see his son, for he sat, as was his wont, as
    far back as possible, leaving himself just partially visible,
    when he bent forward, to those within the first six rows in
    question.  It was his wont to sit this way in every theatre--to
    make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it would
    be no advantage to him to have it otherwise.
    He never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct
    being misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him
    and counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity.
    The next morning at breakfast his son said:
    "I saw you, Governor, last night."
    "Were you at McVickar's?" said Hurstwood, with the best grace in
    the world.
    "Yes," said young George.
    "Who with?"
    "Miss Carmichael."
    Mrs. Hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but
    could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than
    a casual look into the theatre which was referred to.
    "How was the play?" she inquired.
    "Very good," returned Hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing,
    'Rip Van Winkle.'"
    "Whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed
    "Charlie Drouet and his wife.  They are friends of Moy's,
    visiting here."
    Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure
    as this would ordinarily create no difficulty.  His wife took it
    for granted that his situation called for certain social
    movements in which she might not be included.  But of late he had
    pleaded office duty on several occasions when his wife asked for
    his company to any evening entertainment.  He had done so in
    regard to the very evening in question only the morning before.
    "I thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very
    "So I was," he exclaimed.  "I couldn't help the interruption, but
    I made up for it afterward by working until two."
    This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a
    residue of opinion which was not satisfactory.  There was no time
    at which the claims of his wife could have been more
    unsatisfactorily pushed.  For years he had been steadily
    modifying his matrimonial devotion, and found her company dull.
    Now that a new light shone upon the horizon, this older luminary
    paled in the west.  He was satisfied to turn his face away
    entirely, and any call to look back was irksome.
    She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything
    less than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their
    relationship, though the spirit might be wanting.
    "We are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few
    days later.  "I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr.
    Phillips and his wife.  They're stopping at the Tremont, and
    we're going to show them around a little."
    After the occurrence of Wednesday, he could not refuse, though
    the Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance
    could make them.  He agreed, but it was with short grace.  He was
    angry when he left the house.
    "I'll put a stop to this," he thought.  "I'm not going to be
    bothered fooling around with visitors when I have work to do."
    Not long after this Mrs. Hurstwood came with a similar
    proposition, only it was to a matinee this time.
    "My dear," he returned, "I haven't time.  I'm too busy."
    "You find time to go with other people, though," she replied,
    with considerable irritation.
    "Nothing of the kind," he answered.  "I can't avoid business
    relations, and that's all there is to it."
    "Well, never mind," she exclaimed.  Her lips tightened.  The
    feeling of mutual antagonism was increased.
    On the other hand, his interest in Drouet's little shop-girl grew
    in an almost evenly balanced proportion.  That young lady, under
    the stress of her situation and the tutelage of her new friend,
    changed effectively.  She had the aptitude of the struggler who
    seeks emancipation.  The glow of a more showy life was not lost
    upon her.  She did not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened
    in the matter of desire.  Mrs. Hale's extended harangues upon the
    subjects of wealth and position taught her to distinguish between
    degrees of wealth.
    Mrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was
    fine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and
    lawns which she could not afford.  On the North Side had been
    erected a number of elegant mansions along what is now known as
    the North Shore Drive.  The present lake wall of stone and
    granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid
    out, the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon,
    and the houses were thoroughly new and imposing.  When the winter
    season had passed and the first fine days of the early spring
    appeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited
    Carrie.  They rode first through Lincoln Park and on far out
    towards Evanston, turning back at four and arriving at the north
    end of the Shore Drive at about five o'clock.  At this time of
    year the days are still comparatively short, and the shadows of
    the evening were beginning to settle down upon the great city.
    Lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which
    seems almost watery and translucent to the eye.  There was a
    softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of
    feeling to the flesh as well as to the soul.  Carrie felt that it
    was a lovely day.  She was ripened by it in spirit for many
    suggestions.  As they drove along the smooth pavement an
    occasional carriage passed.  She saw one stop and the footman
    dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who seemed to be
    leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure.  Across the
    broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps
    faintly glowing upon rich interiors.  Now it was but a chair, now
    a table, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed
    to her as almost nothing else could.  Such childish fancies as
    she had had of fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back.
    She imagined that across these richly carved entrance-ways, where
    the globed and crystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set
    with stained and designed panes of glass, was neither care nor
    unsatisfied desire.  She was perfectly certain that here was
    happiness.  If she could but stroll up yon broad walk, cross that
    rich entrance-way, which to her was of the beauty of a jewel, and
    sweep in grace and luxury to possession and command--oh! how
    quickly would sadness flee; how, in an instant, would the
    heartache end.  She gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting,
    longing, and all the while the siren voice of the unrestful was
    whispering in her ear.
    "If we could have such a home as that," said Mrs. Hale sadly,
    "how delightful it would be."
    "And yet they do say," said Carrie, "that no one is ever happy."
    She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless
    "I notice," said Mrs. Hale, "that they all try mighty hard,
    though, to take their misery in a mansion."
    When she came to her own rooms, Carrie saw their comparative
    insignificance.  She was not so dull but that she could perceive
    they were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished
    boarding-house.  She was not contrasting it now with what she had
    had, but what she had so recently seen.  The glow of the palatial
    doors was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still
    in her ears.  What, after all, was Drouet?  What was she?  At her
    window, she thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out
    across the lamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on Warren and
    Ashland avenues.  She was too wrought up to care to go down to
    eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing.  Some old tunes
    crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her heart sank.  She
    longed and longed and longed.  It was now for the old cottage
    room in Columbia City, now the mansion upon the Shore Drive, now
    the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene.  She
    was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying.
    Finally, it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and
    forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the
    lip.  She hummed and hummed as the moments went by, sitting in
    the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy, though she
    did not perceive it, as she ever would be.
    While Carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant
    brought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlour
    asking to see Mr. and Mrs. Drouet.
    "I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town," thought
    She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the
    winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing
    and another, principally by the strong impression he had made.
    She was quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but
    soon satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below.
    Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual.  He hadn't heard that
    Drouet was out of town.  He was but slightly affected by the
    intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics
    which would interest Carrie.  It was surprising--the ease with
    which he conducted a conversation.  He was like every man who has
    had the advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy.  He knew
    that Carrie listened to him pleasurably, and, without the least
    effort, he fell into a train of observation which absorbed her
    fancy.  He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such a
    degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential.  He confined
    himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and
    pleasures.  He had been here and there, he had seen this and
    that.  Somehow he made Carrie wish to see similar things, and all
    the while kept her aware of himself.  She could not shut out the
    consciousness of his individuality and presence for a moment.  He
    would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of something, and
    she was fixed by their magnetism.  He would draw out, with the
    easiest grace, her approval.  Once he touched her hand for
    emphasis and she only smiled.  He seemed to radiate an atmosphere
    which suffused her being.  He was never dull for a minute, and
    seemed to make her clever.  At least, she brightened under his
    influence until all her best side was exhibited.  She felt that
    she was more clever with him than with others.  At least, he
    seemed to find so much in her to applaud.  There was not the
    slightest touch of patronage.  Drouet was full of it.
    There had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting
    between them, both when Drouet was present and when he was
    absent, that Carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense
    of difficulty.  She was no talker.  She could never arrange her
    thoughts in fluent order.  It was always a matter of feeling with
    her, strong and deep.  Each time there had been no sentence of
    importance which she could relate, and as for the glances and
    sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such things had never
    been between her and Drouet.  As a matter of fact, they could
    never be.  She had been dominated by distress and the
    enthusiastic forces of relief which Drouet represented at an
    opportune moment when she yielded to him.  Now she was persuaded
    by secret current feelings which Drouet had never understood.
    Hurstwood's glance was as effective as the spoken words of a
    lover, and more.  They called for no immediate decision, and
    could not be answered.
    People in general attach too much importance to words.  They are
    under the illusion that talking effects great results.  As a
    matter of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of
    all the argument.  They but dimly represent the great surging
    feelings and desires which lie behind.  When the distraction of
    the tongue is removed, the heart listens.
    In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices
    of the things which he represented.  How suave was the counsel of
    his appearance!  How feelingly did his superior state speak for
    itself!  The growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit
    as a gentle hand.  She did not need to tremble at all, because it
    was invisible; she did not need to worry over what other people
    would say--what she herself would say--because it had no
    tangibility.  She was being pleaded with, persuaded, led into
    denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet there were no
    words to prove it.  Such conversation as was indulged in held the
    same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain
    that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident
    which it is used to cover.
    "Have you ever seen the houses along the Lake Shore on the North
    Side?" asked Hurstwood.
    "Why, I was just over there this afternoon--Mrs. Hale and I.
    Aren't they beautiful?"
    "They're very fine," he answered.
    "Oh, me," said Carrie, pensively.  "I wish I could live in such a
    "You're not happy," said Hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause.
    He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own.  He
    assumed that he had struck a deep chord.  Now was a slight chance
    to say a word in his own behalf.  He leaned over quietly and
    continued his steady gaze.  He felt the critical character of the
    period.  She endeavoured to stir, but it was useless.  The whole
    strength of a man's nature was working.  He had good cause to
    urge him on.  He looked and looked, and the longer the situation
    lasted the more difficult it became.  The little shop-girl was
    getting into deep water.  She was letting her few supports float
    away from her.
    "Oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that."
    "I can't help it," he answered.
    She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him
    "You are not satisfied with life, are you?"
    "No," she answered, weakly.
    He saw he was the master of the situation--he felt it.  He
    reached over and touched her hand.
    "You mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up.
    "I didn't intend to," he answered, easily.
    She did not run away, as she might have done.  She did not
    terminate the interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field
    of thought with the readiest grace.  Not long after he rose to
    go, and she felt that he was in power.
    "You mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will straighten
    out in the course of time."
    She made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say.
    "We are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand.
    "Yes," she answered.
    "Not a word, then, until I see you again."
    He retained a hold on her hand.
    "I can't promise," she said, doubtfully.
    "You must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple
    way that she was touched.
    "Let's not talk about it any more," she returned.
    "All right," he said, brightening.
    He went down the steps and into his cab.  Carrie closed the door
    and ascended into her room.  She undid her broad lace collar
    before the mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which
    she had recently bought.
    "I'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feeling
    of trouble and shame.  "I don't seem to do anything right."
    She unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose
    brown waves.  Her mind was going over the events of the evening.
    "I don't know," she murmured at last, "what I can do."
    "Well," said Hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right;
    that I know."
    The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his
    office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years.
    Chapter XIII
    It was not quite two days after the scene between Carrie and
    Hurstwood in the Ogden Place parlour before he again put in his
    appearance.  He had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her.
    Her leniency had, in a way, inflamed his regard.  He felt that he
    must succeed with her, and that speedily.
    The reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper
    than mere desire.  It was a flowering out of feelings which had
    been withering in dry and almost barren soil for many years.  It
    is probable that Carrie represented a better order of woman than
    had ever attracted him before.  He had had no love affair since
    that which culminated in his marriage, and since then time and
    the world had taught him how raw and erroneous was his original
    judgment.  Whenever he thought of it, he told himself that, if he
    had it to do over again, he would never marry such a woman.  At
    the same time, his experience with women in general had lessened
    his respect for the sex.  He maintained a cynical attitude, well
    grounded on numerous experiences.  Such women as he had known
    were of nearly one type, selfish, ignorant, flashy.  The wives of
    his friends were not inspiring to look upon.  His own wife had
    developed a cold, commonplace nature which to him was anything
    but pleasing.  What he knew of that under-world where grovel the
    beat-men of society (and he knew a great deal) had hardened his
    nature.  He looked upon most women with suspicion--a single eye
    to the utility of beauty and dress.  He followed them with a
    keen, suggestive glance.  At the same time, he was not so dull
    but that a good woman commanded his respect.  Personally, he did
    not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman.  He would
    take off his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the
    vicious in her presence--much as the Irish keeper of a Bowery
    hall will humble himself before a Sister of Mercy, and pay toll
    to charity with a willing and reverent hand.  But he would not
    think much upon the question of why he did so.
    A man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless
    or hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent
    soul, is apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own
    remoteness, or to draw near and become fascinated and elated by
    his discovery.  It is only by a roundabout process that such men
    ever do draw near such a girl.  They have no method, no
    understanding of how to ingratiate themselves in youthful favour,
    save when they find virtue in the toils.  If, unfortunately, the
    fly has got caught in the net, the spider can come forth and talk
    business upon its own terms.  So when maidenhood has wandered
    into the moil of the city, when it is brought within the circle
    of the "rounder" and the roue, even though it be at the outermost
    rim, they can come forth and use their alluring arts.
    Hurstwood had gone, at Drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage
    of fine clothes and pretty features.  He entered, expecting to
    indulge in an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of
    the newcomer forever.  Instead he found a woman whose youth and
    beauty attracted him.  In the mild light of Carrie's eye was
    nothing of the calculation of the mistress.  In the diffident
    manner was nothing of the art of the courtesan.  He saw at once
    that a mistake had been made, that some difficult conditions had
    pushed this troubled creature into his presence, and his interest
    was enlisted.  Here sympathy sprang to the rescue, but it was not
    unmixed with selfishness.  He wanted to win Carrie because he
    thought her fate mingled with his was better than if it were
    united with Drouet's.  He envied the drummer his conquest as he
    had never envied any man in all the course of his experience.
    Carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior,
    mentally, to Drouet.  She came fresh from the air of the village,
    the light of the country still in her eye.  Here was neither
    guile nor rapacity.  There were slight inherited traits of both
    in her, but they were rudimentary.  She was too full of wonder
    and desire to be greedy.  She still looked about her upon the
    great maze of the city without understanding.  Hurstwood felt the
    bloom and the youth.  He picked her as he would the fresh fruit
    of a tree.  He felt as fresh in her presence as one who is taken
    out of the flash of summer to the first cool breath of spring.
    Carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one
    with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange
    mental conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave
    it up.  She owed something to Drouet, she thought.  It did not
    seem more than yesterday that he had aided her when she was
    worried and distressed.  She had the kindliest feelings for him
    in every way.  She gave him credit for his good looks, his
    generous feelings, and even, in fact, failed to recollect his
    egotism when he was absent; but she could not feel any binding
    influence keeping her for him as against all others.  In fact,
    such a thought had never had any grounding, even in Drouet's
    The truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all
    enduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable
    fancy.  He went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all,
    that affection followed tenderly in his wake, that things would
    endure unchangingly for his pleasure.  When he missed some old
    face, or found some door finally shut to him, it did not grieve
    him deeply.  He was too young, too successful.  He would remain
    thus young in spirit until he was dead.
    As for Hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings
    concerning Carrie.  He had no definite plans regarding her, but
    he was determined to make her confess an affection for him.  He
    thought he saw in her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her
    wavering manner, the symptoms of a budding passion.  He wanted to
    stand near her and make her lay her hand in his--he wanted to
    find out what her next step would be--what the next sign of
    feeling for him would be.  Such anxiety and enthusiasm had not
    affected him for years.  He was a youth again in feeling--a
    cavalier in action.
    In his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was
    excellent.  He was a most faithful worker in general, and a man
    who commanded the confidence of his employers in so far as the
    distribution of his time was concerned.  He could take such hours
    off as he chose, for it was well known that he fulfilled his
    managerial duties successfully, whatever time he might take.  His
    grace, tact, and ornate appearance gave the place an air which
    was most essential, while at the same time his long experience
    made him a most excellent judge of its stock necessities.
    Bartenders and assistants might come and go, singly or in groups,
    but, so long as he was present, the host of old-time customers
    would barely notice the change.  He gave the place the atmosphere
    to which they were used.  Consequently, he arranged his hours
    very much to suit himself, taking now an afternoon, now an
    evening, but invariably returning between eleven and twelve to
    witness the last hour or two of the day's business and look after
    the closing details.
    "You see that things are safe and all the employees are out when
    you go home, George," Moy had once remarked to him, and he never
    once, in all the period of his long service, neglected to do
    this.  Neither of the owners had for years been in the resort
    after five in the afternoon, and yet their manager as faithfully
    fulfilled this request as if they had been there regularly to
    On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous
    visit, he made up his mind to see Carrie.  He could not stay away
    "Evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any one
    calls, I will be back between four and five."
    He hurried to Madison Street and boarded a horse-car, which
    carried him to Ogden Place in half an hour.
    Carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light
    grey woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket.  She had
    out her hat and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about
    her throat when the housemaid brought up the information that Mr.
    Hurstwood wished to see her.
    She started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to
    say that she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten
    her dressing.
    Carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was
    glad or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her
    presence.  She was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks,
    but it was more nervousness than either fear or favour.  She did
    not try to conjecture what the drift of the conversation would
    be.  She only felt that she must be careful, and that Hurstwood
    had an indefinable fascination for her.  Then she gave her tie
    its last touch with her fingers and went below.
    The deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the
    nerves by the thorough consciousness of his mission.  He felt
    that he must make a strong play on this occasion, but now that
    the hour was come, and he heard Carrie's feet upon the stair, his
    nerve failed him.  He sank a little in determination, for he was
    not so sure, after all, what her opinion might be.
    When she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him
    courage.  She looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the
    daring of any lover.  Her apparent nervousness dispelled his own.
    "How are you?" he said, easily.  "I could not resist the
    temptation to come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant."
    "Yes," said Carrie, halting before him, "I was just preparing to
    go for a walk myself."
    "Oh, were you?" he said.  "Supposing, then, you get your hat and
    we both go?"
    They crossed the park and went west along Washington Boulevard,
    beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses
    set back from the sidewalks.  It was a street where many of the
    more prosperous residents of the West Side lived, and Hurstwood
    could not help feeling nervous over the publicity of it.  They
    had gone but a few blocks when a livery stable sign in one of the
    side streets solved the difficulty for him.  He would take her to
    drive along the new Boulevard.
    The Boulevard at that time was little more than a country road.
    The part he intended showing her was much farther out on this
    same West Side, where there was scarcely a house.  It connected
    Douglas Park with Washington or South Park, and was nothing more
    than a neatly MADE road, running due south for some five miles
    over an open, grassy prairie, and then due east over the same
    kind of prairie for the same distance.  There was not a house to
    be encountered anywhere along the larger part of the route, and
    any conversation would be pleasantly free of interruption.
    At the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of
    range of either public observation or hearing.
    "Can you drive?" he said, after a time.
    "I never tried," said Carrie.
    He put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms.
    "You see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly.
    "Not when you have a gentle horse," said Carrie.
    "You can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little
    practice," he added, encouragingly.
    He had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation
    when he could give it a serious turn.  Once or twice he had held
    his peace, hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the
    colour of his own, but she had lightly continued the subject.
    Presently, however, his silence controlled the situation.  The
    drift of his thoughts began to tell.  He gazed fixedly at nothing
    in particular, as if he were thinking of something which
    concerned her not at all.  His thoughts, however, spoke for
    themselves.  She was very much aware that a climax was pending.
    "Do you know," he said, "I have spent the happiest evenings in
    years since I have known you?"
    "Have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by
    the conviction which the tone of his voice carried.
    "I was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "but
    somehow the opportunity slipped away."
    Carrie was listening without attempting to reply.  She could
    think of nothing worth while to say.  Despite all the ideas
    concerning right which had troubled her vaguely since she had
    last seen him, she was now influenced again strongly in his
    "I came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you just
    how I feel--to see if you wouldn't listen to me."
    Hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind.  He was
    capable of strong feelings--often poetic ones--and under a stress
    of desire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent.  That is, his
    feelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repression
    and pathos which is the essence of eloquence.
    "You know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a
    strange silence while he formulated words, "that I love you?"
    Carrie did not stir at the words.  She was bound up completely in
    the man's atmosphere.  He would have churchlike silence in order
    to express his feelings, and she kept it.  She did not move her
    eyes from the flat, open scene before her.  Hurstwood waited for
    a few moments, and then repeated the words.
    "You must not say that," she said, weakly.
    Her words were not convincing at all.  They were the result of a
    feeble thought that something ought to be said.  He paid no
    attention to them whatever.
    "Carrie," he said, using her first name with sympathetic
    familiarity, "I want you to love me.  You don't know how much I
    need some one to waste a little affection on me.  I am
    practically alone.  There is nothing in my life that is pleasant
    or delightful.  It's all work and worry with people who are
    nothing to me."
    As he said this, Hurstwood really imagined that his state was
    pitiful.  He had the ability to get off at a distance and view
    himself objectively--of seeing what he wanted to see in the
    things which made up his existence.  Now, as he spoke, his voice
    trembled with that peculiar vibration which is the result of
    tensity.  It went ringing home to his companion's heart.
    "Why, I should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes
    which were full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very
    happy.  You know so much of the world."
    "That is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "I
    know too much of the world."
    It was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned
    and powerful speaking in this manner.  She could not help feeling
    the strangeness of her situation.  How was it that, in so little
    a while, the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a
    garment, and the city, with all its mystery, taken its place?
    Here was this greatest mystery, the man of money and affairs
    sitting beside her, appealing to her.  Behold, he had ease and
    comfort, his strength was great, his position high, his clothing
    rich, and yet he was appealing to her.  She could formulate no
    thought which would be just and right.  She troubled herself no
    more upon the matter.  She only basked in the warmth of his
    feeling, which was as a grateful blaze to one who is cold.
    Hurstwood glowed with his own intensity, and the heat of his
    passion was already melting the wax of his companion's scruples.
    "You think," he said, "I am happy; that I ought not to complain?
    If you were to meet all day with people who care absolutely
    nothing about you, if you went day after day to a place where
    there was nothing but show and indifference, if there was not one
    person in all those you knew to whom you could appeal for
    sympathy or talk to with pleasure, perhaps you would be unhappy
    He was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in
    her own situation.  She knew what it was to meet with people who
    were indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely
    nothing about you.  Had not she?  Was not she at this very moment
    quite alone?  Who was there among all whom she knew to whom she
    could appeal for sympathy?  Not one.  She was left to herself to
    brood and wonder.
    "I could be content," went on Hurstwood, "if I had you to love
    me.  If I had you to go to; you for a companion.  As it is, I
    simply move about from place to place without any satisfaction.
    Time hangs heavily on my hands.  Before you came I did nothing
    but idle and drift into anything that offered itself.  Since you
    came--well, I've had you to think about."
    The old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began
    to grow in Carrie's mind.  She truly pitied this sad, lonely
    figure.  To think that all his fine state should be so barren for
    want of her; that he needed to make such an appeal when she
    herself was lonely and without anchor.  Surely, this was too bad.
    "I am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to
    her to explain on this score.  "You think, probably, that I roam
    around, and get into all sorts of evil?  I have been rather
    reckless, but I could easily come out of that.  I need you to
    draw me back, if my life ever amounts to anything."
    Carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels
    in its hope of reclaiming vice.  How could such a man need
    reclaiming?  His errors, what were they, that she could correct?
    Small they must be, where all was so fine.  At worst, they were
    gilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed.
    He put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved.
    "Is it that way?" she mused.
    He slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the
    heart to draw away.  With his free hand he seized upon her
    fingers.  A breath of soft spring wind went bounding over the
    road, rolling some brown twigs of the previous autumn before it.
    The horse paced leisurely on, unguided.
    "Tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me."
    Her eyes fell consciously.
    "Own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?"
    She made no answer, but he felt his victory.
    "Tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips
    were near together.  He pressed her hand warmly, and then
    released it to touch her cheek.
    "You do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own.
    For answer, her lips replied.
    "Now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own
    girl, aren't you?"
    By way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his
    Chapter XIV
    Carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically
    and mentally.  She was deeply rejoicing in her affection for
    Hurstwood and his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to
    their next meeting Sunday night.  They had agreed, without any
    feeling of enforced secrecy, that she should come down town and
    meet him, though, after all, the need of it was the cause.
    Mrs. Hale, from her upper window, saw her come in.
    "Um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man
    when her husband is out of the city.  He had better keep an eye
    on her."
    The truth is that Mrs. Hale was not the only one who had a
    thought on this score.  The housemaid who had welcomed Hurstwood
    had her opinion also.  She had no particular regard for Carrie,
    whom she took to be cold and disagreeable.  At the same time, she
    had a fancy for the merry and easy-mannered Drouet, who threw her
    a pleasant remark now and then, and in other ways extended her
    the evidence of that regard which he had for all members of the
    sex.  Hurstwood was more reserved and critical in his manner.  He
    did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the same pleasant
    way.  She wondered that he came so frequently, that Mrs. Drouet
    should go out with him this afternoon when Mr. Drouet was absent.
    She gave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook was.
    As a result, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the
    house in that secret manner common to gossip.
    Carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to Hurstwood to
    confess her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude
    towards him.  Temporarily she gave little thought to Drouet,
    thinking only of the dignity and grace of her lover and of his
    consuming affection for her.  On the first evening, she did
    little but go over the details of the afternoon.  It was the
    first time her sympathies had ever been thoroughly aroused, and
    they threw a new light on her character.  She had some power of
    initiative, latent before, which now began to exert itself.  She
    looked more practically upon her state and began to see
    glimmerings of a way out.  Hurstwood seemed a drag in the
    direction of honour.  Her feelings were exceedingly creditable,
    in that they constructed out of these recent developments
    something which conquered freedom from dishonour.  She had no
    idea what Hurstwood's next word would be.  She only took his
    affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more generous
    results accordingly.
    As yet, Hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without
    responsibility.  He did not feel that he was doing anything to
    complicate his life.  His position was secure, his home-life, if
    not satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty
    rather untrammelled.  Carrie's love represented only so much
    added pleasure.  He would enjoy this new gift over and above his
    ordinary allowance of pleasure.  He would be happy with her and
    his own affairs would go on as they had, undisturbed.
    On Sunday evening Carrie dined with him at a place he had
    selected in East Adams Street, and thereafter they took a cab to
    what was then a pleasant evening resort out on Cottage Grove
    Avenue near 39th Street.  In the process of his declaration he
    soon realised that Carrie took his love upon a higher basis than
    he had anticipated.  She kept him at a distance in a rather
    earnest way, and submitted only to those tender tokens of
    affection which better become the inexperienced lover.  Hurstwood
    saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and deferred
    pressing his suit too warmly.
    Since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he
    had to carry out the part.  His triumph, he saw, was still at a
    little distance.  How far he could not guess.
    They were returning to Ogden Place in the cab, when he asked:
    "When will I see you again?"
    "I don't know," she answered, wondering herself.
    "Why not come down to The Fair," he suggested, "next Tuesday?"
    She shook her head.
    "Not so soon," she answered.
    "I'll tell you what I'll do," he added.  "I'll write you, care of
    this West Side Post-office.  Could you call next Tuesday?"
    Carrie assented.
    The cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call.
    "Good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away.
    Unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, Drouet
    returned.  Hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office
    the next afternoon when he saw Drouet enter.
    "Why, hello, Charles," he called affably; "back again?"
    "Yes," smiled Drouet, approaching and looking in at the door.
    Hurstwood arose.
    "Well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?"
    They began talking of the people they knew and things that had
    "Been home yet?" finally asked Hurstwood.
    "No, I am going, though," said Drouet.
    "I remembered the little girl out there," said Hurstwood, "and
    called once.  Thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone."
    "Right you are," agreed Drouet.  "How is she?"
    "Very well," said Hurstwood.  "Rather anxious about you though.
    You'd better go out now and cheer her up."
    "I will," said Drouet, smilingly.
    "Like to have you both come down and go to the show with me
    Wednesday," concluded Hurstwood at parting.
    "Thanks, old man," said his friend, "I'll see what the girl says
    and let you know."
    They separated in the most cordial manner.
    "There's a nice fellow," Drouet thought to himself as he turned
    the corner towards Madison.
    "Drouet is a good fellow," Hurstwood thought to himself as he
    went back into his office, "but he's no man for Carrie."
    The thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant
    vein, and he wandered how he would get ahead of the drummer.
    When Drouet entered Carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms
    as usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of
    "Well," he said, "I had a great trip."
    "Did you? How did you come out with that La Crosse man you were
    telling me about?"
    "Oh, fine; sold him a complete line.  There was another fellow
    there, representing Burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but
    he wasn't in it.  I made him look like nothing at all."
    As he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to
    washing his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his
    trip.  Carrie could not help listening with amusement to his
    animated descriptions.
    "I tell you," he said, "I surprised the people at the office.
    I've sold more goods this last quarter than any other man of our
    house on the road.  I sold three thousand dollars' worth in La
    He plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as
    he rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while Carrie gazed
    upon him with mingled thoughts of recollection and present
    judgment.  He was still wiping his face, when he continued:
    "I'm going to strike for a raise in June.  They can afford to pay
    it, as much business as I turn in.  I'll get it too, don't you
    "I hope you do," said Carrie.
    "And then if that little real estate deal I've got on goes
    through, we'll get married," he said with a great show of
    earnestness, the while he took his place before the mirror and
    began brushing his hair.
    "I don't believe you ever intend to marry me, Charlie," Carrie
    said ruefully.  The recent protestations of Hurstwood had given
    her courage to say this.
    "Oh, yes I do--course I do--what put that into your head?"
    He had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed
    over to her.  For the first time Carrie felt as if she must move
    away from him.
    "But you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with her
    pretty face upturned into his.
    "Well, and I mean it too, but it takes money to live as I want
    to.  Now, when I get this increase, I can come pretty near fixing
    things all right, and I'll do it.  Now, don't you worry, girlie."
    He patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but Carrie felt how
    really futile had been her hopes.  She could clearly see that
    this easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf.  He was
    simply letting things drift because he preferred the free round
    of his present state to any legal trammellings.
    In contrast, Hurstwood appeared strong and sincere.  He had no
    easy manner of putting her off.  He sympathised with her and
    showed her what her true value was.  He needed her, while Drouet
    did not care.
    "Oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her
    own success and more of her helplessness, "you never will."
    "Well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded.  "I'll
    marry you all right."
    Carrie looked at him and felt justified.  She was looking for
    something which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a
    light, airy disregard of her claims upon his justice.  He had
    faithfully promised to marry her, and this was the way he
    fulfilled his promise.
    "Say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed
    of the marriage question, "I saw Hurstwood to-day, and he wants
    us to go to the theatre with him."
    Carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid
    "When?" she asked, with assumed indifference.
    "Wednesday.  We'll go, won't we?"
    "If you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedly
    reserved as to almost excite suspicion.  Drouet noticed something
    but he thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk
    about marriage.
    "He called once, he said."
    "Yes," said Carrie, "he was out here Sunday evening."
    "Was he?" said Drouet.  "I thought from what he said that he had
    called a week or so ago."
    "So he did," answered Carrie, who was wholly unaware of what
    conversation her lovers might have held.  She was all at sea
    mentally, and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from
    what she would answer.
    "Oh, then he called twice?" said Drouet, the first shade of
    misunderstanding showing in his face.
    "Yes," said Carrie innocently, feeling now that Hurstwood must
    have mentioned but one call.
    Drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend.  He
    did not attach particular importance to the information, after
    "What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased
    "He said he came because he thought I might be lonely.  You
    hadn't been in there so long he wondered what had become of you."
    "George is a fine fellow," said Drouet, rather gratified by his
    conception of the manager's interest.  "Come on and we'll go out
    to dinner."
    When Hurstwood saw that Drouet was back he wrote at once to
    Carrie, saying:
    "I told him I called on you, dearest, when he was away.  I did
    not say how often, but he probably thought once.  Let me know of
    anything you may have said.  Answer by special messenger when you
    get this, and, darling, I must see you.  Let me know if you can't
    meet me at Jackson and Throop Streets Wednesday afternoon at two
    o'clock.  I want to speak with you before we meet at the
    Carrie received this Tuesday morning when she called at the West
    Side branch of the post-office, and answered at once.
    "I said you called twice," she wrote.  "He didn't seem to mind.
    I will try and be at Throop Street if nothing interferes.  I seem
    to be getting very bad.  It's wrong to act as I do, I know."
    Hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this
    "You mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said.  "Just as soon as he
    goes on the road again we will arrange something.  We'll fix it
    so that you won't have to deceive any one."
    Carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had
    not directly said so, and her spirits rose.  She proposed to make
    the best of the situation until Drouet left again.
    "Don't show any more interest in me than you ever have,"
    Hurstwood counselled concerning the evening at the theatre.
    "You mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of
    the power of his eyes.
    "I won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the
    glance she had just cautioned against.
    "There," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him.
    "The show hasn't begun yet," he returned.
    He watched her walk from him with tender solicitation.  Such
    youth and prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine.
    At the theatre things passed as they had in Hurstwood's favour.
    If he had been pleasing to Carrie before, how much more so was he
    now.  His grace was more permeating because it found a readier
    medium.  Carrie watched his every movement with pleasure.  She
    almost forgot poor Drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host.
    Hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a
    change.  He paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend
    than usual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule
    which a lover in favour may so secretly practise before the
    mistress of his heart.  If anything, he felt the injustice of the
    game as it stood, and was not cheap enough to add to it the
    slightest mental taunt.
    Only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to
    Drouet alone.
    The scene was one in "The Covenant," in which the wife listened
    to the seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband.
    "Served him right," said Drouet afterward, even in view of her
    keen expiation of her error.  "I haven't any pity for a man who
    would be such a chump as that."
    "Well, you never can tell," returned Hurstwood gently.  "He
    probably thought he was right."
    "Well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if
    he wants to keep her."
    They had come out of the lobby and made their way through the
    showy crush about the entrance way.
    "Say, mister," said a voice at Hurstwood's side, "would you mind
    giving me the price of a bed?"
    Hurstwood was interestedly remarking to Carrie.
    "Honest to God, mister, I'm without a place to sleep."
    The plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who
    looked the picture of privation and wretchedness.  Drouet was the
    first to see.  He handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of
    pity in his heart.  Hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident.
    Carrie quickly forgot.
    Chapter XV
    The complete ignoring by Hurstwood of his own home came with the
    growth of his affection for Carrie.  His actions, in all that
    related to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind.  He sat
    at breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own
    fancies, which reached far without the realm of their interests.
    He read his paper, which was heightened in interest by the
    shallowness of the themes discussed by his son and daughter.
    Between himself and his wife ran a river of indifference.
    Now that Carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful
    again.  There was delight in going down town evenings.  When he
    walked forth in the short days, the street lamps had a merry
    twinkle.  He began to experience the almost forgotten feeling
    which hastens the lover's feet.  When he looked at his fine
    clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her eyes were young.
    When in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice,
    when the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams
    to a stale practice, how it grated.  He then knew that this was a
    chain which bound his feet.
    "George," said Mrs. Hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had
    long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we
    want you to get us a season ticket to the races."
    "Do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising
    "Yes," she answered.
    The races in question were soon to open at Washington Park, on
    the South Side, and were considered quite society affairs among
    those who did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism.
    Mrs. Hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before,
    but this year certain considerations decided her to get a box.
    For one thing, one of her neighbours, a certain Mr. and Mrs.
    Ramsey, who were possessors of money, made out of the coal
    business, had done so.  In the next place, her favourite
    physician, Dr. Beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and betting,
    had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a two-year-
    old in the Derby.  In the third place, she wished to exhibit
    Jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she
    hoped to marry to a man of means.  Her own desire to be about in
    such things and parade among her acquaintances and common throng
    was as much an incentive as anything.
    Hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without
    answering.  They were in the sitting room on the second floor,
    waiting for supper.  It was the evening of his engagement with
    Carrie and Drouet to see "The Covenant," which had brought him
    home to make some alterations in his dress.
    "You're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked,
    hesitating to say anything more rugged.
    "No," she replied impatiently.
    "Well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get
    mad about it.  I'm just asking you."
    "I'm not mad," she snapped.  "I'm merely asking you for a season
    "And I'm telling you," he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on
    her, "that it's no easy thing to get.  I'm not sure whether the
    manager will give it to me."
    He had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the race-
    track magnates.
    "We can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply.
    "You talk easy," he said.  "A season family ticket costs one
    hundred and fifty dollars."
    "I'll not argue with you," she replied with determination.  "I
    want the ticket and that's all there is to it."
    She had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room.
    "Well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified
    tone of voice.
    As usual, the table was one short that evening.
    The next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the
    ticket was duly secured, though it did not heal matters.  He did
    not mind giving his family a fair share of all that he earned,
    but he did not like to be forced to provide against his will.
    "Did you know, mother," said Jessica another day, "the Spencers
    are getting ready to go away?"
    "No.  Where, I wonder?"
    "Europe," said Jessica.  "I met Georgine yesterday and she told
    me.  She just put on more airs about it."
    "Did she say when?"
    "Monday, I think.  They'll get a notice in the papers again--they
    always do."
    "Never mind," said Mrs. Hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of
    these days."
    Hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing.
    "'We sail for Liverpool from New York,'" Jessica exclaimed,
    mocking her acquaintance.  "'Expect to spend most of the "summah"
    in France,'--vain thing.  As If it was anything to go to Europe."
    "It must be if you envy her so much," put in Hurstwood.
    It grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed.
    "Don't worry over them, my dear," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "Did George get off?" asked Jessica of her mother another day,
    thus revealing something that Hurstwood had heard nothing about.
    "Where has he gone?" he asked, looking up.  He had never before
    been kept in ignorance concerning departures.
    "He was going to Wheaton," said Jessica, not noticing the slight
    put upon her father.
    "What's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to
    think that he should be made to pump for information in this
    "A tennis match," said Jessica.
    "He didn't say anything to me," Hurstwood concluded, finding it
    difficult to refrain from a bitter tone.
    "I guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly.  In
    the past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect,
    which was a compound of appreciation and awe.  The familiarity
    which in part still existed between himself and his daughter he
    had courted.  As it was, it did not go beyond the light
    assumption of words.  The TONE was always modest.  Whatever had
    been, however, had lacked affection, and now he saw that he was
    losing track of their doings.  His knowledge was no longer
    intimate.  He sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did not.
    He heard of their doings occasionally, more often not.  Some days
    he found that he was all at sea as to what they were talking
    about--things they had arranged to do or that they had done in
    his absence.  More affecting was the feeling that there were
    little things going on of which he no longer heard.  Jessica was
    beginning to feel that her affairs were her own.  George, Jr.,
    flourished about as if he were a man entirely and must needs have
    private matters.  All this Hurstwood could see, and it left a
    trace of feeling, for he was used to being considered--in his
    official position, at least--and felt that his importance should
    not begin to wane here.  To darken it all, he saw the same
    indifference and independence growing in his wife, while he
    looked on and paid the bills.
    He consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all,
    he was not without affection.  Things might go as they would at
    his house, but he had Carrie outside of it.  With his mind's eye
    he looked into her comfortable room in Ogden Place, where he had
    spent several such delightful evenings, and thought how charming
    it would be when Drouet was disposed of entirely and she was
    waiting evenings in cosey little quarters for him.  That no cause
    would come up whereby Drouet would be led to inform Carrie
    concerning his married state, he felt hopeful.  Things were going
    so smoothly that he believed they would not change.  Shortly now
    he would persuade Carrie and all would be satisfactory.
    The day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly--
    a letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him.
    He was not literary by any means, but experience of the world and
    his growing affection gave him somewhat of a style.  This he
    exercised at his office desk with perfect deliberation.  He
    purchased a box of delicately coloured and scented writing paper
    in monogram, which he kept locked in one of the drawers.  His
    friends now wondered at the cleric and very official-looking
    nature of his position.  The five bartenders viewed with respect
    the duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work and
    Hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency.  By the natural law
    which governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him.  He
    began to feel those subtleties which he could find words to
    express.  With every expression came increased conception.  Those
    inmost breathings which there found words took hold upon him.  He
    thought Carrie worthy of all the affection he could there
    Carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to
    command that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom.
    Experience had not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit
    which is the charm of the body.  Her soft eyes contained in their
    liquid lustre no suggestion of the knowledge of disappointment.
    She had been troubled in a way by doubt and longing, but these
    had made no deeper impression than could be traced in a certain
    open wistfulness of glance and speech.  The mouth had the
    expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who might
    be upon the verge of tears.  It was not that grief was thus ever
    present.  The pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips
    this peculiarity of formation--a formation as suggestive and
    moving as pathos itself.
    There was nothing bold in her manner.  Life had not taught her
    domination--superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power
    of some women.  Her longing for consideration was not
    sufficiently powerful to move her to demand it.  Even now she
    lacked self-assurance, but there was that in what she had already
    experienced which left her a little less than timid.  She wanted
    pleasure, she wanted position, and yet she was confused as to
    what these things might be.  Every hour the kaleidoscope of human
    affairs threw a new lustre upon something, and therewith it
    became for her the desired--the all.  Another shift of the box,
    and some other had become the beautiful, the perfect.
    On her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a
    nature well might be.  Sorrow in her was aroused by many a
    spectacle--an uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the
    helpless.  She was constantly pained by the sight of the white-
    faced, ragged men who slopped desperately by her in a sort of
    wretched mental stupor.  The poorly clad girls who went blowing
    by her window evenings, hurrying home from some of the shops of
    the West Side, she pitied from the depths of her heart.  She
    would stand and bite her lips as they passed, shaking her little
    head and wondering.  They had so little, she thought.  It was so
    sad to be ragged and poor.  The hang of faded clothes pained her
    "And they have to work so hard!" was her only comment.
    On the street sometimes she would see men working--Irishmen with
    picks, coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, Americans busy
    about some work which was a mere matter of strength--and they
    touched her fancy.  Toil, now that she was free of it, seemed
    even a more desolate thing than when she was part of it.  She saw
    it through a mist of fancy--a pale, sombre half-light, which was
    the essence of poetic feeling.  Her old father, in his flour-
    dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in memory,
    revived by a face in a window.  A shoemaker pegging at his last,
    a blastman seen through a narrow window in some basement where
    iron was being melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in some
    window, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up; these took her back
    in fancy to the details of the mill.  She felt, though she seldom
    expressed them, sad thoughts upon this score.  Her sympathies
    were ever with that under-world of toil from which she had so
    recently sprung, and which she best understood.
    Though Hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose
    feelings were as tender and as delicate as this.  He did not
    know, but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him.  He
    never attempted to analyse the nature of his affection.  It was
    sufficient that there was tenderness in her eye, weakness in her
    manner, good nature and hope in her thoughts.  He drew near this
    lily, which had sucked its waxen beauty and perfume from below a
    depth of waters which he had never penetrated, and out of ooze
    and mould which he could not understand.  He drew near because it
    was waxen and fresh.  It lightened his feelings for him.  It made
    the morning worth while.
    In a material way, she was considerably improved.  Her
    awkwardness had all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint
    residue which was as pleasing as perfect grace.  Her little shoes
    now fitted her smartly and had high heels.  She had learned much
    about laces and those little neckpieces which add so much to a
    woman's appearance.  Her form had filled out until it was
    admirably plump and well-rounded.
    Hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in
    Jefferson Park, Monroe Street.  He did not consider it policy to
    call any more, even when Drouet was at home.
    The next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and
    had found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush
    which bordered one of the paths.  It was at that season of the
    year when the fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away.  At
    a little pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing
    white canvas boats.  In the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned
    officer of the law was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest
    in his belt.  An old gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of
    pruning shears, looking after some bushes.  High overhead was the
    clean blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness of the
    shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy
    Hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much
    of the same old annoyance.  At his store he had idled, there
    being no need to write.  He had come away to this place with the
    lightness of heart which characterises those who put weariness
    behind.  Now, in the shade of this cool, green bush, he looked
    about him with the fancy of the lover.  He heard the carts go
    lumbering by upon the neighbouring streets, but they were far
    off, and only buzzed upon his ear.  The hum of the surrounding
    city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music.  He
    looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned his
    present fixed condition not at all.  He got back in fancy to the
    old Hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solid
    position for life.  He remembered the light spirit in which he
    once looked after the girls--how he had danced, escorted them
    home, hung over their gates.  He almost wished he was back there
    again--here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly
    At two Carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and
    clean.  She had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season
    with a band of pretty white-dotted blue silk.  Her skirt was of a
    rich blue material, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin-
    stripe of blue upon a snow-white ground--stripes that were as
    fine as hairs.  Her brown shoes peeped occasionally from beneath
    her skirt.  She carried her gloves in her hand.
    Hurstwood looked up at her with delight.
    "You came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and
    taking her hand.
    "Of course," she said, smiling; "did you think I wouldn't?"
    "I didn't know," he replied.
    He looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk.
    Then he took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs
    and touched her face here and there.
    "Now," he said affectionately, "you're all right."
    They were happy in being near one another--in looking into each
    other's eyes.  Finally, when the long flush of delight had sub
    sided, he said:
    "When is Charlie going away again?"
    "I don't know," she answered.  "He says he has some things to do
    for the house here now."
    Hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought.  He
    looked up after a time to say:
    "Come away and leave him."
    He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request
    were of little importance.
    "Where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling
    her gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree.
    "Where do you want to go?" he enquired.
    There was something in the tone in which he said this which made
    her feel as if she must record her feelings against any local
    "We can't stay in Chicago," she replied.
    He had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removal
    would be suggested.
    "Why not?" he asked softly.
    "Oh, because," she said, "I wouldn't want to."
    He listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant.
    It had no serious ring to it.  The question was not up for
    immediate decision.
    "I would have to give up my position," he said.
    The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only
    slight consideration.  Carrie thought a little, the while
    enjoying the pretty scene.
    "I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here," she said,
    thinking of Drouet.
    "It's a big town, dearest," Hurstwood answered.  "It would be as
    good as moving to another part of the country to move to the
    South Side."
    He had fixed upon that region as an objective point.
    "Anyhow," said Carrie, "I shouldn't want to get married as long
    as he is here.  I wouldn't want to run away."
    The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly.  He saw
    clearly that this was her idea--he felt that it was not to be
    gotten over easily.  Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy
    thoughts for a moment.  He wondered for the life of him how it
    would all come out.  He could not see that he was making any
    progress save in her regard.  When he looked at her now, he
    thought her beautiful.  What a thing it was to have her love him,
    even if it be entangling! She increased in value in his eyes
    because of her objection.  She was something to struggle for, and
    that was everything.  How different from the women who yielded
    willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.
    "And you don't know when he'll go away?" asked Hurstwood,
    She shook her head.
    He sighed.
    "You're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a
    few moments, looking up into her eyes.
    She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this.  It was pride
    at what seemed his admiration--affection for the man who could
    feel this concerning her.
    "No," she said coyly, "but what can I do?"
    Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the
    "I wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me.  I don't
    like to be away from you this way.  What good is there in
    waiting? You're not any happier, are you?"
    "Happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that."
    "Here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our
    days.  If you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write
    to you the biggest part of the time.  I'll tell you what,
    Carrie," he exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into
    his voice and fixing her with his eyes, "I can't live without
    you, and that's all there is to it.  Now," he concluded, showing
    the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of at-an-end,
    helpless expression, "what shall I do?"
    This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie.  The
    semblance of the load without the weight touched the woman's
    "Can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly.  "I'll
    try and find out when he's going."
    "What good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of
    "Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere."
    She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was
    getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman
    Hurstwood did not understand.  He was wondering how she was to be
    persuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet.  He
    began to wonder how far her affection for him would carry her.
    He was thinking of some question which would make her tell.
    Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which
    often disguise our own desires while leading us to an
    understanding of the difficulties which others make for us, and
    so discover for us a way.  It had not the slightest connection
    with anything intended on his part, and was spoken at random
    before he had given it a moment's serious thought.
    "Carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious
    look which he did not feel, "suppose I were to come to you next
    week, or this week for that matter--to-night say--and tell you I
    had to go away--that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't
    coming back any more--would you come with me?"
    His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her
    answer ready before the words were out of his mouth.
    "Yes," she said.
    "You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?"
    "Not if you couldn't wait."
    He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought
    what a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or
    two.  He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush
    away her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too
    delightful.  He let it stand.
    "Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an
    afterthought striking him.
    "If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the
    journey it would be all right."
    "I meant that," he said.
    The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now.  He wondered
    whatever could have put such a thought into his head.  Impossible
    as it was, he could not help smiling at its cleverness.  It
    showed how she loved him.  There was no doubt in his mind now,
    and he would find a way to win her.
    "Well," he said, jokingly, "I'll come and get you one of these
    evenings," and then he laughed.
    "I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me,"
    Carrie added reflectively.
    "I don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand.
    She was extremely happy now that she understood.  She loved him
    the more for thinking that he would rescue her so.  As for him,
    the marriage clause did not dwell in his mind.  He was thinking
    that with such affection there could be no bar to his eventual
    "Let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all the
    lovely park.
    "All right," said Carrie.
    They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with
    envious eyes.
    "'Tis a foine couple," he observed to himself.  "They must be
    Chapter XVI
    In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some
    slight attention to the secret order to which he belonged.
    During his last trip he had received a new light on its
    "I tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing.
    Look at Hazenstab.  He isn't so deuced clever.  Of course he's
    got a good house behind him, but that won't do alone.  I tell you
    it's his degree.  He's a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way.
    He's got a secret sign that stands for something."
    Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest
    in such matters.  So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to
    his local lodge headquarters.
    "I say, Drouet," said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was
    very prominent in this local branch of the Elks, "you're the man
    that can help us out."
    It was after the business meeting and things were going socially
    with a hum.  Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a
    score of individuals whom he knew.
    "What are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling
    face upon his secret brother.
    "We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from to-
    day, and we want to know if you don't know some young lady who
    could take a part--it's an easy part."
    "Sure," said Drouet, "what is it?" He did not trouble to remember
    that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score.  His
    innate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.
    "Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on Mr.
    Quincel.  "We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the
    lodge.  There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present
    time, and we thought we would raise it by a little
    "Sure," interrupted Drouet, "that's a good idea."
    "Several of the boys around here have got talent.  There's Harry
    Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn.  Mac Lewis is all right
    at heavy dramatics.  Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the
    "Never did."
    "Well, I tell you, he does it fine."
    "And you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned
    Drouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something
    else.  "What are you going to play?"
    "'Under the Gaslight,'" said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin
    Daly's famous production, which had worn from a great public
    success down to an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the
    troublesome accessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced
    to the smallest possible number.
    Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.
    "That's it," he said; "that's a fine play.  It will go all right.
    You ought to make a lot of money out of that."
    "We think we'll do very well," Mr. Quincel replied.  "Don't you
    forget now," he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness;
    "some young woman to take the part of Laura."
    "Sure, I'll attend to it."
    He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr.
    Quincel had ceased talking.  He had not even thought to ask the
    time or place.
    Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the
    receipt of a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set
    for the following Friday evening, and urging him to kindly
    forward the young lady's address at once, in order that the part
    might be delivered to her.
    "Now, who the deuce do I know?" asked the drummer reflectively,
    scratching his rosy ear.  "I don't know any one that knows
    anything about amateur theatricals."
    He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew,
    and finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient
    location of her home on the West Side, and promised himself that
    as he came out that evening he would see her.  When, however, he
    started west on the car he forgot, and was only reminded of his
    delinquency by an item in the "Evening News"--a small three-line
    affair under the head of Secret Society Notes--which stated the
    Custer Lodge of the Order of Elks would give a theatrical
    performance in Avery Hall on the 16th, when "Under the Gaslight"
    would be produced.
    "George!" exclaimed Drouet, "I forgot that."
    "What?" inquired Carrie.
    They were at their little table in the room which might have been
    used for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served a meal.  To-
    night the fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread
    with a pleasing repast.
    "Why, my lodge entertainment.  They're going to give a play, and
    they wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part."
    "What is it they're going to play?"
    "'Under the Gaslight.'"
    "On the 16th."
    "Well, why don't you?" asked Carrie.
    "I don't know any one," he replied.
    Suddenly he looked up.
    "Say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?"
    "Me?" said Carrie.  "I can't act."
    "How do you know?" questioned Drouet reflectively.
    "Because," answered Carrie, "I never did."
    Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask.  Her eyes
    brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her
    sympathies it was the art of the stage.
    True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out.
    "That's nothing.  You can act all you have to down there."
    "No, I can't," said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the
    proposition and yet fearful.
    "Yes, you can.  Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and
    it will be lots of fun for you."
    "Oh, no, it won't," said Carrie seriously.
    "You'd like that.  I know you would.  I've seen you dancing
    around here and giving imitations and that's why I asked you.
    You're clever enough, all right."
    "No, I'm not," said Carrie shyly.
    "Now, I'll tell you what you do.  You go down and see about it.
    It'll be fun for you.  The rest of the company isn't going to be
    any good.  They haven't any experience.  What do they know about
    He frowned as he thought of their ignorance.
    "Hand me the coffee," he added.
    "I don't believe I could act, Charlie," Carrie went on pettishly.
    "You don't think I could, do you?"
    "Sure.  Out o' sight.  I bet you make a hit.  Now you want to go,
    I know you do.  I knew it when I came home.  That's why I asked
    "What is the play, did you say?"
    "'Under the Gaslight.'"
    "What part would they want me to take?"
    "Oh, one of the heroines--I don't know."
    "What sort of a play is it?"
    "Well," said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the
    best, "it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of
    crooks--a man and a woman that live in the slums.  She had some
    money or something and they wanted to get it.  I don't know now
    how it did go exactly."
    "Don't you know what part I would have to take?"
    "No, I don't, to tell the truth." He thought a moment.  "Yes, I
    do, too.  Laura, that's the thing--you're to be Laura."
    "And you can't remember what the part is like?"
    "To save me, Cad, I can't," he answered.  "I ought to, too; I've
    seen the play enough.  There's a girl in it that was stolen when
    she was an infant--was picked off the street or something--and
    she's the one that's hounded by the two old criminals I was
    telling you about." He stopped with a mouthful of pie poised on a
    fork before his face.  "She comes very near getting drowned--no,
    that's not it.  I'll tell you what I'll do," he concluded
    hopelessly, "I'll get you the book.  I can't remember now for the
    life of me."
    "Well, I don't know," said Carrie, when he had concluded, her
    interest and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her
    timidity for the mastery.  "I might go if you thought I'd do all
    "Of course, you'll do," said Drouet, who, in his efforts to
    enthuse Carrie, had interested himself.  "Do you think I'd come
    home here and urge you to do something that I didn't think you
    would make a success of? You can act all right.  It'll be good
    for you."
    "When must I go?" said Carrie, reflectively.
    "The first rehearsal is Friday night.  I'll get the part for you
    "All right," said Carrie resignedly, "I'll do it, but if I make a
    failure now it's your fault."
    "You won't fail," assured Drouet.  "Just act as you do around
    here.  Be natural.  You're all right.  I've often thought you'd
    make a corking good actress."
    "Did you really?" asked Carrie.
    "That's right," said the drummer.
    He little knew as he went out of the door that night what a
    secret flame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left
    behind.  Carrie was possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable
    nature which, ever in the most developed form, has been the glory
    of the drama.  She was created with that passivity of soul which
    is always the mirror of the active world.  She possessed an
    innate taste for imitation and no small ability.  Even without
    practice, she could sometimes restore dramatic situations she had
    witnessed by re-creating, before her mirror, the expressions of
    the various faces taking part in the scene.  She loved to
    modulate her voice after the conventional manner of the
    distressed heroine, and repeat such pathetic fragments as
    appealed most to her sympathies.  Of late, seeing the airy grace
    of the ingenue in several well-constructed plays, she had been
    moved to secretly imitate it, and many were the little movements
    and expressions of the body in which she indulged from time to
    time in the privacy of her chamber.  On several occasions, when
    Drouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the
    mirror, she was doing nothing more than recalling some little
    grace of the mouth or the eyes which she had witnessed in
    another.  Under his airy accusation she mistook this for vanity
    and accepted the blame with a faint sense of error, though, as a
    matter of fact, it was nothing more than the first subtle
    outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring to re-create the
    perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed to her.
    In such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of desire
    to reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art.
    Now, when Carrie heard Drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic
    ability, her body tingled with satisfaction.  Like the flame
    which welds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words
    united those floating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but
    never believed, concerning her possible ability, and made them
    into a gaudy shred of hope.  Like all human beings, she had a
    touch of vanity.  She felt that she could do things if she only
    had a chance.  How often had she looked at the well-dressed
    actresses on the stage and wondered how she would look, how
    delightful she would feel if only she were in their place.  The
    glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the applause,
    these had lured her until she felt that she, too, could act--that
    she, too, could compel acknowledgment of power.  Now she was told
    that she really could--that little things she had done about the
    house had made even him feel her power.  It was a delightful
    sensation while it lasted.
    When Drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the
    window to think about it.  As usual, imagination exaggerated the
    possibilities for her.  It was as if he had put fifty cents in
    her hand and she had exercised the thoughts of a thousand
    dollars.  She saw herself in a score of pathetic situations in
    which she assumed a tremulous voice and suffering manner.  Her
    mind delighted itself with scenes of luxury and refinement,
    situations in which she was the cynosure of all eyes, the arbiter
    of all fates.  As she rocked to and fro she felt the tensity of
    woe in abandonment, the magnificence of wrath after deception,
    the languour of sorrow after defeat.  Thoughts of all the
    charming women she had seen in plays--every fancy, every illusion
    which she had concerning the stage--now came back as a returning
    tide after the ebb.  She built up feelings and a determination
    which the occasion did not warrant.
    Drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and
    swashed around with a great AIR, as Quincel met him.
    "Where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked
    the latter.
    "I've got her," said Drouet.
    "Have you?" said Quincel, rather surprised by his promptness;
    "that's good.  What's her address?" and he pulled out his
    notebook in order to be able to send her part to her.
    "You want to send her her part?" asked the drummer.
    "Well, I'll take it.  I'm going right by her house in the
    "What did you say her address was? We only want it in case we
    have any information to send her."
    "Twenty-nine Ogden Place."
    "And her name?"
    "Carrie Madenda," said the drummer, firing at random.  The lodge
    members knew him to be single.
    "That sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said
    "Yes, it does."
    He took the part home to Carrie and handed it to her with the
    manner of one who does a favour.
    "He says that's the best part.  Do you think you can do it?"
    "I don't know until I look it over.  You know I'm afraid, now
    that I've said I would."
    "Oh, go on.  What have you got to be afraid of? It's a cheap
    company.  The rest of them aren't as good as you are."
    "Well, I'll see," said Carrie, pleased to have the part, for all
    her misgivings.
    He sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to
    make his next remark.
    "They were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and
    I gave them the name of Carrie Madenda.  Was that all right?"
    "Yes, I guess so," said his companion, looking up at him.  She
    was thinking it was slightly strange.
    "If you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on.
    "Oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution.  It
    was clever for Drouet.
    "I didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel
    worse then if you didn't GO.  They all know me so well.  But
    you'll GO all right.  Anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of
    them again."
    "Oh, I don't care," said Carrie desperately.  She was determined
    now to have a try at the fascinating game.
    Drouet breathed a sigh of relief.  He had been afraid that he was
    about to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage
    The part of Laura, as Carrie found out when she began to examine
    it, was one of suffering and tears.  As delineated by Mr. Daly,
    it was true to the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he
    found it when he began his career.  The sorrowful demeanour, the
    tremolo music, the long, explanatory, cumulative addresses, all
    were there.
    "Poor fellow," read Carrie, consulting the text and drawing her
    voice out pathetically.  "Martin, be sure and give him a glass of
    wine before he goes."
    She was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not
    knowing that she must be on the stage while others were talking,
    and not only be there, but also keep herself in harmony with the
    dramatic movement of the scenes.
    "I think I can do that, though," she concluded.
    When Drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with
    her day's study.
    "Well, how goes it, Caddie?" he said.
    "All right," she laughed.  "I think I have it memorised nearly."
    "That's good," he said.  "Let's hear some of it."
    "Oh, I don't know whether I can get up and say it off here," she
    said bashfully.
    "Well, I don't know why you shouldn't.  It'll be easier here than
    it will there."
    "I don't know about that," she answered.
    Eventually she took off the ballroom episode with considerable
    feeling, forgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about
    Drouet, and letting herself rise to a fine state of feeling.
    "Good," said Drouet; "fine, out o' sight! You're all right
    Caddie, I tell you."
    He was really moved by her excellent representation and the
    general appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and
    finally fainted to the floor.  He had bounded up to catch her,
    and now held her laughing in his arms.
    "Ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked.
    "Not a bit."
    "Well, you're a wonder.  Say, I never knew you could do anything
    like that."
    "I never did, either," said Carrie merrily, her face flushed with
    "Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet.  "You can
    take my word for that.  You won't fail."
    Chapter XVII
    The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take
    place at the Avery on conditions which were to make it more
    noteworthy than was at first anticipated.  The little dramatic
    student had written to Hurstwood the very morning her part was
    brought her that she was going to take part in a play.
    "I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a
    jest; "I have my part now, honest, truly."
    Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this.
    "I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that."
    He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability.
    "I haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success.  You must
    come to the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it."
    Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the
    undertaking as she understood it.
    "Well," he said, "that's fine.  I'm glad to hear it.  Of course,
    you will do well, you're so clever."
    He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before.  Her
    tendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce
    disappeared.  As she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red.
    She radiated much of the pleasure which her undertakings gave
    her.  For all her misgivings--and they were as plentiful as the
    moments of the day--she was still happy.  She could not repress
    her delight in doing this little thing which, to an ordinary
    observer, had no importance at all.
    Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the
    girl had capabilities.  There is nothing so inspiring in life as
    the sight of a legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient.  It
    gives colour, force, and beauty to the possessor.
    Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus.  She
    drew to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had
    not earned.  Their affection for her naturally heightened their
    perception of what she was trying to do and their approval of
    what she did.  Her inexperience conserved her own exuberant
    fancy, which ran riot with every straw of opportunity, making of
    it a golden divining rod whereby the treasure of life was to be
    "Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys in
    the lodge.  I'm an Elk myself."
    "Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you."
    "That's so," said the manager.
    "I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't
    see how you can unless he asks you."
    "I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately.  "I can fix it so
    he won't know you told me.  You leave it to me."
    This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the
    performance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth
    talking about.  Already he was thinking of a box with some
    friends, and flowers for Carrie.  He would make it a dress-suit
    affair and give the little girl a chance.
    Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort,
    and he was at once spied by Hurstwood.  It was at five in the
    afternoon and the place was crowded with merchants, actors,
    managers, politicians, a goodly company of rotund, rosy figures,
    silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed, beringed and bescarfpinned to the
    queen's taste.  John L. Sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of
    the glittering bar, surrounded by a company of loudly dressed
    sports, who were holding a most animated conversation.  Drouet
    came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan
    shoes squeaking audibly at his progress.
    "Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of
    you.  I thought you had gone out of town again."
    Drouet laughed.
    "If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the
    "Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy."
    They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting
    company of notables.  The dressy manager was shaken by the hand
    three times in as many minutes.
    "I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed
    Hurstwood, in the most offhand manner.
    "Yes, who told you?"
    "No one," said Hurstwood.  "They just sent me a couple of
    tickets, which I can have for two dollars.  Is it going to be any
    "I don't know," replied the drummer.  "They've been trying to get
    me to get some woman to take a part."
    "I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily.  "I'll
    subscribe, of course.  How are things over there?"
    "All right.  They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds."
    "Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it.
    Have another?"
    He did not intend to say any more.  Now, if he should appear on
    the scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged
    to come along.  Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility
    of confusion.
    "I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said
    abruptly, after thinking it over.
    "You don't say so! How did that happen?"
    "Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one.  I
    told Carrie, and she seems to want to try."
    "Good for her," said the manager.  "It'll be a real nice affair.
    Do her good, too.  Has she ever had any experience?"
    "Not a bit."
    "Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious."
    "She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputation
    against Carrie's ability.  "She picks up her part quick enough."
    "You don't say so!" said the manager.
    "Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night.  By George, if she
    "We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager.
    "I'll look after the flowers."
    Drouet smiled at his good-nature.
    "After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little
    "I think she'll do all right," said Drouet.
    "I want to see her.  She's got to do all right.  We'll make her,"
    and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which
    was a compound of good-nature and shrewdness.
    Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal.  At this
    performance Mr. Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young
    man who had some qualifications of past experience, which were
    not exactly understood by any one.  He was so experienced and so
    business-like, however, that he came very near being rude--
    failing to remember, as he did, that the individuals he was
    trying to instruct were volunteer players and not salaried
    "Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one
    part uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand
    like that.  Put expression in your face.  Remember, you are
    troubled over the intrusion of the stranger.  Walk so," and he
    struck out across the Avery stage in almost drooping manner.
    Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of
    the situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less
    nervous, and the desire to do anything rather than make a
    failure, made her timid.  She walked in imitation of her mentor
    as requested, inwardly feeling that there was something strangely
    "Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman
    who was to take the part of Pearl, "you sit here.  Now, Mr.
    Bamberger, you stand here, so.  Now, what is it you say?"
    "Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly.  He had the part of Ray,
    Laura's lover, the society individual who was to waver in his
    thoughts of marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a
    nobody by birth.
    "How is that--what does your text say?"
    "Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.
    "Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to
    look shocked.  Now, say it again, and see if you can't look
    "Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.
    "No, no, that won't do! Say it this way--EXPLAIN."
    "Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.
    "That's better.  Now go on."
    "One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father
    and mother were going to the opera.  When they were crossing
    Broadway, the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms--"
    "Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended.
    "Put more feeling into what you are saying."
    Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault.
    Her eye lightened with resentment.
    "Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but
    modifying his manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story.
    You are now supposed to be telling something that is a grief to
    you.  It requires feeling, repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of
    children accosted them for alms.'"
    "All right," said Mrs. Morgan.
    "Now, go on."
    "As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers
    touched a cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse."
    "Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head
    "A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines
    that here fell to him.
    "No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not
    that way.  'A pickpocket--well?' so.  That's the idea."
    "Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not
    been proved yet whether the members of the company knew their
    lines, let alone the details of expression, "that it would be
    better if we just went through our lines once to see if we know
    them? We might pick up some points."
    "A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at
    the side of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering
    opinions which the director did not heed.
    "All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well
    to do it." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose
    we run right through, putting in as much expression as we can."
    "Good," said Mr. Quincel.
    "This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger
    and down at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped
    in her own, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an
    exclamation of pain.  Mother looked down, and there beside her
    was a little ragged girl."
    "Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle.
    "The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.
    "Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to
    keep his hands off.
    "The thief!" roared poor Bamberger.
    "Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an
    angel's.  'Stop,' said my mother.  'What are you doing?'
    "'Trying to steal,' said the child.
    "'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father.
    "'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.'
    "'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother.
    "'She--there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a
    doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street.  'That is
    old Judas,' said the girl."
    Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in
    despair.  He fidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.
    "What do you think of them?" he asked.
    "Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the
    latter, with an air of strength under difficulties.
    "I don't know," said the director.  "That fellow Bamberger
    strikes me as being a pretty poor shift for a lover."
    "He's all we've got," said Quincel, rolling up his eyes.
    "Harrison went back on me at the last minute.  Who else can we
    "I don't know," said the director.  "I'm afraid he'll never pick
    At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking
    with me."
    "Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his
    hand.  "My Lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a
    sentence like that?"
    "Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly.
    The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie,
    as Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after
    hearing Pearl's statement about her birth, had written the letter
    repudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver.  Bamberger
    was just concluding the words of Ray, "I must go before she
    returns.  Her step! Too late," and was cramming the letter in his
    pocket, when she began sweetly with:
    "Miss--Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly.
    Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company
    present.  She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent
    smile to her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a
    window, as if he were not present.  She did it with a grace which
    was fascinating to look upon.
    "Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in her
    little scene with Bamberger.
    "Miss Madenda," said Quincel.
    "I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?"
    "I don't know," said Quincel.  "She's a friend of one of our
    "Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so
    far--seems to take an interest in what she's doing."
    "Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel.
    The director strolled away without answering.
    In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company
    in the ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the
    director, who volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to
    come over and speak with her.
    "Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly.
    "No," said Carrie.
    "You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience."
    Carrie only smiled consciously.
    He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting
    some ardent line.
    Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with
    envious and snapping black eyes.
    "She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the
    satisfaction of thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.
    The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling
    that she had acquitted herself satisfactorily.  The words of the
    director were ringing in her ears, and she longed for an
    opportunity to tell Hurstwood.  She wanted him to know just how
    well she was doing.  Drouet, too, was an object for her
    confidences.  She could hardly wait until he should ask her, and
    yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up.  The drummer,
    however, had another line of thought to-night, and her little
    experience did not appeal to him as important.  He let the
    conversation drop, save for what she chose to recite without
    solicitation, and Carrie was not good at that.  He took it for
    granted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of
    further worry.  Consequently he threw Carrie into repression,
    which was irritating.  She felt his indifference keenly and
    longed to see Hurstwood.  It was as if he were now the only
    friend she had on earth.  The next morning Drouet was interested
    again, but the damage had been done.
    She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time
    she got it he would be waiting for her in the park.  When she
    came, he shone upon her as the morning sun.
    "Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?"
    "Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.
    "Now, tell me just what you did.  Was it pleasant?"
    Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she
    "Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood.  "I'm so glad.  I must
    get over there to see you.  When is the next rehearsal?"
    "Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors."
    "I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly.
    She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration,
    but she made him promise not to come around.
    "Now, you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly.
    "Just remember that I want you to succeed.  We will make the
    performance worth while.  You do that now."
    "I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.
    "That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly.  "Now, remember,"
    shaking an affectionate finger at her, "your best."
    "I will," she answered, looking back.
    The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning.  She tripped
    along, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul.  Oh,
    blessed are the children of endeavour in this, that they try and
    are hopeful.  And blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and
    Chapter XVIII
    By the evening of the 16th the subtle hand of Hurstwood had made
    itself apparent.  He had given the word among his friends--and
    they were many and influential--that here was something which
    they ought to attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets
    by Mr. Quincel, acting for the lodge, had been large.  Small
    four-line notes had appeared in all of the daily newspapers.
    These he had arranged for by the aid of one of his newspaper
    friends on the "Times," Mr. Harry McGarren, the managing editor.
    "Say, Harry," Hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter
    stood at the bar drinking before wending his belated way
    homeward, "you can help the boys out, I guess."
    "What is it?" said McGarren, pleased to be consulted by the
    opulent manager.
    "The Custer Lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their
    own good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice.  You know
    what I mean--a squib or two saying that it's going to take
    "Certainly," said McGarren, "I can fix that for you, George."
    At the same time Hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background.
    The members of Custer Lodge could scarcely understand why their
    little affair was taking so well.  Mr. Harry Quincel was looked
    upon as quite a star for this sort of work.
    By the time the 16th had arrived Hurstwood's friends had rallied
    like Romans to a senator's call.  A well-dressed, good-natured,
    flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he
    thought of assisting Carrie.
    That little student had mastered her part to her own
    satisfaction, much as she trembled for her fate when she should
    once face the gathered throng, behind the glare of the
    footlights.  She tried to console herself with the thought that a
    score of other persons, men and women, were equally tremulous
    concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could not
    disassociate the general danger from her own individual
    liability.  She feared that she would forget her lines, that she
    might be unable to master the feeling which she now felt
    concerning her own movements in the play.  At times she wished
    that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled
    lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and
    gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire
    In the matter of the company, Mr. Bamberger had disappeared.
    That hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the
    director's criticism.  Mrs. Morgan was still present, but envious
    and determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as
    Carrie at least.  A loafing professional had been called in to
    assume the role of Ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his
    kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms which attack the
    spirit of those who have never faced an audience.  He swashed
    about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning his
    past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner
    that he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere
    matter of circumstantial evidence.
    "It is so easy," he said to Mrs. Morgan, in the usual affected
    stage voice.  "An audience would be the last thing to trouble me.
    It's the spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult."
    Carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress
    not to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she
    must suffer his fictitious love for the evening.
    At six she was ready to go.  Theatrical paraphernalia had been
    provided over and above her care.  She had practised her make-up
    in the morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the
    evening by one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at
    her part, waiting for the evening to come.
    On this occasion the lodge sent a carriage.  Drouet rode with her
    as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores,
    looking for some good cigars.  The little actress marched
    nervously into her dressing-room and began that painfully
    anticipated matter of make-up which was to transform her, a
    simple maiden, to Laura, The Belle of Society.
    The flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel
    and display, the scattered contents of the make-up box--rouge,
    pearl powder, whiting, burnt cork, India ink, pencils for the
    eye-lids, wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery--in short, all
    the nameless paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable
    atmosphere of their own.  Since her arrival in the city many
    things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed manner.
    This new atmosphere was more friendly.  It was wholly unlike the
    great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting
    her only awe and distant wonder.  This took her by the hand
    kindly, as one who says, "My dear, come in." It opened for her as
    if for its own.  She had wondered at the greatness of the names
    upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the
    papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere
    of carriages, flowers, refinement.  Here was no illusion.  Here
    was an open door to see all of that.  She had come upon it as one
    who stumbles upon a secret passage and, behold, she was in the
    chamber of diamonds and delight!
    As she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing
    the voices outside, seeing Mr. Quincel hurrying here and there,
    noting Mrs. Morgan and Mrs. Hoagland at their nervous work of
    preparation, seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving
    about and worrying over what the result would be, she could not
    help thinking what a delight this would be if it would endure;
    how perfect a state, if she could only do well now, and then some
    time get a place as a real actress.  The thought had taken a
    mighty hold upon her.  It hummed in her ears as the melody of an
    old song.
    Outside in the little lobby another scene was begin enacted.
    Without the interest of Hurstwood, the little hall would probably
    have been comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were
    moderately interested in its welfare.  Hurstwood's word, however,
    had gone the rounds.  It was to be a full-dress affair.  The four
    boxes had been taken.  Dr. Norman McNeill Hale and his wife were
    to occupy one.  This was quite a card.  C. R. Walker, dry-goods
    merchant and possessor of at least two hundred thousand dollars,
    had taken another; a well-known coal merchant had been induced to
    take the third, and Hurstwood and his friends the fourth.  Among
    the latter was Drouet.  The people who were now pouring here were
    not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general sense.
    They were the lights of a certain circle--the circle of small
    fortunes and secret order distinctions.  These gentlemen Elks
    knew the standing of one another.  They had regard for the
    ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep
    a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain
    a good mercantile position.  Naturally, Hurstwood, who was a
    little above the order of mind which accepted this standard as
    perfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who
    held an imposing and authoritative position, and commanded
    friendship by intuitive tact in handling people, was quite a
    figure.  He was more generally known than most others in the same
    circle, and was looked upon as some one whose reserve covered a
    mine of influence and solid financial prosperity.
    To-night he was in his element.  He came with several friends
    directly from Rector's in a carriage.  In the lobby he met
    Drouet, who was just returning from a trip for more cigars.  All
    five now joined in an animated conversation concerning the
    company present and the general drift of lodge affairs.
    "Who's here?" said Hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper,
    where the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were
    laughing and talking in the open space back of the seats.
    "Why, how do you do, Mr. Hurstwood?" came from the first
    individual recognised.
    "Glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly.
    "Looks quite an affair, doesn't it?"
    "Yes, indeed," said the manager.
    "Custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed the
    "So it should," said the knowing manager.  "I'm glad to see it."
    "Well, George," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois
    made necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt
    bosom, "how goes it with you?"
    "Excellent," said the manager.
    "What brings you over here? You're not a member of Custer."
    "Good-nature," returned the manager.  "Like to see the boys, you
    "Wife here?"
    "She couldn't come to-night.  She's not well."
    "Sorry to hear it--nothing serious, I hope."
    "No, just feeling a little ill."
    "I remember Mrs.  Hurstwood when she was travelling once with you
    over to St. Joe--" and here the newcomer launched off in a
    trivial recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more
    "Why, George, how are you?" said another genial West Side
    politician and lodge member.  "My, but I'm glad to see you again;
    how are things, anyhow?"
    "Very well; I see you got that nomination for alderman."
    "Yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble."
    "What do you suppose Hennessy will do now?"
    "Oh, he'll go back to his brick business.  He has a brick-yard,
    you know."
    "I didn't know that," said the manager.  "Felt pretty sore, I
    suppose, over his defeat."
    "Perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly.
    Some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited
    began to roll up in carriages now.  They came shuffling in with a
    great show of finery and much evident feeling of content and
    "Here we are," said Hurstwood, turning to one from a group with
    whom he was talking.
    "That's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about
    "And say," he whispered, jovially, pulling Hurstwood over by the
    shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a
    good show, I'll punch your head."
    "You ought to pay for seeing your old friends.  Bother the show!"
    To another who inquired, "Is it something really good?" the
    manager replied:
    "I don't know.  I don't suppose so." Then, lifting his hand
    graciously, "For the lodge."
    "Lots of boys out, eh?"
    "Yes, look up Shanahan.  He was just asking for you a moment
    It was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of
    successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of
    good-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding.  Look
    at him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up,
    he was a member of an eminent group--a rounded company of five or
    more whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins
    bespoke the character of their success.  The gentlemen who
    brought their wives called him out to shake hands.  Seats
    clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on.  He was
    evidently a light among them, reflecting in his personality the
    ambitions of those who greeted him.  He was acknowledged, fawned
    upon, in a way lionised.  Through it all one could see the
    standing of the man.  It was greatness in a way, small as it was.
    Chapter XIX
    At last the curtain was ready to go up.  All the details of the
    make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the
    leader of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon
    his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising
    strain.  Hurstwood ceased talking, and went with Drouet and his
    friend Sagar Morrison around to the box.
    "Now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to Drouet, in
    a tone which no one else could hear.
    On the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the
    opening parlour scene.  Drouet and Hurstwood saw at a glance that
    Carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper.
    Mrs. Morgan, Mrs. Hoagland, and the actor who had taken
    Bamberger's part were representing the principal roles in this
    scene.  The professional, whose name was Patton, had little to
    recommend him outside of his assurance, but this at the present
    moment was most palpably needed.  Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, was
    stiff with fright.  Mrs. Hoagland was husky in the throat.  The
    whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely
    spoken, and nothing more.  It took all the hope and uncritical
    good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by that
    unrest which is the agony of failure.
    Hurstwood was perfectly indifferent.  He took it for granted that
    it would be worthless.  All he cared for was to have it endurable
    enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward.
    After the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the
    danger of collapse.  They rambled weakly forward, losing nearly
    all the expression which was intended, and making the thing dull
    in the extreme, when Carrie came in.
    One glance at her, and both Hurstwood and Drouet saw plainly that
    she also was weak-kneed.  She came faintly across the stage,
    "And you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock,"
    but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was
    positively painful.
    "She's frightened," whispered Drouet to Hurstwood.
    The manager made no answer.
    She had a line presently which was supposed to be funny.
    "Well, that's as much as to say that I'm a sort of life pill."
    It came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing.
    Drouet fidgeted.  Hurstwood moved his toe the least bit.
    There was another place in which Laura was to rise and, with a
    sense of impending disaster, say, sadly:
    "I wish you hadn't said that, Pearl.  You know the old proverb,
    'Call a maid by a married name.'"
    The lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous.  Carrie did not
    get it at all.  She seemed to be talking in her sleep.  It looked
    as if she were certain to be a wretched failure.  She was more
    hopeless than Mrs. Morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was
    now saying her lines clearly at least.  Drouet looked away from
    the stage at the audience.  The latter held out silently, hoping
    for a general change, of course.  Hurstwood fixed his eye on
    Carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better.  He was pouring
    determination of his own in her direction.  He felt sorry for
    In a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in
    by the strange villain.  The audience had been slightly diverted
    by a conversation between the professional actor and a character
    called Snorky, impersonated by a short little American, who
    really developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier,
    turned messenger for a living.  He bawled his lines out with such
    defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humour
    intended, they were funny.  Now he was off, however, and it was
    back to pathos, with Carrie as the chief figure.  She did not
    recover.  She wandered through the whole scene between herself
    and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the
    audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief.
    "She's too nervous," said Drouet, feeling in the mildness of the
    remark that he was lying for once.
    "Better go back and say a word to her."
    Drouet was glad to do anything for relief.  He fairly hustled
    around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly door-
    keeper.  Carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her
    next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her.
    "Say, Cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous.
    Wake up.  Those guys out there don't amount to anything.  What
    are you afraid of?"
    "I don't know," said Carrie.  "I just don't seem to be able to do
    She was grateful for the drummer's presence, though.  She had
    found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone.
    "Come on," said Drouet.  "Brace up.  What are you afraid of? Go
    on out there now, and do the trick.  What do you care?"
    Carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous
    "Did I do so very bad?"
    "Not a bit.  All you need is a little more ginger.  Do it as you
    showed me.  Get that toss of your head you had the other night."
    Carrie remembered her triumph in the room.  She tried to think
    she could to it.
    'What's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had been
    "Why, the scene between Ray and me when I refuse him."
    "Well, now you do that lively," said the drummer.  "Put in snap,
    that's the thing.  Act as if you didn't care."
    "Your turn next, Miss Madenda," said the prompter.
    "Oh, dear," said Carrie.
    "Well, you're a chump for being afraid," said Drouet.  "Come on
    now, brace up.  I'll watch you from right here."
    "Will you?" said Carrie.
    "Yes, now go on.  Don't be afraid."
    The prompter signalled her.
    She started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially
    returned.  She thought of Drouet looking.
    "Ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm
    than when she had last appeared.  It was the scene which had
    pleased the director at the rehearsal.
    "She's easier," thought Hurstwood to himself.
    She did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was
    better.  The audience was at least not irritated.  The
    improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct
    observation from her.  They were making very fair progress, and
    now it looked as if the play would be passable, in the less
    trying parts at least.
    Carrie came off warm and nervous.
    "Well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?"
    "Well, I should say so.  That's the way.  Put life into it.  You
    did that about a thousand per cent.  better than you did the
    other scene.  Now go on and fire up.  You can do it.  Knock 'em."
    "Was it really better?"
    "Better, I should say so.  What comes next?"
    "That ballroom scene."
    "Well, you can do that all right," he said.
    "I don't know," answered Carrie.
    "Why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! Now you go out
    there and do it.  It'll be fun for you.  Just do as you did in
    the room.  If you'll reel it off that way, I'll bet you make a
    hit.  Now, what'll you bet? You do it."
    The drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the
    better of his speech.  He really did think that Carrie had acted
    this particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it
    in public.  His enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the
    When the time came, he buoyed Carrie up most effectually.  He
    began to make her feel as if she had done very well.  The old
    melancholy of desire began to come back as he talked at her, and
    by the time the situation rolled around she was running high in
    "I think I can do this."
    "Sure you can.  Now you go ahead and see."
    On the stage, Mrs. Van Dam was making her cruel insinuation
    against Laura.
    Carrie listened, and caught the infection of something--she did
    not know what.  Her nostrils sniffed thinly.
    "It means," the professional actor began, speaking as Ray, "that
    society is a terrible avenger of insult.  Have you ever heard of
    the Siberian wolves? When one of the pack falls through weakness,
    the others devour him.  It is not an elegant comparison, but
    there is something wolfish in society.  Laura has mocked it with
    a pretence, and society, which is made up of pretence, will
    bitterly resent the mockery."
    At the sound of her stage name Carrie started.  She began to feel
    the bitterness of the situation.  The feelings of the outcast
    descended upon her.  She hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her
    own mounting thoughts.  She hardly heard anything more, save her
    own rumbling blood.
    "Come, girls," said Mrs. Van Dam, solemnly, "let us look after
    our things.  They are no longer safe when such an accomplished
    thief enters."
    "Cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not
    hear.  Already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born
    of inspiration.  She dawned upon the audience, handsome and
    proud, shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold,
    white, helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her
    Hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection.  The
    radiating waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking
    against the farthest walls of the chamber.  The magic of passion,
    which will yet dissolve the world, was here at work.
    There was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling,
    heretofore wandering.
    "Ray! Ray! Why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of
    Every eye was fixed on Carrie, still proud and scornful.  They
    moved as she moved.  Their eyes were with her eyes.
    Mrs. Morgan, as Pearl, approached her.
    "Let us go home," she said.
    "No," answered Carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a
    penetrating quality which it had never known.  "Stay with him!"
    She pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover.  Then, with
    a pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "He
    shall not suffer long."
    Hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily
    good.  It was heightened for him by the applause of the audience
    as the curtain descended and the fact that it was Carrie.  He
    thought now that she was beautiful.  She had done something which
    was above his sphere.  He felt a keen delight in realising that
    she was his.
    "Fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and
    went about to the stage door.
    When he came in upon Carrie she was still with Drouet.  His
    feelings for her were most exuberant.  He was almost swept away
    by the strength and feeling she exhibited.  His desire was to
    pour forth his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but
    here was Drouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving.  The
    latter was more fascinated, if anything, than Hurstwood.  At
    least, in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form.
    "Well, well," said Drouet, "you did out of sight.  That was
    simply great.  I knew you could do it.  Oh, but you're a little
    Carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement.
    "Did I do all right?"
    "Did you? Well, I guess.  Didn't you hear the applause?"
    There was some faint sound of clapping yet.
    "I thought I got it something like--I felt it."
    Just then Hurstwood came in.  Instinctively he felt the change in
    Drouet.  He saw that the drummer was near to Carrie, and jealousy
    leaped alight in his bosom.  In a flash of thought, he reproached
    himself for having sent him back.  Also, he hated him as an
    intruder.  He could scarcely pull himself down to the level where
    he would have to congratulate Carrie as a friend.  Nevertheless,
    the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph.  He almost jerked
    the old subtle light to his eyes.
    "I thought," he said, looking at Carrie, "I would come around and
    tell you how well you did, Mrs. Drouet.  It was delightful."
    Carrie took the cue, and replied:
    "Oh, thank you."
    "I was just telling her," put in Drouet, now delighted with his
    possession, "that I thought she did fine."
    "Indeed you did," said Hurstwood, turning upon Carrie eyes in
    which she read more than the words.
    Carrie laughed luxuriantly.
    "If you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all
    think you are a born actress."
    Carrie smiled again.  She felt the acuteness of Hurstwood's
    position, and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but
    she did not understand the change in Drouet.  Hurstwood found
    that he could not talk, repressed as he was, and grudging Drouet
    every moment of his presence, he bowed himself out with the
    elegance of a Faust.  Outside he set his teeth with envy.
    "Damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" He was
    moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for
    thinking of his wretched situation.
    As the curtain for the next act arose, Drouet came back.  He was
    very much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but
    Hurstwood pretended interest.  He fixed his eyes on the stage,
    although Carrie was not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy
    preceding her entrance.  He did not see what was going on,
    however.  He was thinking his own thoughts, and they were
    The progress of the play did not improve matters for him.
    Carrie, from now on, was easily the centre of interest.  The
    audience, which had been inclined to feel that nothing could be
    good after the first gloomy impression, now went to the other
    extreme and saw power where it was not.  The general feeling
    reacted on Carrie.  She presented her part with some felicity,
    though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the feeling
    at the end of the long first act.
    Both Hurstwood and Drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising
    feelings.  The fact that such ability should reveal itself in
    her, that they should see it set forth under such effective
    circumstances, framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the
    appropriate lights of sentiment and personality, heightened her
    charm for them.  She was more than the old Carrie to Drouet.  He
    longed to be at home with her until he could tell her.  He
    awaited impatiently the end, when they should go home alone.
    Hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new
    attractiveness his miserable predicament.  He could have cursed
    the man beside him.  By the Lord, he could not even applaud
    feelingly as he would.  For once he must simulate when it left a
    taste in his mouth.
    It was in the last act that Carrie's fascination for her lovers
    assumed its most effective character.
    Hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when Carrie would
    come on.  He had not long to wait.  The author had used the
    artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive, and now
    Carrie came in alone.  It was the first time that Hurstwood had
    had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone, for
    nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort.  He
    suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength--the power
    that had grasped him at the end of the first act--had come back.
    She seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing
    to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing.
    "Poor Pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos.  "It is a
    sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to
    see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost
    within the grasp."
    She was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting
    listlessly upon the polished door-post.
    Hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself.
    He could almost feel that she was talking to him.  He was, by a
    combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that
    quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of
    music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing.  Pathos has this
    quality, that it seems ever addressed to one alone.
    "And yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little
    actress.  "Her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any
    She turned slowly toward the audience without seeing.  There was
    so much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone.
    Then she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books,
    devoting a thought to them.
    "With no longings for what I may not have," she breathed in
    conclusion--and it was almost a sigh--"my existence hidden from
    all save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy
    of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife."
    Hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as Peach Blossom,
    interrupted her.  He stirred irritably, for he wished her to go
    on.  He was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped
    in pearl grey, with a coiled string of pearls at the throat.
    Carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of
    protection, and, under the fascinating make-believe of the
    moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to
    her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight.
    In a moment Carrie was alone again, and was saying, with
    "I must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here.
    I must go, secretly if I can; openly, if I must."
    There was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then Ray's voice
    "No, I shall not ride again.  Put him up."
    He entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with
    the creation of the tragedy of affection in Hurstwood as anything
    in his peculiar and involved career.  For Carrie had resolved to
    make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it
    began to take a feeling hold upon her.  Both Hurstwood and Drouet
    noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded.
    "I thought you had gone with Pearl," she said to her lover.
    "I did go part of the way, but I left the Party a mile down the
    "You and Pearl had no disagreement?"
    "No--yes; that is, we always have.  Our social barometers always
    stand at 'cloudy' and 'overcast.'"
    "And whose fault is that?" she said, easily.
    "Not mine," he answered, pettishly.  "I know I do all I can--I
    say all I can--but she----"
    This was rather awkwardly put by Patton, but Carrie redeemed it
    with a grace which was inspiring.
    "But she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention upon
    the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until
    it was again low and musical.  "Ray, my friend, courtship is the
    text from which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme.
    Do not let yours be discontented and unhappy."
    She put her two little hands together and pressed them
    Hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips.  Drouet was fidgeting
    with satisfaction.
    "To be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was
    weak by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender
    atmosphere which Carrie had created and maintained.  She did not
    seem to feel that he was wretched.  She would have done nearly as
    well with a block of wood.  The accessories she needed were
    within her own imagination.  The acting of others could not
    affect them.
    "And you repent already?" she said, slowly.
    "I lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and I was at the
    mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look.  It was
    your fault--you know it was--why did you leave me?"
    Carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some
    impulse in silence.  Then she turned back.
    "Ray," she said, "the greatest happiness I have ever felt has
    been the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed
    upon a virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and
    accomplishments.  What a revelation do you make to me now! What
    is it makes you continually war with your happiness?"
    The last question was asked so simply that it came to the
    audience and the lover as a personal thing.
    At last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "Be to me
    as you used to be."
    Carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "I cannot be that to
    you, but I can speak in the spirit of the Laura who is dead to
    you forever."
    "Be it as you will," said Patton.
    Hurstwood leaned forward.  The whole audience was silent and
    "Let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said Carrie, her
    eyes bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat,
    "beautiful or homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can
    really give or refuse--her heart."
    Drouet felt a scratch in his throat.
    "Her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you;
    but her love is the treasure without money and without price."
    The manager suffered this as a personal appeal.  It came to him
    as if they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for
    sorrow over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing
    woman whom he loved.  Drouet also was beside himself.  He was
    resolving that he would be to Carrie what he had never been
    before.  He would marry her, by George! She was worth it.
    "She asks only in return," said Carrie, scarcely hearing the
    small, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even
    more in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the
    orchestra, "that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak
    devotion; that when you address her your voice shall be gentle,
    loving, and kind; that you shall not despise her because she
    cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts and
    ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil have defeated
    your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you.  You
    look to the trees," she continued, while Hurstwood restrained his
    feelings only by the grimmest repression, "for strength and
    grandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is
    all they have to give.  Remember," she concluded, tenderly, "love
    is all a woman has to give," and she laid a strange, sweet accent
    on the all, "but it is the only thing which God permits us to
    carry beyond the grave."
    The two men were in the most harrowed state of affection.  They
    scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene
    concluded.  They only saw their idol, moving about with appealing
    grace, continuing a power which to them was a revelation.
    Hurstwood resolved a thousands things, Drouet as well.  They
    joined equally in the burst of applause which called Carrie out.
    Drouet pounded his hands until they ached.  Then he jumped up
    again and started out.  As he went, Carrie came out, and, seeing
    an immense basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward
    her she waited.  They were Hurstwood's.  She looked toward the
    manager's box for a moment, caught his eye, and smiled.  He could
    have leaped out of the box to enfold her.  He forgot the need of
    circumspectness which his married state enforced.  He almost
    forgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him.  By
    the Lord, he would have that lovely girl if it took his all.  He
    would act at once.  This should be the end of Drouet, and don't
    you forget it.  He would not wait another day.  The drummer
    should not have her.
    He was so excited that he could not stay in the box.  He went
    into the lobby, and then into the street, thinking.  Drouet did
    not return.  In a few minutes the last act was over, and he was
    crazy to have Carrie alone.  He cursed the luck that could keep
    him smiling, bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he
    loved her, when he wanted to whisper to her alone.  He groaned as
    he saw that his hopes were futile.  He must even take her to
    supper, shamming.  He finally went about and asked how she was
    getting along.  The actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying
    about.  Drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of
    excitement and passion.  The manager mastered himself only by a
    great effort.
    "We are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that
    was a mockery of his heart.
    "Oh, yes," said Carrie, smiling.
    The little actress was in fine feather.  She was realising now
    what it was to be petted.  For once she was the admired, the
    sought-for.  The independence of success now made its first faint
    showing.  With the tables turned, she was looking down, rather
    than up, to her lover.  She did not fully realise that this was
    so, but there was something in condescension coming from her
    which was infinitely sweet.  When she was ready they climbed into
    the waiting coach and drove down town; once, only, did she find
    an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was when the
    manager preceded Drouet in the coach and sat beside her.  Before
    Drouet was fully in she had squeezed Hurstwood's hand in a
    gentle, impulsive manner.  The manager was beside himself with
    affection.  He could have sold his soul to be with her alone.
    "Ah," he thought, "the agony of it."
    Drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all.  The dinner was
    spoiled by his enthusiasm.  Hurstwood went home feeling as if he
    should die if he did not find affectionate relief.  He whispered
    "to-morrow" passionately to Carrie, and she understood.  He
    walked away from the drummer and his prize at parting feeling as
    if he could slay him and not regret.  Carrie also felt the misery
    of it.
    "Good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness.
    "Good-night," said the little actress, tenderly.
    "The fool!" he said, now hating Drouet.  "The idiot! I'll do him
    yet, and that quick! We'll see to-morrow."
    "Well, if you aren't a wonder," Drouet was saying, complacently,
    squeezing Carrie's arm.  "You are the dandiest little girl on
    Chapter XX
    Passion in a man of Hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form.  It
    is no musing, dreamy thing.  There is none of the tendency to
    sing outside of my lady's window--to languish and repine in the
    face of difficulties.  In the night he was long getting to sleep
    because of too much thinking, and in the morning he was early
    awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and
    pursuing it with vigour.  He was out of sorts physically, as well
    as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a new manner in
    his Carrie, and was not Drouet in the way? Never was man more
    harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the
    elated, flush-mannered drummer.  He would have given anything, it
    seemed to him, to have the complication ended--to have Carrie
    acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of Drouet
    effectually and forever.
    What to do.  He dressed thinking.  He moved about in the same
    chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence.
    At breakfast he found himself without an appetite.  The meat to
    which he helped himself remained on his plate untouched.  His
    coffee grew cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently.  Here
    and there he read a little thing, but remembered nothing.
    Jessica had not yet come down.  His wife sat at one end of the
    table revolving thoughts of her own in silence.  A new servant
    had been recently installed and had forgot the napkins.  On this
    account the silence was irritably broken by a reproof.
    "I've told you about this before, Maggie," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "I'm not going to tell you again."
    Hurstwood took a glance at his wife.  She was frowning.  Just now
    her manner irritated him excessively.  Her next remark was
    addressed to him.
    "Have you made up your mind, George, when you will take your
    It was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at
    this season of the year.
    "Not yet," he said, "I'm very busy just now."
    "Well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you,
    if we're going?" she returned.
    "I guess we have a few days yet," he said.
    "Hmff," she returned.  "Don't wait until the season's over."
    She stirred in aggravation as she said this.
    "There you go again," he observed.  "One would think I never did
    anything, the way you begin."
    "Well, I want to know about it," she reiterated.
    "You've got a few days yet," he insisted.  "You'll not want to
    start before the races are over."
    He was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished
    to have his thoughts for other purposes.
    "Well, we may.  Jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the
    "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
    "Say," he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his
    voice which caused her to delay her departure, "what's the matter
    with you of late? Can't I talk with you any more?"
    "Certainly, you can TALK with me," she replied, laying emphasis
    on the word.
    "Well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act.  Now, you want
    to know when I'll be ready--not for a month yet.  Maybe not
    "We'll go without you."
    "You will, eh?" he sneered.
    "Yes, we will."
    He was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only
    irritated him the more.
    "Well, we'll see about that.  It seems to me you're trying to run
    things with a pretty high hand of late.  You talk as though you
    settled my affairs for me.  Well, you don't.  You don't regulate
    anything that's connected with me.  If you want to go, go, but
    you won't hurry me by any such talk as that."
    He was thoroughly aroused now.  His dark eyes snapped, and he
    crunched his paper as he laid it down.  Mrs. Hurstwood said
    nothing more.  He was just finishing when she turned on her heel
    and went out into the hall and upstairs.  He paused for a moment,
    as if hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and
    thereafter arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main
    His wife had really not anticipated a row of this character.  She
    had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of
    sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her
    mind.  Jessica had called her attention to the fact that the
    races were not what they were supposed to be.  The social
    opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this
    year.  The beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing.
    There was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody
    to the watering places and Europe.  In her own circle of
    acquaintances several young men in whom she was interested had
    gone to Waukesha.  She began to feel that she would like to go
    too, and her mother agreed with her.
    Accordingly, Mrs. Hurstwood decided to broach the subject.  She
    was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for
    some reason the atmosphere was wrong.  She was not sure, after it
    was all over, just how the trouble had begun.  She was determined
    now, however, that her husband was a brute, and that, under no
    circumstances, would she let this go by unsettled.  She would
    have more lady-like treatment or she would know why.
    For his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new
    argument until he reached his office and started from there to
    meet Carrie.  Then the other complications of love, desire, and
    opposition possessed him.  His thoughts fled on before him upon
    eagles' wings.  He could hardly wait until he should meet Carrie
    face to face.  What was the night, after all, without her--what
    the day? She must and should be his.
    For her part, Carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling
    since she had left him, the night before.  She had listened to
    Drouet's enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part
    which concerned herself, with very little for that which affected
    his own gain.  She kept him at such lengths as she could, because
    her thoughts were with her own triumph.  She felt Hurstwood's
    passion as a delightful background to her own achievement, and
    she wondered what he would have to say.  She was sorry for him,
    too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something
    complimentary to itself in the misery of another.  She was now
    experiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change
    which removes one out of the ranks of the suppliants into the
    lines of the dispensers of charity.  She was, all in all,
    exceedingly happy.
    On the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers
    concerning the event, and, in view of the flow of common,
    everyday things about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the
    previous evening.  Drouet himself was not talking so much OF as
    FOR her.  He felt instinctively that, for some reason or other,
    he needed reconstruction in her regard.
    "I think," he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next
    morning, preparatory to going down town, "that I'll straighten
    out that little deal of mine this month and then we'll get
    married.  I was talking with Mosher about that yesterday."
    "No, you won't," said Carrie, who was coming to feel a certain
    faint power to jest with the drummer.
    "Yes, I will," he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding,
    with the tone of one who pleads, "Don't you believe what I've
    told you?"
    Carrie laughed a little.
    "Of course I do," she answered.
    Drouet's assurance now misgave him.  Shallow as was his mental
    observation, there was that in the things which had happened
    which made his little power of analysis useless.  Carrie was
    still with him, but not helpless and pleading.  There was a lilt
    in her voice which was new.  She did not study him with eyes
    expressive of dependence.  The drummer was feeling the shadow of
    something which was coming.  It coloured his feelings and made
    him develop those little attentions and say those little words
    which were mere forefendations against danger.
    Shortly afterward he departed, and Carrie prepared for her
    meeting with Hurstwood.  She hurried at her toilet, which was
    soon made, and hastened down the stairs.  At the corner she
    passed Drouet, but they did not see each other.
    The drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into
    his house.  He hastened up the stairs and burst into the room,
    but found only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up.
    "Hello," he exclaimed, half to himself, "has Carrie gone?"
    "Your wife? Yes, she went out just a few minutes ago."
    "That's strange," thought Drouet.  "She didn't say a word to me.
    I wonder where she went?"
    He hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted,
    and finally pocketing it.  Then he turned his attention to his
    fair neighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards
    "What are you up to?" he said, smiling.
    "Just cleaning," she replied, stopping and winding a dusting
    towel about her hand.
    "Tired of it?"
    "Not so very."
    "Let me show you something," he said, affably, coming over and
    taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had
    been issued by a wholesale tobacco company.  On this was printed
    a picture of a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the
    colours of which could be changed by means of a revolving disk in
    the back, which showed red, yellow, green, and blue through
    little interstices made in the ground occupied by the umbrella
    "Isn't that clever?" he said, handing it to her and showing her
    how it worked.  "You never saw anything like that before."
    "Isn't it nice?" she answered.
    "You can have it if you want it," he remarked.
    "That's a pretty ring you have," he said, touching a commonplace
    setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her.
    "Do you think so?"
    "That's right," he answered, making use of a pretence at
    examination to secure her finger.  "That's fine."
    The ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation
    pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his.
    She soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest
    against the window-sill.
    "I didn't see you for a long time," she said, coquettishly,
    repulsing one of his exuberant approaches.  "You must have been
    "I was," said Drouet.
    "Do you travel far?"
    "Pretty far--yes."
    "Do you like it?"
    "Oh, not very well.  You get tired of it after a while."
    "I wish I could travel," said the girl, gazing idly out of the
    "What has become of your friend, Mr. Hurstwood?" she suddenly
    asked, bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own
    observation, seemed to contain promising material.
    "He's here in town.  What makes you ask about him?"
    "Oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back."
    "How did you come to know him?"
    "Didn't I take up his name a dozen times in the last month?"
    "Get out," said the drummer, lightly.  "He hasn't called more
    than half a dozen times since we've been here."
    "He hasn't, eh?" said the girl, smiling.  "That's all you know
    about it."
    Drouet took on a slightly more serious tone.  He was uncertain as
    to whether she was joking or not.
    "Tease," he said, "what makes you smile that way?"
    "Oh, nothing."
    "Have you seen him recently?"
    "Not since you came back," she laughed.
    "How often?"
    "Why, nearly every day."
    She was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what
    the effect of her words would be.
    "Who did he come to see?" asked the drummer, incredulously.
    "Mrs. Drouet."
    He looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to
    correct himself so as not to appear a dupe.
    "Well," he said, "what of it?"
    "Nothing," replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one
    "He's an old friend," he went on, getting deeper into the mire.
    He would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the
    taste for it was temporarily removed.  He was quite relieved when
    the girl's named was called from below.
    "I've got to go," she said, moving away from him airily.
    "I'll see you later," he said, with a pretence of disturbance at
    being interrupted.
    When she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings.  His face,
    never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and
    disturbance which he felt.  Could it be that Carrie had received
    so many visits and yet said nothing about them? Was Hurstwood
    lying? What did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? He had
    thought there was something odd about Carrie's manner at the
    time.  Why did she look so disturbed when he had asked her how
    many times Hurstwood had called? By George! He remembered now.
    There was something strange about the whole thing.
    He sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up
    one leg on his knee and frowning mightily.  His mind ran on at a
    great rate.
    And yet Carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary.  It couldn't be,
    by George, that she was deceiving him.  She hadn't acted that
    way.  Why, even last night she had been as friendly toward him as
    could be, and Hurstwood too.  Look how they acted! He could
    hardly believe they would try to deceive him.
    His thoughts burst into words.
    "She did act sort of funny at times.  Here she had dressed, and
    gone out this morning and never said a word."
    He scratched his head and prepared to go down town.  He was still
    frowning.  As he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who
    was now looking after another chamber.  She had on a white
    dusting cap, beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly.
    Drouet almost forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling
    on him.  He put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only
    to greet her in passing.
    "Got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined.
    "I'm not mad," he answered.
    "I thought you were," she said, smiling.
    "Quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way.
    "Were you serious?"
    "Certainly," she answered.  Then, with an air of one who did not
    intentionally mean to create trouble, "He came lots of times.  I
    thought you knew."
    The game of deception was up with Drouet.  He did not try to
    simulate indifference further.
    "Did he spend the evenings here?" he asked.
    "Sometimes.  Sometimes they went out."
    "In the evening?"
    "Yes.  You mustn't look so mad, though."
    "I'm not," he said.  "Did any one else see him?"
    "Of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in
    "How long ago was this?"
    "Just before you came back."
    The drummer pinched his lip nervously.
    "Don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm a
    gentle squeeze.
    "Certainly not," she returned.  "I wouldn't worry over it."
    "All right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once,
    and yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a
    most excellent impression upon the chambermaid.
    "I'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately,
    feeling that he had been unduly wronged.  "I'll find out,
    b'George, whether she'll act that way or not."
    Chapter XXI
    When Carrie came Hurstwood had been waiting many minutes.  His
    blood was warm; his nerves wrought up.  He was anxious to see the
    woman who had stirred him so profoundly the night before.
    "Here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his
    limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself.
    "Yes," said Carrie.
    They walked on as if bound for some objective point, while
    Hurstwood drank in the radiance of her presence.  The rustle of
    her pretty skirt was like music to him.
    "Are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the
    night before.
    "Are you?"
    He tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him.
    "It was wonderful."
    Carrie laughed ecstatically.
    "That was one of the best things I've seen in a long time," he
    He was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the
    evening before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence
    inspired now.
    Carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for
    her.  Already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow.  She
    felt his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice.
    "Those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a
    moment or two.  "They were beautiful."
    "Glad you liked them," he answered, simply.
    He was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was
    being delayed.  He was anxious to turn the talk to his own
    feelings.  All was ripe for it.  His Carrie was beside him.  He
    wanted to plunge in and expostulate with her, and yet he found
    himself fishing for words and feeling for a way.
    "You got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his
    tune modifying itself to one of self-commiseration.
    "Yes," said Carrie, easily.
    He looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and
    fixing her with his eye.
    She felt the flood of feeling.
    "How about me?" he asked.
    This confused Carrie considerably, for she realised the flood-
    gates were open.  She didn't know exactly what to answer.
    "I don't know," she answered.
    He took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then
    let it go.  He stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with
    his toe.  He searched her face with a tender, appealing glance.
    "Won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely.
    "I don't know," returned Carrie, still illogically drifting and
    finding nothing at which to catch.
    As a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary.  Here
    was a man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence
    over her, sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that
    she was possessed of a lively passion for him.  She was still the
    victim of his keen eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes.
    She looked and saw before her a man who was most gracious and
    sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a feeling that was a
    delight to observe.  She could not resist the glow of his
    temperament, the light of his eye.  She could hardly keep from
    feeling what he felt.
    And yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing.  What
    did he know? What had Drouet told him? Was she a wife in his
    eyes, or what? Would he marry her? Even while he talked, and she
    softened, and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was
    asking herself if Drouet had told him they were not married.
    There was never anything at all convincing about what Drouet
    And yet she was not grieved at Hurstwood's love.  No strain of
    bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew.  He was evidently
    sincere.  His passion was real and warm.  There was power in what
    he said.  What should she do? She went on thinking this,
    answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether
    drifting, until she was on a borderless sea of speculation.
    "Why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly.  "I will arrange
    for you whatever--"
    "Oh, don't," said Carrie.
    "Don't what?" he asked.  "What do you mean?"
    There was a look of confusion and pain in her face.  She was
    wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in.  She was
    struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was
    outside the pale of marriage.
    He himself realized that it was a wretched thing to have dragged
    in.  He wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not
    see.  He went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly
    awakened, intensely enlisted in his plan.
    "Won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more
    reverent feeling.  "You know I can't do without you--you know it--
    it can't go on this way--can it?"
    "I know," said Carrie.
    "I wouldn't ask if I--I wouldn't argue with you if I could help
    it.  Look at me, Carrie.  Put yourself in my place.  You don't
    want to stay away from me, do you?"
    She shook her head as if in deep thought.
    "Then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?"
    "I don't know," said Carrie.
    "Don't know! Ah, Carrie, what makes you say that? Don't torment
    me.  Be serious."
    "I am," said Carrie, softly.
    "You can't be, dearest, and say that.  Not when you know how I
    love you.  Look at last night."
    His manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable.  His
    face and body retained utter composure.  Only his eyes moved, and
    they flashed a subtle, dissolving fire.  In them the whole
    intensity of the man's nature was distilling itself.
    Carrie made no answer.
    "How can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time.
    "You love me, don't you?"
    He turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was
    overwhelmed.  For the moment all doubts were cleared away.
    "Yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly.
    "Well, then you'll come, won't you--come to-night?"
    Carrie shook her head in spite of her distress.
    "I can't wait any longer," urged Hurstwood.  "If that is too
    soon, come Saturday."
    "When will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in
    her difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be
    Drouet's wife.
    The manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more
    difficult than hers.  He gave no sign of the thoughts that
    flashed like messages to his mind.
    "Any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his
    present delight with this miserable problem.
    "Saturday?" asked Carrie.
    He nodded his head.
    "Well, if you will marry me then," she said, "I'll go."
    The manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome,
    so difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions.  His
    passion had gotten to that stage now where it was no longer
    coloured with reason.  He did not trouble over little barriers of
    this sort in the face of so much loveliness.  He would accept the
    situation with all its difficulties; he would not try to answer
    the objections which cold truth thrust upon him.  He would
    promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to disentangle
    him.  He would make a try for Paradise, whatever might be the
    result.  He would be happy, by the Lord, if it cost all honesty
    of statement, all abandonment of truth.
    Carrie looked at him tenderly.  She could have laid her head upon
    his shoulder, so delightful did it all seem.
    "Well," she said, "I'll try and get ready then."
    Hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little
    shadows of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen
    anything more lovely.
    "I'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll
    talk over the plans."
    He walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had
    been the result.  He impressed a long story of joy and affection
    upon her, though there was but here and there a word.  After a
    half-hour he began to realise that the meeting must come to an
    end, so exacting is the world.
    "To-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding
    wonderfully to his brave demeanour.
    "Yes," said Carrie, tripping elatedly away.
    There had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was
    believing herself deeply in love.  She sighed as she thought of
    her handsome adorer.  Yes, she would get ready by Saturday.  She
    would go, and they would be happy.
    Chapter XXII
    The misfortune of the Hurstwood household was due to the fact
    that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it.
    Mrs. Hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent
    influences could transform it into hate.  Hurstwood was still
    worthy, in a physical sense, of the affection his wife had once
    bestowed upon him, but in a social sense he fell short.  With his
    regard died his power to be attentive to her, and this, to a
    woman, is much greater than outright crime toward another.  Our
    self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in
    another.  In Mrs. Hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her
    husband's indifferent nature.  She saw design in deeds and
    phrases which sprung only from a faded appreciation of her
    As a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious.  The jealousy
    that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little
    amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her
    notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world.  She
    could see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the
    matter of his personal appearance that his interest in life had
    abated not a jot.  Every motion, every glance had something in it
    of the pleasure he felt in Carrie, of the zest this new pursuit
    of pleasure lent to his days.  Mrs. Hurstwood felt something,
    sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off.
    This feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more
    potent nature on the part of Hurstwood.  We have seen with what
    irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer
    contained any amusement of satisfaction for him, and the open
    snarls with which, more recently, he resented her irritating
    goads.  These little rows were really precipitated by an
    atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension.  That it would
    shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunderclouds, would
    scarcely be thought worthy of comment.  Thus, after leaving the
    breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank
    declaration of indifference at her plans, Mrs. Hurstwood
    encountered Jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely
    arranging her hair.  Hurstwood had already left the house.
    "I wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she
    said, addressing Jessica, while making for her crochet basket.
    "Now here the things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten."
    Her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and Jessica was doomed
    to feel the fag end of the storm.
    "I'm not hungry," she answered.
    "Then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things,
    instead of keeping her waiting all morning?"
    "She doesn't mind," answered Jessica, coolly.
    "Well, I do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow,
    I don't like you to talk that way to me.  You're too young to put
    on such an air with your mother."
    "Oh, mamma, don't row,"; answered Jessica.  "What's the matter
    this morning, anyway?"
    "Nothing's the matter, and I'm not rowing.  You mustn't think
    because I indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody
    waiting.  I won't have it."
    "I'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned Jessica, sharply,
    stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence.  "I
    said I wasn't hungry.  I don't want any breakfast."
    "Mind how you address me, missy.  I'll not have it.  Hear me now;
    I'll not have it!"
    Jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a
    toss of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of
    the independence and indifference she felt.  She did not propose
    to be quarrelled with.
    Such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a
    growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish.
    George, Jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration
    in the matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all
    feel that he was a man with a man's privileges--an assumption
    which, of all things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth
    of nineteen.
    Hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it
    irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and
    more by a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a
    lessening understanding.
    Now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start
    to Waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position.  He
    was being made to follow, was not leading.  When, in addition, a
    sharp temper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering
    him out of his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick,
    such as a sneer or a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his
    temper.  He flew into hardly repressed passion, and wished
    himself clear of the whole household.  It seemed a most
    irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities.
    For all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and
    control, even though his wife was straining to revolt.  Her
    display of temper and open assertion of opposition were based
    upon nothing more than the feeling that she could do it.  She had
    no special evidence wherewith to justify herself--the knowledge
    of something which would give her both authority and excuse.  The
    latter was all that was lacking, however, to give a solid
    foundation to what, in a way, seemed groundless discontent.  The
    clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to
    convert the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath.
    An inkling of untoward deeds on the part of Hurstwood had come.
    Doctor Beale, the handsome resident physician of the
    neighbourhood, met Mrs. Hurstwood at her own doorstep some days
    after Hurstwood and Carrie had taken the drive west on Washington
    Boulevard.  Dr. Beale, coming east on the same drive, had
    recognised Hurstwood, but not before he was quite past him.  He
    was not so sure of Carrie--did not know whether it was
    Hurstwood's wife or daughter.
    "You don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving,
    do you?" he said, jocosely, to Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "If I see them, I do.  Where was I?"
    "On Washington Boulevard." he answered, expecting her eye to
    light with immediate remembrance.
    She shook her head.
    "Yes, out near Hoyne Avenue.  You were with your husband."
    "I guess you're mistaken," she answered.  Then, remembering her
    husband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a
    host of young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign.
    "I know I saw your husband," he went on.  "I wasn't so sure about
    you.  Perhaps it was your daughter."
    "Perhaps it was," said Mrs. Hurstwood, knowing full well that
    such was not the case, as Jessica had been her companion for
    weeks.  She had recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know
    more of the details.
    "Was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air
    of acquaintanceship with the matter.
    "Yes, about two or three."
    "It must have been Jessica," said Mrs. Hurstwood, not wishing to
    seem to attach any importance to the incident.
    The physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the
    matter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least.
    Mrs. Hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought
    during the next few hours, and even days.  She took it for
    granted that the doctor had really seen her husband, and that he
    had been riding, most likely, with some other woman, after
    announcing himself as BUSY to her.  As a consequence, she
    recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had refused to go to
    places with her, to share in little visits, or, indeed, take part
    in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion of
    her existence.  He had been seen at the theatre with people whom
    he called Moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most
    likely, would have an excuse for that.  Perhaps there were others
    of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so
    indifferent, of late? In the last six weeks he had become
    strangely irritable--strangely satisfied to pick up and go out,
    whether things were right or wrong in the house.  Why?
    She recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at
    her now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in
    his eye.  Evidently, along with other things, he was taking her
    to be getting old and uninteresting.  He saw her wrinkles,
    perhaps.  She was fading, while he was still preening himself in
    his elegance and youth.  He was still an interested factor in the
    merry-makings of the world, while she--but she did not pursue the
    thought.  She only found the whole situation bitter, and hated
    him for it thoroughly.
    Nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it
    did not seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion.  Only
    the atmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened,
    precipitating every now and then little sprinklings of irritable
    conversation, enlivened by flashes of wrath.  The matter of the
    Waukesha outing was merely a continuation of other things of the
    same nature.
    The day after Carrie's appearance on the Avery stage, Mrs.
    Hurstwood visited the races with Jessica and a youth of her
    acquaintance, Mr. Bart Taylor, the son of the owner of a local
    house-furnishing establishment.  They had driven out early, and,
    as it chanced, encountered several friends of Hurstwood, all
    Elks, and two of whom had attended the performance the evening
    before.  A thousand chances the subject of the performance had
    never been brought up had Jessica not been so engaged by the
    attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as
    possible.  This left Mrs. Hurstwood in the mood to extend the
    perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short
    conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long
    ones.  It was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily
    that this interesting intelligence came.
    "I see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the
    most attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his
    shoulder, "that you did not get over to our little entertainment
    last evening."
    "No?" said Mrs. Hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he
    should be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had
    not been to something she knew nothing about.  It was on her lips
    to say, "What was it?" when he added, "I saw your husband."
    Her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of
    "Yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? He did not tell me
    much about it."
    "Very.  Really one of the best private theatricals I ever
    attended.  There was one actress who surprised us all."
    "Indeed," said Mrs. Hurstwood.
    "It's too bad you couldn't have been there, really.  I was sorry
    to hear you weren't feeling well."
    Feeling well! Mrs. Hurstwood could have echoed the words after
    him open-mouthed.  As it was, she extricated herself from her
    mingled impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly:
    "Yes, it is too bad."
    "Looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?"
    the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic.
    The manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no
    opportunity.  She was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to
    think for herself, and wondering what new deception was this
    which caused him to give out that she was ill when she was not.
    Another case of her company not wanted, and excuses being made.
    She resolved to find out more.
    "Were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next
    of Hurstwood's friends who greeted her as she sat in her box.
    "Yes.  You didn't get around."
    "No," she answered, "I was not feeling very well."
    "So your husband told me," he answered.  "Well, it was really
    very enjoyable.  Turned out much better than I expected."
    "Were there many there?"
    "The house was full.  It was quite an Elk night.  I saw quite a
    number of your friends--Mrs. Harrison, Mrs. Barnes, Mrs.
    "Quite a social gathering."
    "Indeed it was.  My wife enjoyed it very much."
    Mrs. Hurstwood bit her lip.
    "So," she thought, "that's the way he does.  Tells my friends I
    am sick and cannot come."
    She wondered what could induce him to go alone.  There was
    something back of this.  She rummaged her brain for a reason.
    By evening, when Hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself
    into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge.  She
    wanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported.  She
    was certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard,
    and evil curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of
    her wrath of the morning.  She, impending disaster itself, walked
    about with gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary
    muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her mouth.
    On the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home
    in the sunniest mood.  His conversation and agreement with Carrie
    had raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one
    who sings joyously.  He was proud of himself, proud of his
    success, proud of Carrie.  He could have been genial to all the
    world, and he bore no grudge against his wife.  He meant to be
    pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the atmosphere of
    youth and pleasure which had been restored to him.
    So now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and
    comfortable appearance.  In the hall he found an evening paper,
    laid there by the maid and forgotten by Mrs. Hurstwood.  In the
    dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and
    shiny with glasses and decorated china.  Through an open door he
    saw into the kitchen, where the fire was crackling in the stove
    and the evening meal already well under way.  Out in the small
    back yard was George, Jr., frolicking with a young dog he had
    recently purchased, and in the parlour Jessica was playing at the
    piano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner
    of the comfortable home.  Every one, like himself, seemed to have
    regained his good spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and
    beauty, to be inclined to joy and merry-making.  He felt as if he
    could say a good word all around himself, and took a most genial
    glance at the spread table and polished sideboard before going
    upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable armchair of the
    sitting-room which looked through the open windows into the
    street.  When he entered there, however, he found his wife
    brushing her hair and musing to herself the while.
    He came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that
    might still exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but Mrs.
    Hurstwood said nothing.  He seated himself in the large chair,
    stirred lightly in making himself comfortable, opened his paper,
    and began to read.  In a few moments he was smiling merrily over
    a very comical account of a baseball game which had taken place
    between the Chicago and Detroit teams.
    The while he was doing this Mrs. Hurstwood was observing him
    casually through the medium of the mirror which was before her.
    She noticed his pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and
    smiling humour, and it merely aggravated her the more.  She
    wondered how he could think to carry himself so in her presence
    after the cynicism, indifference, and neglect he had heretofore
    manifested and would continue to manifest so long as she would
    endure it.  She thought how she should like to tell him--what
    stress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she should
    drive over this whole affair until satisfaction should be
    rendered her.  Indeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but
    weakly suspended by a thread of thought.
    In the meanwhile Hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning
    a stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with
    a bunco-steerer.  It amused him immensely, and at last he stirred
    and chuckled to himself.  He wished that he might enlist his
    wife's attention and read it to her.
    "Ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny."
    Mrs. Hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as
    deigning a glance.
    He stirred again and went on to another subject.  At last he felt
    as if his good-humour must find some outlet.  Julia was probably
    still out of humour over that affair of this morning, but that
    could easily be straightened.  As a matter of fact, she was in
    the wrong, but he didn't care.  She could go to Waukesha right
    away if she wanted to.  The sooner the better.  He would tell her
    that as soon as he got a chance, and the whole thing would blow
    "Did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerning
    another item which he had found, "that they have entered suit to
    compel the Illinois Central to get off the lake front, Julia?" he
    She could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say
    "No," sharply.
    Hurstwood pricked up his ears.  There was a note in her voice
    which vibrated keenly.
    "It would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to
    himself, half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in
    that quarter.  He withdrew his attention to his paper very
    circumspectly, listening mentally for the little sounds which
    should show him what was on foot.
    As a matter of fact, no man as clever as Hurstwood--as observant
    and sensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his
    own plane of thought--would have made the mistake which he did in
    regard to his wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been
    occupied mentally with a very different train of thought.  Had
    not the influence of Carrie's regard for him, the elation which
    her promise aroused in him, lasted over, he would not have seen
    the house in so pleasant a mood.  It was not extraordinarily
    bright and merry this evening.  He was merely very much mistaken,
    and would have been much more fitted to cope with it had he come
    home in his normal state.
    After he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that
    he ought to modify matters in some way or other.  Evidently his
    wife was not going to patch up peace at a word.  So he said:
    "Where did George get the dog he has there in the yard?"
    "I don't know," she snapped.
    He put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the
    window.  He did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be
    persistent and agreeable, and by a few questions bring around a
    mild understanding of some sort.
    "Why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning? he
    said, at last. "We needn't quarrel about that.  You know you can
    go to Waukesha if you want to."
    "So you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" she
    exclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was
    drawn a sharp and wrathful sneer.
    He stopped as if slapped in the face.  In an instant his
    persuasive, conciliatory manner fled.  He was on the defensive at
    a wink and puzzled for a word to reply.
    "What do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself and
    gazing at the cold, determined figure before him, who paid no
    attention, but went on arranging herself before the mirror.
    "You know what I mean," she said, finally, as if there were a
    world of information which she held in reserve--which she did not
    need to tell.
    "Well, I don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for
    what should come next.  The finality of the woman's manner took
    away his feeling of superiority in battle.
    She made no answer.
    "Hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side.  It
    was the weakest thing he had ever done.  It was totally
    Mrs. Hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it.  She turned upon
    him, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow.
    "I want the Waukesha money to-morrow morning," she said.
    He looked at her in amazement.  Never before had he seen such a
    cold, steely determination in her eye--such a cruel look of
    indifference.  She seemed a thorough master of her mood--
    thoroughly confident and determined to wrest all control from
    him.  He felt that all his resources could not defend him.  He
    must attack.
    "What do you mean?" he said, jumping up.  "You want! I'd like to
    know what's got into you to-night."
    "Nothing's GOT into me," she said, flaming.  "I want that money.
    You can do your swaggering afterwards."
    "Swaggering, eh! What! You'll get nothing from me.  What do you
    mean by your insinuations, anyhow?"
    "Where were you last night?" she answered.  The words were hot as
    they came.  "Who were you driving with on Washington Boulevard?
    Who were you with at the theatre when George saw you? Do you
    think I'm a fool to be duped by you? Do you think I'll sit at
    home here and take your 'too busys' and 'can't come,' while you
    parade around and make out that I'm unable to come? I want you to
    know that lordly airs have come to an end so far as I am
    concerned.  You can't dictate to me nor my children.  I'm through
    with you entirely."
    "It's a lie," he said, driven to a corner and knowing no other
    "Lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "you
    may call it a lie if you want to, but I know."
    "It's a lie, I tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice.
    "You've been searching around for some cheap accusation for
    months and now you think you have it.  You think you'll spring
    something and get the upper hand.  Well, I tell you, you can't.
    As long as I'm in this house I'm master of it, and you or any one
    else won't dictate to me--do you hear?"
    He crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous.
    Something in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as
    if she were already master, caused him to feel for the moment as
    if he could strangle her.
    She gazed at him--a pythoness in humour.
    "I'm not dictating to you," she returned; "I'm telling you what I
    The answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took
    the wind out of his sails.  He could not attack her, he could not
    ask her for proofs.  Somehow he felt evidence, law, the
    remembrance of all his property which she held in her name, to be
    shining in her glance.  He was like a vessel, powerful and
    dangerous, but rolling and floundering without sail.
    "And I'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recovering
    himself, "what you'll not get."
    "We'll see about it," she said.  "I'll find out what my rights
    are.  Perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me."
    It was a magnificent play, and had its effect.  Hurstwood fell
    back beaten.  He knew now that he had more than mere bluff to
    contend with.  He felt that he was face to face with a dull
    proposition.  What to say he hardly knew.  All the merriment had
    gone out of the day.  He was disturbed, wretched, resentful.
    What should he do?
    "Do as you please," he said, at last.  "I'll have nothing more to
    do with you," and out he strode.
    Chapter XXIII
    When Carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to
    those doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack
    of decision.  She could not persuade herself as to the
    advisability of her promise, or that now, having given her word,
    she ought to keep it.  She went over the whole ground in
    Hurstwood's absence, and discovered little objections that had
    not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager's argument.  She
    saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light, namely, that
    of agreeing to marry when she was already supposedly married.
    She remembered a few things Drouet had done, and now that it came
    to walking away from him without a word, she felt as if she were
    doing wrong.  Now, she was comfortably situated, and to one who
    is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent matter,
    and one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments.  "You do not
    know what will come.  There are miserable things outside.  People
    go a-begging.  Women are wretched.  You never can tell what will
    happen.  Remember the time you were hungry.  Stick to what you
    Curiously, for all her leaning towards Hurstwood, he had not
    taken a firm hold on her understanding.  She was listening,
    smiling, approving, and yet not finally agreeing.  This was due
    to a lack of power on his part, a lack of that majesty of passion
    that sweeps the mind from its seat, fuses and melts all arguments
    and theories into a tangled mass, and destroys for the time being
    the reasoning power.  This majesty of passion is possessed by
    nearly every man once in his life, but it is usually an attribute
    of youth and conduces to the first successful mating.
    Hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain
    the fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and
    unreasoning.  It was strong enough to induce the leaning toward
    him which, on Carrie's part, we have seen.  She might have been
    said to be imagining herself in love, when she was not.  Women
    frequently do this.  It flows from the fact that in each exists a
    bias toward affection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved.
    The longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is one of
    the attributes of the sex.  This, coupled with sentiment and a
    natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult.  It
    persuades them that they are in love.
    Once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms
    for herself.  In the matter of the arrangement of the furniture
    she never took the housemaid's opinion.  That young woman
    invariably put one of the rocking-chairs in the corner, and
    Carrie as regularly moved it out.  To-day she hardly noticed that
    it was in the wrong place, so absorbed was she in her own
    thoughts.  She worked about the room until Drouet put in
    appearance at five o'clock.  The drummer was flushed and excited
    and full of determination to know all about her relations with
    Hurstwood.  Nevertheless, after going over the subject in his
    mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished it
    over with.  He did not foresee serious consequences of any sort,
    and yet he rather hesitated to begin.  Carrie was sitting by the
    window when he came in, rocking and looking out.
    "Well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion
    and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what
    makes you hurry so?"
    Drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as
    to what course to pursue.  He was no diplomat.  He could neither
    read nor see.
    "When did you get home?" he asked foolishly.
    "Oh, an hour or so ago.  What makes you ask that?"
    "You weren't here," he said, "when I came back this morning, and
    I thought you had gone out."
    "So I did," said Carrie simply.  "I went for a walk."
    Drouet looked at her wonderingly.  For all his lack of dignity in
    such matters he did not know how to begin.  He stared at her in
    the most flagrant manner until at last she said:
    "What makes you stare at me so? What's the matter?"
    "Nothing," he answered.  "I was just thinking."
    "Just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his
    "Oh, nothing--nothing much."
    "Well, then, what makes you look so?"
    Drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic
    manner.  He had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting
    with the little toilet pieces which were nearest him.  He
    hesitated to believe that the pretty woman before him was
    involved in anything so unsatisfactory to himself.  He was very
    much inclined to feel that it was all right, after all.  Yet the
    knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling in his
    mind.  He wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some
    sort, but he knew not what.
    "Where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly.
    "Why, I went for a walk," said Carrie.
    "Sure you did?" he asked.
    "Yes, what makes you ask?"
    She was beginning to see now that he knew something.  Instantly
    she drew herself into a more reserved position.  Her cheeks
    blanched slightly.
    "I thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in
    the most useless manner.
    Carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted.
    She saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's
    intuition realised that there was no occasion for great alarm.
    "What makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty
    forehead.  "You act so funny to-night."
    "I feel funny," he answered.
    They looked at one another for a moment, and then Drouet plunged
    desperately into his subject.
    "What's this about you and Hurstwood?" he asked.
    "Me and Hurstwood--what do you mean?"
    "Didn't he come here a dozen times while I was away?"
    "A dozen times," repeated Carrie, guiltily.  "No, but what do you
    "Somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came
    here every night."
    "No such thing," answered Carrie.  "It isn't true.  Who told you
    She was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but Drouet did
    not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light
    of the room.  He was regaining much confidence as Carrie defended
    herself with denials.
    "Well, some one," he said.  "You're sure you didn't?"
    "Certainly," said Carrie.  "You know how often he came."
    Drouet paused for a moment and thought.
    "I know what you told me," he said finally.
    He moved nervously about, while Carrie looked at him confusedly.
    "Well, I know that I didn't tell you any such thing as that,"
    said Carrie, recovering herself.
    "If I were you," went on Drouet, ignoring her last remark, "I
    wouldn't have anything to do with him.  He's a married man, you
    "Who--who is?" said Carrie, stumbling at the word.
    "Why, Hurstwood," said Drouet, noting the effect and feeling that
    he was delivering a telling blow.
    "Hurstwood!" exclaimed Carrie, rising.  Her face had changed
    several shades since this announcement was made.  She looked
    within and without herself in a half-dazed way.
    "Who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was
    out of order and exceedingly incriminating.
    "Why, I know it.  I've always known it," said Drouet.
    Carrie was feeling about for a right thought.  She was making a
    most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within
    her which were anything but crumbling cowardice.
    "I thought I told you," he added.
    "No, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her
    voice.  "You didn't do anything of the kind."
    Drouet listened to her in astonishment.  This was something new.
    "I thought I did," he said.
    Carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the
    "You oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said Drouet
    in an injured tone, "after all I've done for you."
    "You," said Carrie, "you! What have you done for me?"
    Her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings--
    shame at exposure, shame at Hurstwood's perfidy, anger at
    Drouet's deception, the mockery he had made at her.  Now one
    clear idea came into her head.  He was at fault.  There was no
    doubt about it.  Why did he bring Hurstwood out--Hurstwood, a
    married man, and never say a word to her? Never mind now about
    Hurstwood's perfidy--why had he done this? Why hadn't he warned
    her? There he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of
    confidence and talking about what he had done for her!
    "Well, I like that," exclaimed Drouet, little realising the fire
    his remark had generated.  "I think I've done a good deal."
    "You have, eh?" she answered.  "You've deceived me--that's what
    you've done.  You've brought your old friends out here under
    false pretences.  You've made me out to be--Oh," and with this
    her voice broke and she pressed her two little hands together
    "I don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer
    "No," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth.
    "No, of course you don't see.  There isn't anything you see.  You
    couldn't have told me in the first place, could you? You had to
    make me out wrong until it was too late.  Now you come sneaking
    around with your information and your talk about what you have
    Drouet had never suspected this side of Carrie's nature.  She was
    alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her
    whole body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her
    "Who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his
    part, but certain that he was wronged.
    "You are," stamped Carrie.  "You're a horrid, conceited coward,
    that's what you are.  If you had any sense of manhood in you, you
    wouldn't have thought of doing any such thing."
    The drummer stared.
    "I'm not a coward," he said.  "What do you mean by going with
    other men, anyway?"
    "Other men!" exclaimed Carrie.  "Other men--you know better than
    that.  I did go with Mr. Hurstwood, but whose fault was it?
    Didn't you bring him here? You told him yourself that he should
    come out here and take me out.  Now, after it's all over, you
    come and tell me that I oughtn't to go with him and that he's a
    married man."
    She paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her
    hands.  The knowledge of Hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a
    "Oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her
    eyes dry.  "Oh, oh!"
    "Well, I didn't think you'd be running around with him when I was
    away," insisted Drouet.
    "Didn't think!" said Carrie, now angered to the core by the man's
    peculiar attitude.  "Of course not.  You thought only of what
    would be to your satisfaction.  You thought you'd make a toy of
    me--a plaything.  Well, I'll show you that you won't.  I'll have
    nothing more to do with you at all.  You can take your old things
    and keep them," and unfastening a little pin he had given her,
    she flung it vigorously upon the floor and began to move about as
    if to gather up the things which belonged to her.
    By this Drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more.
    He looked at her in amazement, and finally said:
    "I don't see where your wrath comes in.  I've got the right of
    this thing.  You oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right
    after all I did for you."
    "What have you done for me?" asked Carrie blazing, her head
    thrown back and her lips parted.
    "I think I've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking
    around.  "I've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't I?
    I've taken you everywhere you wanted to go.  You've had as much
    as I've had, and more too."
    Carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her.
    In so far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits
    received.  She hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath
    was not placated.  She felt that the drummer had injured her
    "Did I ask you to?" she returned.
    "Well, I did it," said Drouet, "and you took it."
    "You talk as though I had persuaded you," answered Carrie.  "You
    stand there and throw up what you've done.  I don't want your old
    things.  I'll not have them.  You take them to-night and do what
    you please with them.  I'll not stay here another minute."
    "That's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of
    his own approaching loss.  "Use everything and abuse me and then
    walk off.  That's just like a woman.  I take you when you haven't
    got anything, and then when some one else comes along, why I'm no
    good.  I always thought it'd come out that way."
    He felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as
    if he saw no way of obtaining justice.
    "It's not so," said Carrie, "and I'm not going with anybody else.
    You have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be.  I
    hate you, I tell you, and I wouldn't live with you another
    minute.  You're a big, insulting"--here she hesitated and used no
    word at all--"or you wouldn't talk that way."
    She had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over
    her little evening dress.  Some wisps of wavy hair had loosened
    from the bands at the side of her head and were straggling over
    her hot, red cheeks.  She was angry, mortified, grief-stricken.
    Her large eyes were full of the anguish of tears, but her lids
    were not yet wet.  She was distracted and uncertain, deciding and
    doing things without an aim or conclusion, and she had not the
    slightest conception of how the whole difficulty would end.
    "Well, that's a fine finish," said Drouet.  "Pack up and pull
    out, eh? You take the cake.  I bet you were knocking around with
    Hurstwood or you wouldn't act like that.  I don't want the old
    rooms.  You needn't pull out for me.  You can have them for all I
    care, but b'George, you haven't done me right."
    "I'll not live with you," said Carrie.  "I don't want to live
    with you.  You've done nothing but brag around ever since you've
    been here."
    "Aw, I haven't anything of the kind," he answered.
    Carrie walked over to the door.
    "Where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her
    "Let me out," she said.
    "Where are you going?" he repeated.
    He was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of Carrie wandering
    out, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance.
    Carrie merely pulled at the door.
    The strain of the situation was too much for her, however.  She
    made one more vain effort and then burst into tears.
    "Now, be reasonable, Cad," said Drouet gently.  "What do you want
    to rush out for this way? You haven't any place to go.  Why not
    stay here now and be quiet? I'll not bother you.  I don't want to
    stay here any longer."
    Carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window.  She was so
    overcome she could not speak.
    "Be reasonable now," he said.  "I don't want to hold you.  You
    can go if you want to, but why don't you think it over? Lord
    knows, I don't want to stop you."
    He received no answer.  Carrie was quieting, however, under the
    influence of his plea.
    "You stay here now, and I'll go," he added at last.
    Carrie listened to this with mingled feelings.  Her mind was
    shaken loose from the little mooring of logic that it had.  She
    was stirred by this thought, angered by that--her own injustice,
    Hurstwood's, Drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and
    favour, the threat of the world outside, in which she had failed
    once before, the impossibility of this state inside, where the
    chambers were no longer justly hers, the effect of the argument
    upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass of jangling
    fibres--an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could do
    absolutely nothing but drift.
    "Say," said Drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with
    a new idea, and putting his hand upon her.
    "Don't!" said Carrie, drawing away, but not removing her
    handkerchief from her eyes.
    "Never mind about this quarrel now.  Let it go.  You stay here
    until the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what
    you want to do.  Eh?"
    Carrie made no answer.
    "You'd better do that," he said.  "There's no use your packing up
    now.  You can't go anywhere."
    Still he got nothing for his words.
    "If you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and I'll
    get out."
    Carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the
    "Will you do that?" he asked.
    Still no answer.
    "Will you?" he repeated.
    She only looked vaguely into the street.
    "Aw! come on," he said, "tell me.  Will you?"
    "I don't know," said Carrie softly, forced to answer.
    "Promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking
    about it.  It'll be the best thing for you."
    Carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer
    reasonably.  She felt that the man was gentle, and that his
    interest in her had not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of
    regret.  She was in a most helpless plight.
    As for Drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover.
    Now his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at
    losing Carrie, misery at being defeated.  He wanted his rights in
    some way or other, and yet his rights included the retaining of
    Carrie, the making her feel her error.
    "Will you?" he urged.
    "Well, I'll see," said Carrie.
    This left the matter as open as before, but it was something.  It
    looked as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get
    some way of talking to one another.  Carrie was ashamed, and
    Drouet aggrieved.  He pretended to take up the task of packing
    some things in a valise.
    Now, as Carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain
    sound thoughts came into her head.  He had erred, true, but what
    had she done? He was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism.
    Throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh.  On the
    other hand, there was Hurstwood--a greater deceiver than he.  He
    had pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was
    lying to her all the while.  Oh, the perfidy of men! And she had
    loved him.  There could be nothing more in that quarter.  She
    would see Hurstwood no more.  She would write him and let him
    know what she thought.  Thereupon what would she do? Here were
    these rooms.  Here was Drouet, pleading for her to remain.
    Evidently things could go on here somewhat as before, if all were
    arranged.  It would be better than the street, without a place to
    lay her head.
    All this she thought of as Drouet rummaged the drawers for
    collars and laboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-
    stud.  He was in no hurry to rush this matter.  He felt an
    attraction to Carrie which would not down.  He could not think
    that the thing would end by his walking out of the room.  There
    must be some way round, some way to make her own up that he was
    right and she was wrong--to patch up a peace and shut out
    Hurstwood for ever.  Mercy, how he turned at the man's shameless
    "Do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "that
    you'll try and get on the stage?"
    He was wondering what she was intending.
    "I don't know what I'll do yet," said Carrie.
    "If you do, maybe I can help you.  I've got a lot of friends in
    that line."
    She made no answer to this.
    "Don't go and try to knock around now without any money.  Let me
    help you," he said.  "It's no easy thing to go on your own hook
    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
    "Why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a
    time, "and let's call it off? You don't really care for
    Hurstwood, do you?"
    "Why do you want to start on that again?" said Carrie.  "You were
    to blame."
    "No, I wasn't," he answered.
    "Yes, you were, too," said Carrie.  "You shouldn't have ever told
    me such a story as that."
    "But you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on
    Drouet, anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct
    denial from her.
    "I won't talk about it," said Carrie, pained at the quizzical
    turn the peace arrangement had taken.
    "What's the use of acting like that now, Cad?" insisted the
    drummer, stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively.
    "You might let me know where I stand, at least."
    "I won't," said Carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger.
    "Whatever has happened is your own fault."
    "Then you do care for him?" said Drouet, stopping completely and
    experiencing a rush of feeling.
    "Oh, stop!" said Carrie.
    "Well, I'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed Drouet.  "You may
    trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't lead me.
    You can tell me or not, just as you want to, but I won't fool any
    He shoved the last few remaining things he had laid out into his
    valise and snapped it with a vengeance.  Then he grabbed his
    coat, which he had laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and
    started out.
    "You can go to the deuce as far as I am concerned," he said, as
    he reached the door.  "I'm no sucker," and with that he opened it
    with a jerk and closed it equally vigorously.
    Carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything
    else at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer.  She could
    hardly believe her senses--so good-natured and tractable had he
    invariably been.  It was not for her to see the wellspring of
    human passion.  A real flame of love is a subtle thing.  It burns
    as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to fairylands of delight.
    It roars as a furnace.  Too often jealousy is the quality upon
    which it feeds.
    Chapter XXIV
    That night Hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the
    Palmer House for a bed after his work was through.  He was in a
    fevered state of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action
    threatened to cast upon his entire future.  While he was not sure
    how much significance might be attached to the threat she had
    made, he was sure that her attitude, if long continued, would
    cause him no end of trouble.  She was determined, and had worsted
    him in a very important contest.  How would it be from now on? He
    walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his
    room, putting one thing and another together to no avail.
    Mrs. Hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her
    advantage by inaction.  Now that she had practically cowed him,
    she would follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of
    which would make her word LAW in the future.  He would have to
    pay her the money which she would now regularly demand or there
    would be trouble.  It did not matter what he did.  She really did
    not care whether he came home any more or not.  The household
    would move along much more pleasantly without him, and she could
    do as she wished without consulting any one.  Now she proposed to
    consult a lawyer and hire a detective.  She would find out at
    once just what advantages she could gain.
    Hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points
    of his situation.  "She has that property in her name," he kept
    saying to himself.  "What a fool trick that was.  Curse it! What
    a fool move that was."
    He also thought of his managerial position.  "If she raises a row
    now I'll lose this thing.  They won't have me around if my name
    gets in the papers.  My friends, too!" He grew more angry as he
    thought of the talk any action on her part would create.  How
    would the papers talk about it? Every man he knew would be
    wondering.  He would have to explain and deny and make a general
    mark of himself.  Then Moy would come and confer with him and
    there would be the devil to pay.
    Many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated
    this, and his brow moistened.  He saw no solution of anything--
    not a loophole left.
    Through all this thoughts of Carrie flashed upon him, and the
    approaching affair of Saturday.  Tangled as all his matters were,
    he did not worry over that.  It was the one pleasing thing in
    this whole rout of trouble.  He could arrange that
    satisfactorily, for Carrie would be glad to wait, if necessary.
    He would see how things turned out to-morrow, and then he would
    talk to her.  They were going to meet as usual.  He saw only her
    pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not
    arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be steadily
    maintained.  How much more pleasant it would be.  Then he would
    take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinkles and moisture
    would return.
    In the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail,
    but there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run.  For some
    reason he felt as if something might come that way, and was
    relieved when all the envelopes had been scanned and nothing
    suspicious noticed.  He began to feel the appetite that had been
    wanting before he had reached the office, and decided before
    going out to the park to meet Carrie to drop in at the Grand
    Pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls.  While the
    danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with
    him no news was good news.  If he could only get plenty of time
    to think, perhaps something would turn up.  Surely, surely, this
    thing would not drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way
    His spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he
    waited and waited and Carrie did not come.  He held his favourite
    post for an hour or more, then arose and began to walk about
    restlessly.  Could something have happened out there to keep her
    away? Could she have been reached by his wife? Surely not.  So
    little did he consider Drouet that it never once occurred to him
    to worry about his finding out.  He grew restless as he
    ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing.  She had
    not been able to get away this morning.  That was why no letter
    notifying him had come.  He would get one to-day.  It would
    probably be on his desk when he got back.  He would look for it
    at once.
    After a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the
    Madison car.  To add to his distress, the bright blue sky became
    overcast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun.  The
    wind veered to the east, and by the time he reached his office it
    was threatening to drizzle all afternoon.
    He went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from
    Carrie.  Fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either.  He
    thanked his stars that he did not have to confront that
    proposition just now when he needed to think so much.  He walked
    the floor again, pretending to be in an ordinary mood, but
    secretly troubled beyond the expression of words.
    At one-thirty he went to Rector's for lunch, and when he returned
    a messenger was waiting for him.  He looked at the little chap
    with a feeling of doubt.
    "I'm to bring an answer," said the boy.
    Hurstwood recognised his wife's writing.  He tore it open and
    read without a show of feeling.  It began in the most formal
    manner and was sharply and coldly worded throughout.
    "I want you to send the money I asked for at once.  I need it to
    carry out my plans.  You can stay away if you want to.  It
    doesn't matter in the least.  But I must have some money.  So
    don't delay, but send it by the boy."
    When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands.  The
    audacity of the thing took his breath.  It roused his ire also--
    the deepest element of revolt in him.  His first impulse was to
    write but four words in reply--"Go to the devil!"--but he
    compromised by telling the boy that there would be no reply.
    Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing,
    contemplating the result of his work.  What would she do about
    that? The confounded wretch! Was she going to try to bulldoze him
    into submission? He would go up there and have it out with her,
    that's what he would do.  She was carrying things with too high a
    hand.  These were his first thoughts.
    Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself.  Something
    had to be done.  A climax was near and she would not sit idle.
    He knew her well enough to know that when she had decided upon a
    plan she would follow it up.  Possibly matters would go into a
    lawyer's hands at once.
    "Damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "I'll make
    it hot for her if she causes me trouble.  I'll make her change
    her tone if I have to use force to do it!"
    He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street.
    The long drizzle had begun.  Pedestrians had turned up collars,
    and trousers at the bottom.  Hands were hidden in the pockets of
    the umbrellaless; umbrellas were up.  The street looked like a
    sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving.
    Trucks and vans were rattling in a noisy line and everywhere men
    were shielding themselves as best they could.  He scarcely
    noticed the picture.  He was forever confronting his wife,
    demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he
    worked her bodily harm.
    At four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the
    money was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid
    before Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be
    taken to get it.
    Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this
    thing.  Yes, he would send her the money.  He'd take it to her--
    he would go up there and have a talk with her, and that at once.
    He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella.  He would
    have some arrangement of this thing.
    He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the
    North Side.  On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the
    details of the case.  What did she know? What had she done? Maybe
    she'd got hold of Carrie, who knows--or--or Drouet.  Perhaps she
    really had evidence, and was prepared to fell him as a man does
    another from secret ambush.  She was shrewd.  Why should she
    taunt him this way unless she had good grounds?
    He began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other--
    that he had sent the money.  Perhaps he could do it up here.  He
    would go in and see, anyhow.  He would have no row.  By the time
    he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the difficulties
    of his situation and wished over and over that some solution
    would offer itself, that he could see his way out.  He alighted
    and went up the steps to the front door, but it was with a
    nervous palpitation of the heart.  He pulled out his key and
    tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside.  He shook
    at the knob, but the door was locked.  Then he rang the bell.  No
    answer.  He rang again--this time harder.  Still no answer.  He
    jangled it fiercely several times in succession, but without
    avail.  Then he went below.
    There was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen,
    protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against
    burglars.  When he reached this he noticed that it also was
    bolted and that the kitchen windows were down.  What could it
    mean? He rang the bell and then waited.  Finally, seeing that no
    one was coming, he turned and went back to his cab.
    "I guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the
    individual who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin
    "I saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby.
    Hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now.  He climbed
    moodily into the cab, relieved and distressed.
    So this was the game, was it? Shut him out and make him pay.
    Well, by the Lord, that did beat all!
    Chapter XXV
    When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater
    quandary than ever.  Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got
    into? How could things have taken such a violent turn, and so
    quickly? He could hardly realise how it had all come about.  It
    seemed a monstrous, unnatural, unwarranted condition which had
    suddenly descended upon him without his let or hindrance.
    Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie.  What could
    be the trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of
    any kind, and yet here it was late in the evening and she had
    agreed to meet him that morning.  To-morrow they were to have met
    and gone off--where? He saw that in the excitement of recent
    events he had not formulated a plan upon that score.  He was
    desperately in love, and would have taken great chances to win
    her under ordinary circumstances, but now--now what? Supposing
    she had found out something? Supposing she, too, wrote him and
    told him that she knew all--that she would have nothing more to
    do with him? It would be just like this to happen as things were
    going now.  Meanwhile he had not sent the money.
    He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his
    hands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set.  He was
    getting some vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no
    panacea for the ill which affected him.  Every once in a while he
    would clinch his fingers and tap his foot--signs of the stirring
    mental process he was undergoing.  His whole nature was
    vigorously and powerfully shaken up, and he was finding what
    limits the mind has to endurance.  He drank more brandy and soda
    than he had any evening in months.  He was altogether a fine
    example of great mental perturbation.
    For all his study nothing came of the evening except this--he
    sent the money.  It was with great opposition, after two or three
    hours of the most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at
    last he got an envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and
    slowly sealed it up.
    Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.
    "You take this to this address," he said, handing him the
    envelope, "and give it to Mrs. Hurstwood."
    "Yes, sir," said the boy.
    "If she isn't there bring it back."
    "Yes, sir"
    "You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the
    boy turned to go.
    "Oh, yes, sir.  I know her."
    "All right, now.  Hurry right back."
    "Any answer?"
    "I guess not."
    The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings.  Now
    he had done it.  There was no use speculating over that.  He was
    beaten for to-night and he might just as well make the best of
    it.  But, oh, the wretchedness of being forced this way! He could
    see her meeting the boy at the door and smiling sardonically.
    She would take the envelope and know that she had triumphed.  If
    he only had that letter back he wouldn't send it.  He breathed
    heavily and wiped the moisture from his face.
    For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few
    friends who were drinking.  He tried to get the interest of
    things about him, but it was not to be.  All the time his
    thoughts would run out to his home and see the scene being
    therein enacted.  All the time he was wondering what she would
    say when the boy handed her the envelope.
    In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned.  He had
    evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no
    sign of taking anything out of his pocket.
    "Well?" said Hurstwood.
    "I gave it to her."
    "My wife?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Any answer?"
    "She said it was high time."
    Hurstwood scowled fiercely.
    There was no more to be done upon that score that night.  He went
    on brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired
    again to the Palmer House.  He wondered what the morning would
    bring forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it.
    Next day he went again to the office and opened his mail,
    suspicious and hopeful of its contents.  No word from Carrie.
    Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant.
    The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it
    worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had
    done it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of
    peace more.  He fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing
    would be done for a week or two.  Meanwhile, he would have time
    to think.
    This process of THINKING began by a reversion to Carrie and the
    arrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet.  How
    about that now? His pain at her failure to meet or write him
    rapidly increased as he devoted himself to this subject.  He
    decided to write her care of the West Side Post-office and ask
    for an explanation, as well as to have her meet him.  The thought
    that this letter would probably not reach her until Monday chafed
    him exceedingly.  He must get some speedier method--but how?
    He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger
    or a cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but
    finding that time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the
    letter and then began to think again.
    The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union
    he had contemplated.  He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie
    by now in the task of joining her interests to his, and here it
    was afternoon and nothing done.  Three o'clock came, four, five,
    six, and no letter.  The helpless manager paced the floor and
    grimly endured the gloom of defeat.  He saw a busy Saturday
    ushered out, the Sabbath in, and nothing done.  All day, the bar
    being closed, he brooded alone, shut out from home, from the
    excitement of his resort, from Carrie, and without the ability to
    alter his condition one iota.  It was the worst Sunday he had
    spent in his life.
    In Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking
    letter, which held his interest for some time.  It bore the
    imprint of the law offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a
    very formal "Dear Sir," and "We beg to state," went on to inform
    him briefly that they had been retained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood
    to adjust certain matters which related to her sustenance and
    property rights, and would he kindly call and see them about the
    matter at once.
    He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook
    his head.  It seemed as if his family troubles were just
    "Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know."
    Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket.
    To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie.  He was quite
    certain now that she knew he was married and was angered at his
    perfidy.  His loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed
    her most.  He thought he would go out and insist on seeing her if
    she did not send him word of some sort soon.  He was really
    affected most miserably of all by this desertion.  He had loved
    her earnestly enough, but now that the possibility of losing her
    stared him in the face she seemed much more attractive.  He
    really pined for a word, and looked out upon her with his mind's
    eye in the most wistful manner.  He did not propose to lose her,
    whatever she might think.  Come what might, he would adjust this
    matter, and soon.  He would go to her and tell her all his family
    complications.  He would explain to her just where he stood and
    how much he needed her.  Surely she couldn't go back on him now?
    It wasn't possible.  He would plead until her anger would melt--
    until she would forgive him.
    Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there--suppose she
    has gone?"
    He was forced to take his feet.  It was too much to think of and
    sit still.
    Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.
    On Tuesday it was the same way.  He did manage to bring himself
    into the mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place
    he thought he saw a man watching him and went away.  He did not
    go within a block of the house.
    One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back
    on a Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost
    opposite the building of the concern with which his son was
    connected.  This sent a pang through his heart.  He had called on
    his boy there several times.  Now the lad had not sent him a
    word.  His absence did not seem to be noticed by either of his
    children.  Well, well, fortune plays a man queer tricks.  He got
    back to his office and joined in a conversation with friends.  It
    was as if idle chatter deadened the sense of misery.
    That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his
    office.  In the bustle and show of the latter was his only
    relief.  He troubled over many little details and talked
    perfunctorily to everybody.  He stayed at his desk long after all
    others had gone, and only quitted it when the night watchman on
    his round pulled at the front door to see if it was safely
    On Wednesday he received another polite note from McGregor, James
    and Hay.  It read:
    "Dear Sir: We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait
    until to-morrow (Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit
    against you, on behalf of Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and
    alimony.  If we do not hear from you before that time we shall
    consider that you do not wish to compromise the matter in any way
    and act accordingly.  "Very truly yours, etc."
    "Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly.  "Compromise!"
    Again he shook his head.
    So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what
    to expect.  If he didn't go and see them they would sue him
    promptly.  If he did, he would be offered terms that would make
    his blood boil.  He folded the letter and put it with the other
    one.  Then he put on his hat and went for a turn about the block.
    Chapter XXVI
    Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps,
    scarcely realising what had happened.  She knew that he had
    stormed out.  It was some moments before she questioned whether
    he would return, not now exactly, but ever.  She looked around
    her upon the rooms, out of which the evening light was dying, and
    wondered why she did not feel quite the same towards them.  She
    went over to the dresser and struck a match, lighting the gas.
    Then she went back to the rocker to think.
    It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when
    she did, this truth began to take on importance.  She was quite
    alone.  Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should
    never hear anything more of him? This fine arrangement of
    chambers would not last long.  She would have to quit them.
    To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood.
    She could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and
    regret.  For a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by
    this evidence of human depravity.  He would have tricked her
    without turning an eyelash.  She would have been led into a newer
    and worse situation.  And yet she could not keep out the pictures
    of his looks and manners.  Only this one deed seemed strange and
    miserable.  It contrasted sharply with all she felt and knew
    concerning the man.
    But she was alone.  That was the greater thought just at present.
    How about that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin
    to look around in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes.
    Drouet had spoken about that.  Was there any hope there? She
    moved to and fro, in deep and varied thoughts, while the minutes
    slipped away and night fell completely.  She had had nothing to
    eat, and yet there she sat, thinking it over.
    She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little
    cupboard in the rear room where were the remains of one of their
    breakfasts.  She looked at these things with certain misgivings.
    The contemplation of food had more significance than usual.
    While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had.
    It struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went
    to look for her purse.  It was on the dresser, and in it were
    seven dollars in bills and some change.  She quailed as she
    thought of the insignificance of the amount and rejoiced because
    the rent was paid until the end of the month.  She began also to
    think what she would have done if she had gone out into the
    street when she first started.  By the side of that situation, as
    she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable.  She had a
    little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come
    out all right, after all.
    Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry.
    He only acted as if he were huffy.  He would come back--of course
    he would.  There was his cane in the corner.  Here was one of his
    collars.  He had left his light overcoat in the wardrobe.  She
    looked about and tried to assure herself with the sight of a
    dozen such details, but, alas, the secondary thought arrived.
    Supposing he did come back.  Then what?
    Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing.
    She would have to talk with and explain to him.  He would want
    her to admit that he was right.  It would be impossible for her
    to live with him.
    On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and
    the passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise,
    have been in his company served to keep the calamity which had
    befallen her exceedingly fresh and clear.  In her nervousness and
    stress of mind she felt it necessary to act, and consequently put
    on a brown street dress, and at eleven o'clock started to visit
    the business portion once again.  She must look for work.
    The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served
    equally well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within
    doors as it did to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a
    wretched day.
    The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business
    quarters, and besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees
    and grass shining exceedingly green after the rain of the night
    before.  When she went out the sparrows were twittering merrily
    in joyous choruses.  She could not help feeling, as she looked
    across the lovely park, that life was a joyous thing for those
    who did not need to worry, and she wished over and over that
    something might interfere now to preserve for her the comfortable
    state which she had occupied.  She did not want Drouet or his
    money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do with
    Hurstwood, but only the content and ease of mind she had
    experienced, for, after all, she had been happy--happier, at
    least, than she was now when confronted by the necessity of
    making her way alone.
    When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven
    o'clock, and the business had little longer to run.  She did not
    realise this at first, being affected by some of the old distress
    which was a result of her earlier adventure into this strenuous
    and exacting quarter.  She wandered about, assuring herself that
    she was making up her mind to look for something, and at the same
    time feeling that perhaps it was not necessary to be in such
    haste about it.  The thing was difficult to encounter, and she
    had a few days.  Besides, she was not sure that she was really
    face to face again with the bitter problem of self-sustenance.
    Anyhow, there was one change for the better.  She knew that she
    had improved in appearance.  Her manner had vastly changed.  Her
    clothes were becoming, and men--well-dressed men, some of the
    kind who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their
    polished railings and imposing office partitions--now gazed into
    her face with a soft light in their eyes.  In a way, she felt the
    power and satisfaction of the thing, but it did not wholly
    reassure her.  She looked for nothing save what might come
    legitimately and without the appearance of special favour.  She
    wanted something, but no man should buy her by false
    protestations or favour.  She proposed to earn her living
    "This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and
    satisfactory legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to
    enter and inquire for work.  It gave her an excuse, and after
    encountering quite a number of them, and noting that the clock
    registered 12.15, she decided that it would be no use to seek
    further to-day, so she got on a car and went to Lincoln Park.
    There was always something to see there--the flowers, the
    animals, the lake--and she flattered herself that on Monday she
    would be up betimes and searching.  Besides, many things might
    happen between now and Monday.
    Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven
    knows what vagaries of mind and spirit.  Every half-hour in the
    day the thought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of
    a swishing whip, that action--immediate action--was imperative.
    At other times she would look about her and assure herself that
    things were not so bad--that certainly she would come out safe
    and sound.  At such times she would think of Drouet's advice
    about going on the stage, and saw some chance for herself in that
    quarter.  She decided to take up that opportunity on the morrow.
    Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
    carefully.  She did not know just how such applications were
    made, but she took it to be a matter which related more directly
    to the theatre buildings.  All you had to do was to inquire of
    some one about the theatre for the manager and ask for a
    position.  If there was anything, you might get it, or, at least,
    he could tell you how.
    She had had no experience with this class of individuals
    whatsoever, and did not know the salacity and humour of the
    theatrical tribe.  She only knew of the position which Mr. Hale
    occupied, but, of all things, she did not wish to encounter that
    personage, on account of her intimacy with his wife.
    There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera
    House, which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager,
    David A. Henderson, had a fair local reputation.  Carrie had seen
    one or two elaborate performances there and had heard of several
    others.  She knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of
    applying, but she instinctively felt that this would be a likely
    place, and accordingly strolled about in that neighbourhood.  She
    came bravely enough to the showy entrance way, with the polished
    and begilded lobby, set with framed pictures out of the current
    attraction, leading up to the quiet box-office, but she could get
    no further.  A noted comic opera comedian was holding forth that
    week, and the air of distinction and prosperity overawed her.
    She could not imagine that there would be anything in such a
    lofty sphere for her.  She almost trembled at the audacity which
    might have carried her on to a terrible rebuff.  She could find
    heart only to look at the pictures which were showy and then walk
    out.  It seemed to her as if she had made a splendid escape and
    that it would be foolhardy to think of applying in that quarter
    This little experience settled her hunting for one day.  She
    looked around elsewhere, but it was from the outside.  She got
    the location of several playhouses fixed in her mind--notably the
    Grand Opera House and McVickar's, both of which were leading in
    attractions--and then came away.  Her spirits were materially
    reduced, owing to the newly restored sense of magnitude of the
    great interests and the insignificance of her claims upon
    society, such as she understood them to be.
    That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and
    protracted stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament
    or the fortune of the day.  Before retiring, however, she sat
    down to think, and gave herself up to the most gloomy
    forebodings.  Drouet had not put in an appearance.  She had had
    no word from any quarter, she had spent a dollar of her precious
    sum in procuring food and paying car fare.  It was evident that
    she would not endure long.  Besides, she had discovered no
    In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van
    Buren Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her
    flight, and to her home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part
    of something that could not be again.  She looked for no refuge
    in that direction.  Nothing but sorrow was brought her by
    thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return.  That he could have
    chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a cruel thing.
    Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation.
    She was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to
    hasten forth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked
    herself for what she considered her weakness the day before.
    Accordingly she started out to revisit the Chicago Opera House,
    but possessed scarcely enough courage to approach.
    She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.
    "Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed
    individual who took care of the tickets.  He was favourably
    impressed by Carrie's looks.
    "I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question.
    "You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow,"
    volunteered the young man.  "He's out of town."
    He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish
    to see about?"
    "I want to see about getting a position," she answered.
    "You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but
    he isn't here now."
    "When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
    "Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve.  He's
    here after two o'clock."
    Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man
    gazed after her through one of the side windows of his gilded
    "Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
    condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to
    One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
    engagement at the Grand Opera House.  Here Carrie asked to see
    the manager of the company.  She little knew the trivial
    authority of this individual, or that had there been a vacancy an
    actor would have been sent on from New York to fill it.
    "His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office.
    Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a
    window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top
    desk--the manager.  Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to
    fear that she should have to make her appeal before the assembled
    company, two of whom--the occupants of the window--were already
    observing her carefully.
    "I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr.
    Frohman's never to allow visitors back of the stage.  No, no!"
    Carrie timidly waited, standing.  There were chairs, but no one
    motioned her to be seated.  The individual to whom the manager
    had been talking went away quite crestfallen.  That luminary
    gazed earnestly at some papers before him, as if they were of the
    greatest concern.
    "Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,
    "No," said the person addressed.  "What was it?"
    "Made quite a curtain address at Hooley's last night.  Better
    look it up."
    Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the
    "What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her
    for the first time.  He thought he was going to be held up for
    free tickets.
    Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best.
    She realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were
    certain.  Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to
    pretend she had called for advice.
    "Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?"
    It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter.  She
    was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and
    the simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy.  He
    smiled, as did the others in the room, who, however, made some
    slight effort to conceal their humour.
    "I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over.  "Have
    you ever had any experience upon the stage?"
    "A little," answered Carrie.  "I have taken part in amateur
    She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to
    retain his interest.
    "Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air
    intended as much to impress his friends with his discretion as
    "No, sir."
    "Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his
    chair while she stood before him.  "What makes you want to get on
    the stage?"
    She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in
    answer to his engaging smirk, and say:
    "I need to make a living."
    "Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and
    feeling as if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her.
    "That's a good reason, isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good
    place for what you want to do.  You ought to be in New York.
    There's more chance there.  You could hardly expect to get
    started out here." Carrie smiled genially, grateful that he
    should condescend to advise her even so much.  He noticed the
    smile, and put a slightly different construction on it.  He
    thought he saw an easy chance for a little flirtation.
    "Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his
    desk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room
    should not hear.  Those two gave each other the suggestion of a
    "Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so
    addressing the manager.  "See you this afternoon."
    "All right," said the manager.
    The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.
    "Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?"
    asked the manager softly.
    "Oh, no," said Carrie.  "I would take anything to begin with."
    "I see," he said.  "Do you live here in the city?"
    "Yes, sir."
    The manager smiled most blandly.
    "Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked,
    assuming a more confidential air.
    Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and
    unnatural in his manner.
    "No," she said.
    "That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the
    stage.  It's a good way to get experience."
    He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and
    persuasive manner.
    "I didn't know that," said Carrie.
    "It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a
    chance, you know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled
    out his watch and consulted it.  "I've an appointment at two," he
    said, "and I've got to go to lunch now.  Would you care to come
    and dine with me? We can talk it over there."
    "Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on
    her at once.  "I have an engagement myself."
    "That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little
    beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away.
    "Come in later.  I may know of something."
    "Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation and went out.
    "She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion,
    who had not caught all the details of the game he had played.
    "Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been
    lost.  "She'd never make an actress, though.  Just another chorus
    girl--that's all."
    This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon
    the manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so
    after a time.  He was of a more sedate turn of mind.  He said at
    once that there was no opening of any sort, and seemed to
    consider her search foolish.
    "Chicago is no place to get a start," he said.  "You ought to be
    in New York."
    Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not
    find any one.  "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the
    person to whom she was referred was not to be found.
    These little expeditions took up her time until quite four
    o'clock, when she was weary enough to go home.  She felt as if
    she ought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so
    far were too dispiriting.  She took the car and arrived at Ogden
    Place in three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the
    West Side branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to
    receive Hurstwood's letters.  There was one there now, written
    Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled feelings.
    There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her
    having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she
    rather pitied the man.  That he loved her was evident enough.
    That he had wished and dared to do so, married as he was, was the
    evil.  She felt as if the thing deserved an answer, and
    consequently decided that she would write and let him know that
    she knew of his married state and was justly incensed at his
    deception.  She would tell him that it was all over between them.
    At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some
    time, for she fell to the task at once.  It was most difficult.
    "You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she
    wrote in part.  "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect
    me to have anything more to do with you.  I wouldn't under any
    circumstances.  Oh, how could you act so?" she added in a burst
    of feeling.  "You have caused me more misery than you can think.
    I hope you will get over your infatuation for me.  We must not
    meet any more.  Good-bye."
    She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped
    it reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether
    she should do so or not.  Then she took the car and went down
    This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
    listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to
    young women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive
    appearance.  She was asked the same old questions with which she
    was already familiar.
    "What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before?
    Are you experienced?"
    At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was
    much the same.  It was the dull season, she might come in a
    little later, possibly they would like to have her.
    When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
    disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there.  His
    umbrella and light overcoat were gone.  She thought she missed
    other things, but could not be sure.  Everything had not been
    So his going was crystallising into staying.  What was she to do
    now? Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way
    within a day or two.  Her clothes would get poor.  She put her
    two hands together in her customary expressive way and pressed
    her fingers.  Large tears gathered in her eyes and broke hot
    across her cheeks.  She was alone, very much alone.
    Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind
    from that which Carrie had imagined.  He expected to find her, to
    justify his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining
    portion of his wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up
    a peace.
    Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie
    out.  He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the
    neighbourhood and would soon return.  He constantly listened,
    expecting to hear her foot on the stair.
    When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had
    just come in and was disturbed at being caught.  Then he would
    explain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood.
    Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come.  From pottering
    around among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival
    he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to resting
    himself in the rocking-chair.  Still no Carrie.  He began to grow
    restless and lit a cigar.  After that he walked the floor.  Then
    he looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering.  He
    remembered an appointment at three.  He began to think that it
    would be useless to wait, and got hold of his umbrella and light
    coat, intending to take these things, any way.  It would scare
    her, he hoped.  To-morrow he would come back for the others.  He
    would find out how things stood.
    As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her.
    There was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her
    arrayed in the little jacket he had first bought her--her face a
    little more wistful than he had seen it lately.  He was really
    touched by it, and looked into the eyes of it with a rather rare
    feeling for him.
    "You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing
    her in the flesh.
    Then he went to the door, took a good look around and went out.
    Chapter XXVII
    It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the
    streets, after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James
    and Hay, that Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him
    that morning.  He thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting,
    and rapidly tore it open.
    "Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written
    to me at all."
    He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first
    few minutes, but soon recovered.  "She wouldn't write at all if
    she didn't care for me."
    This was his one resource against the depression which held him.
    He could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the
    spirit he thought he knew.
    There was really something exceedingly human--if not pathetic--in
    his being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof.  He who had
    for so long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of
    himself for comfort--and to such a source.  The mystic cords of
    affection! How they bind us all.
    The colour came to his cheeks.  For the moment he forgot the
    letter from McGregor, James and Hay.  If he could only have
    Carrie, perhaps he could get out of the whole entanglement--
    perhaps it would not matter.  He wouldn't care what his wife did
    with herself if only he might not lose Carrie.  He stood up and
    walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a life continued
    with this lovely possessor of his heart.
    It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for
    consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the
    morrow and the suit.  He had done nothing, and here was the
    afternoon slipping away.  It was now a quarter of four.  At five
    the attorneys would have gone home.  He still had the morrow
    until noon.  Even as he thought, the last fifteen minutes passed
    away and it was five.  Then he abandoned the thought of seeing
    them any more that day and turned to Carrie.
    It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to
    himself.  He was not troubling about that.  His whole thought was
    the possibility of persuading Carrie.  Nothing was wrong in that.
    He loved her dearly.  Their mutual happiness depended upon it.
    Would that Drouet were only away!
    While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted
    some clean linen in the morning.
    This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to
    the Palmer House.  As he entered he thought he saw Drouet
    ascending the stairs with a key.  Surely not Drouet! Then he
    thought, perhaps they had changed their abode temporarily.  He
    went straight up to the desk.
    "Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk.
    "I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry
    list.  "Yes."
    "Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his
    astonishment.  "Alone?" he added.
    "Yes," said the clerk.
    Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and
    conceal his feelings.
    "How's that?" he thought.  "They've had a row."
    He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his
    linen.  As he did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was
    alone, or if she had gone to another place, it behooved him to
    find out.  He decided to call at once.
    "I know what I'll do," he thought.  "I'll go to the door and ask
    if Mr. Drouet is at home.  That will bring out whether he is
    there or not and where Carrie is."
    He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it.
    He decided to go immediately after supper.
    On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to
    see if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch.  He could
    scarcely eat, however, he was so anxious to be about his errand.
    Before starting he thought it well to discover where Drouet would
    be, and returned to his hotel.
    "Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk.
    "No," answered the latter, "he's in his room.  Do you wish to
    send up a card?"
    "No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled
    He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place this time
    walking boldly up to the door.  The chambermaid answered his
    "Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly.
    "He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell
    this to Mrs. Hale.
    "Is Mrs. Drouet in?"
    "No, she has gone to the theatre."
    "Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as
    if burdened with something important, "You don't know to which
    The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking
    Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes,
    "Thank you," returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly,
    went away.
    "I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact
    he did not.  Before he had reached the central portion of the
    city he thought the whole matter over and decided it would be
    useless.  As much as he longed to see Carrie, he knew she would
    be with some one and did not wish to intrude with his plea there.
    A little later he might do so--in the morning.  Only in the
    morning he had the lawyer question before him.
    This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising
    spirits.  He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached
    the resort anxious to find relief.  Quite a company of gentlemen
    were making the place lively with their conversation.  A group of
    Cook County politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood
    table in the rear portion of the room.  Several young merrymakers
    were chattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the
    theatre.  A shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an
    old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end
    of the bar.  Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and went into
    his office.
    About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L.  Taintor, a local
    sport and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in
    his office came to the door.
    "Hello, George!" he exclaimed.
    "How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the
    sight of him.  "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the
    chairs in the little room.
    "What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor.  "You look a little
    glum.  Haven't lost at the track, have you?"
    "I'm not feeling very well to-night.  I had a slight cold the
    other day."
    "Take whiskey, George," said Taintor.  "You ought to know that."
    Hurstwood smiled.
    While they were still conferring there, several other of
    Hurstwood's friends entered, and not long after eleven, the
    theatres being out, some actors began to drop in--among them some
    Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common
    in American resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off
    gilt from those who have it in abundance.  If Hurstwood had one
    leaning, it was toward notabilities.  He considered that, if
    anywhere, he belonged among them.  He was too proud to toady, too
    keen not to strictly observe the plane he occupied when there
    were those present who did not appreciate him, but, in situations
    like the present, where he could shine as a gentleman and be
    received without equivocation as a friend and equal among men of
    known ability, he was most delighted.  It was on such occasions,
    if ever, that he would "take something."  When the social flavour
    was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking
    glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his
    turn to pay as if he were an outsider like the others.  If he
    ever approached intoxication--or rather that ruddy warmth and
    comfortableness which precedes the more sloven state--it was when
    individuals such as these were gathered about him, when he was
    one of a circle of chatting celebrities.  To-night, disturbed as
    was his state, he was rather relieved to find company, and now
    that notabilities were gathered, he laid aside his troubles for
    the nonce, and joined in right heartily.
    It was not long before the imbibing began to tell.  Stories began
    to crop up--those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the
    major portion of the conversation among American men under such
    Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the
    company took leave.  Hurstwood shook hands with them most
    cordially.  He was very roseate physically.  He had arrived at
    that state where his mind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm
    in its fancies.  He felt as if his troubles were not very
    serious.  Going into his office, he began to turn over certain
    accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the
    cashier, who soon left.
    It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were
    gone to see that everything was safely closed up for the night.
    As a rule, no money except the cash taken in after banking hours
    was kept about the place, and that was locked in the safe by the
    cashier, who, with the owners, was joint keeper of the secret
    combination, but, nevertheless, Hurstwood nightly took the
    precaution to try the cash drawers and the safe in order to see
    that they were tightly closed.  Then he would lock his own little
    office and set the proper light burning near the safe, after
    which he would take his departure.
    Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but
    to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the
    safe.  His way was to give a sharp pull.  This time the door
    responded.  He was slightly surprised at that, and looking in
    found the money cases as left for the day, apparently
    unprotected.  His first thought was, of course, to inspect the
    drawers and shut the door.
    "I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought.
    The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour
    before that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring
    the lock.  He had never failed to do so before.  But to-night
    Mayhew had other thoughts.  He had been revolving the problem of
    a business of his own.
    "I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money
    drawers.  He did not know why he wished to look in there.  It was
    quite a superfluous action, which another time might not have
    happened at all.
    As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as
    banks issue, caught his eye.  He could not tell how much they
    represented, but paused to view them.  Then he pulled out the
    second of the cash drawers.  In that were the receipts of the
    "I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way,"
    his mind said to itself.  "They must have forgotten it."
    He looked at the other drawer and paused again.
    "Count them," said a voice in his ear.
    He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,
    letting the separate parcels fall.  They were bills of fifty and
    one hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand.  He thought
    he counted ten such.
    "Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering.
    "What makes me pause here?"
    For answer there came the strangest words:
    "Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?"
    Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much.  All
    his property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned
    that.  He was worth more than forty thousand, all told--but she
    would get that.
    He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the
    drawers and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob,
    which might so easily lock it all beyond temptation.  Still he
    paused.  Finally he went to the windows and pulled down the
    curtains.  Then he tried the door, which he had previously
    locked.  What was this thing, making him suspicious? Why did he
    wish to move about so quietly.  He came back to the end of the
    counter as if to rest his arm and think.  Then he went and
    unlocked his little office door and turned on the light.  He also
    opened his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange
    "The safe is open," said a voice.  "There is just the least
    little crack in it.  The lock has not been sprung."
    The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts.  Now all the
    entanglement of the day came back.  Also the thought that here
    was a solution.  That money would do it.  If he had that and
    Carrie.  He rose up and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.
    "What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand
    slowly up and scratched his head.
    The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant
    proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar.  Wine was in
    his veins.  It had crept up into his head and given him a warm
    view of the situation.  It also coloured the possibilities of ten
    thousand for him.  He could see great opportunities with that.
    He could get Carrie.  Oh, yes, he could! He could get rid of his
    wife.  That letter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow
    morning.  He would not need to answer that.  He went back to the
    safe and put his hand on the knob.  Then he pulled the door open
    and took the drawer with the money quite out.
    With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to
    think about leaving it.  Certainly it would.  Why, he could live
    quietly with Carrie for years.
    Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a
    stern hand had been laid upon his shoulder.  He looked fearfully
    around.  Not a soul was present.  Not a sound.  Some one was
    shuffling by on the sidewalk.  He took the box and the money and
    put it back in the safe.  Then he partly closed the door again.
    To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of
    the individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who
    trembles in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely
    appreciable, unless graphically portrayed.  Those who have never
    heard that solemn voice of the ghostly clock which ticks with
    awful distinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," "thou shalt,"
    "thou shalt not," are in no position to judge.  Not alone in
    sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental conflict
    possible.  The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire
    toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is
    proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency.  We
    must remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no
    knowledge of right is predicated of the animal's instinctive
    recoil at evil.  Men are still led by instinct before they are
    regulated by knowledge.  It is instinct which recalls the
    criminal--it is instinct (where highly organised reasoning is
    absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear
    of wrong.
    At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind
    wavers.  The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial.
    To those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the
    following will appeal on the simple ground of revelation.
    When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its
    ease and daring.  No one had observed him.  He was quite alone.
    No one could tell what he wished to do.  He could work this thing
    out for himself.
    The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off.  Moist as was
    his brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright,
    he was still flushed with the fumes of liquor.  He scarcely
    noticed that the time was passing.  He went over his situation
    once again, his eye always seeing the money in a lump, his mind
    always seeing what it would do.  He strolled into his little
    room, then to the door, then to the safe again.  He put his hand
    on the knob and opened it.  There was the money! Surely no harm
    could come from looking at it!
    He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills.  They were so
    smooth, so compact, so portable.  How little they made, after
    all.  He decided he would take them.  Yes, he would.  He would
    put them in his pocket.  Then he looked at that and saw they
    would not go there.  His hand satchel! To be sure, his hand
    satchel.  They would go in that--all of it would.  No one would
    think anything of it either.  He went into the little office and
    took it from the shelf in the corner.  Now he set it upon his
    desk and went out toward the safe.  For some reason he did not
    want to fill it out in the big room.
    First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the
    day.  He would take it all.  He put the empty drawers back and
    pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.
    The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost
    inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true.  Hurstwood
    could not bring himself to act definitely.  He wanted to think
    about it--to ponder over it, to decide whether it were best.  He
    was drawn by such a keen desire for Carrie, driven by such a
    state of turmoil in his own affairs that he thought constantly it
    would be best, and yet he wavered.  He did not know what evil
    might result from it to him--how soon he might come to grief.
    The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him, and
    never would have, under any circumstances.
    After he had all the money in the handbag, a revulsion of feeling
    seized him.  He would not do it--no! Think of what a scandal it
    would make.  The police! They would be after him.  He would have
    to fly, and where? Oh, the terror of being a fugitive from
    justice! He took out the two boxes and put all the money back.
    In his excitement he forgot what he was doing, and put the sums
    in the wrong boxes.  As he pushed the door to, he thought he
    remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again.  There were
    the two boxes mixed.
    He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror
    had gone.  Why be afraid?
    While the money was in his hand the lock clicked.  It had sprung!
    Did he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously.  It
    had closed.  Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.
    The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the
    sweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently.  He
    looked about him and decided instantly.  There was no delaying
    "Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away,
    they'll know who took it.  I'm the last to close up.  Besides,
    other things will happen."
    At once he became the man of action.
    "I must get out of this," he thought.
    He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and
    hat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel.  Then he turned
    out all but one light and opened the door.  He tried to put on
    his old assured air, but it was almost gone.  He was repenting
    "I wish I hadn't done that," he said.  "That was a mistake."
    He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman
    whom he knew who was trying doors.  He must get out of the city,
    and that quickly.
    "I wonder how the trains run?" he thought.
    Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked.  It was nearly
    half-past one.
    At the first drugstore he stopped, seeing a long-distance
    telephone booth inside.  It was a famous drugstore, and contained
    one of the first private telephone booths ever erected.
    "I want to use your 'phone a minute," he said to the night clerk.
    The latter nodded.
    "Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the
    Michigan Central depot number.  Soon he got the ticket agent.
    "How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked.
    The man explained the hours.
    "No more to-night?"
    "Nothing with a sleeper.  Yes, there is, too," he added.  "There
    is a mail train out of here at three o'clock."
    "All right," said Hurstwood.  "What time does that get to
    He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river
    into Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal.
    He was relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.
    "Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought.  "They can't
    get on my track before noon."
    Then he thought of Carrie.  With what speed must he get her, if
    he got her at all.  She would have to come along.  He jumped into
    the nearest cab standing by.
    "To Ogden Place," he said sharply.  "I'll give you a dollar more
    if you make good time."
    The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop which
    was fairly fast, however.  On the way Hurstwood thought what to
    do.  Reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not
    spare the bell in waking the servant.
    "Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked.
    "Yes," said the astonished girl.
    "Tell her to dress and come to the door at once.  Her husband is
    in the hospital, injured, and wants to see her."
    The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's
    strained and emphatic manner.
    "What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her
    "Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital.  He wants to see you.
    The cab's downstairs."
    Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting
    everything save the necessities.
    "Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly.  "He wants to see you.
    Come quickly."
    Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.
    "Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.
    The cabby began to turn the horse around.
    "Michigan Central depot," he said, standing up and speaking so
    low that Carrie could not hear, "as fast as you can go."
    Chapter XXVIII
    The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling
    herself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:
    "What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"
    "It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly.  He
    was very much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he
    had Carrie with him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of
    the law.  Therefore he was in no mood for anything save such
    words as would further his plans distinctly.
    Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled
    between her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her
    agitation.  The one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.
    "Where is he?"
    "Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood.  "We'll have to take
    the train.  It's the quickest way."
    Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on.  The weirdness
    of the city by night held her attention.  She looked at the long
    receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.
    "How did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the nature
    of his injuries.  Hurstwood understood.  He hated to lie any more
    than necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of
    "I don't know exactly," he said.  "They just called me up to go
    and get you and bring you out.  They said there wasn't any need
    for alarm, but that I shouldn't fail to bring you."
    The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
    Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry.  For one
    in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool.  He could only
    think of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly
    away.  Carrie seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated
    In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he
    handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.
    "You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the
    waiting-room, "while I get the tickets."
    "Have I much time to catch that train for Detroit?" he asked of
    the agent.
    "Four minutes," said the latter.
    He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.
    "Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.
    "Not very," he said.  "We must get right in."
    He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the
    ticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she
    could not see, and then hurried after.
    There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or
    two common day coaches.  As the train had only recently been made
    up and few passengers were expected, there were only one or two
    brakemen waiting.  They entered the rear day coach and sat down.
    Almost immediately, "All aboard," resounded faintly from the
    outside, and the train started.
    Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to
    a depot--but said nothing.  The whole incident was so out of the
    natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she
    "How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed
    "Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not
    bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter.  She was still
    nervous to reach Drouet and see what could be the matter.
    Hurstwood contemplated her and felt this.  He was not disturbed
    that it should be so.  He did not trouble because she was moved
    sympathetically in the matter.  It was one of the qualities in
    her which pleased him exceedingly.  He was only thinking how he
    should explain.  Even this was not the most serious thing in his
    mind, however.  His own deed and present flight were the great
    shadows which weighed upon him.
    "What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over.  "What a
    In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had
    been done.  He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive
    from justice.  He had often read of such things, and had thought
    they must be terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he
    only sat and looked into the past.  The future was a thing which
    concerned the Canadian line.  He wanted to reach that.  As for
    the rest he surveyed his actions for the evening, and counted
    them parts of a great mistake.
    "Still," he said, "what could I have done?"
    Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to
    do so by starting the whole inquiry over again.  It was a
    fruitless, harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal
    with the proposition he had in the presence of Carrie.
    The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran
    rather slowly to Twenty-fourth Street.  Brakes and signals were
    visible without.  The engine gave short calls with its whistle,
    and frequently the bell rang.  Several brakemen came through,
    bearing lanterns.  They were locking the vestibules and putting
    the cars in order for a long run.
    Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent
    streets flashing by in rapid succession.  The engine also began
    its whistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger
    to important crossings.
    "Is it very far?" asked Carrie.
    "Not so very," said Hurstwood.  He could hardly repress a smile
    at her simplicity.  He wanted to explain and conciliate her, but
    he also wanted to be well out of Chicago.
    In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie
    that it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.
    "Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously.  They were now far
    beyond the city limits, and the train was scudding across the
    Indiana line at a great rate.
    "No," he said, "not where we are going."
    There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in
    an instant.
    Her pretty brow began to contract.
    "We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.
    He felt that the time was up.  An explanation might as well come
    now as later.  Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle
    "What?" said Carrie.  She was nonplussed at the possibility of
    the errand being different from what she had thought.
    He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.
    "Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice
    showing the quality of fright.
    "I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet.  I want you to come
    along with me to another city,"
    "Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry.  "Let me
    off.  I don't want to go with you."
    She was quite appalled at the man's audacity.  This was something
    which had never for a moment entered her head.  Her one thought
    now was to get off and away.  If only the flying train could be
    stopped, the terrible trick would be amended.
    She arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere.  She
    knew she had to do something.  Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on
    "Sit still, Carrie," he said.  "Sit still.  It won't do you any
    good to get up here.  Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll
    do.  Wait a moment."
    She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back.  No
    one saw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the
    car, and they were attempting to doze.
    "I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against
    her will.  "Let me go," she said.  "How dare you?" and large
    tears began to gather in her eyes.
    Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and
    ceased to think of his own situation.  He must do something with
    this girl, or she would cause him trouble.  He tried the art of
    persuasion with all his powers aroused.
    "Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way.  I
    didn't mean to hurt your feelings.  I don't want to do anything
    to make you feel bad."
    "Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh--oo--o!"
    "There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry.  Won't you listen to
    me? Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do
    this thing.  I couldn't help it.  I assure you I couldn't.  Won't
    you listen?"
    Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear
    a word he said.
    "Won't you listen?" he asked.
    "No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up.  "I want you to take me
    out of this, or I'll tell the conductor.  I won't go with you.
    It's a shame," and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for
    Hurstwood listened with some astonishment.  He felt that she had
    just cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he
    could straighten this thing out quickly.  Shortly the conductor
    would come through for the tickets.  He wanted no noise, no
    trouble of any kind.  Before everything he must make her quiet.
    "You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said
    Hurstwood.  "It won't be very long until we reach another
    station.  You can get out then if you want to.  I won't stop you.
    All I want you to do is to listen a moment.  You'll let me tell
    you, won't you?"
    Carrie seemed not to listen.  She only turned her head toward the
    window, where outside all was black.  The train was speeding with
    steady grace across the fields and through patches of wood.  The
    long whistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely
    woodland crossings were approached.
    Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two
    fares that had been added at Chicago.  He approached Hurstwood,
    who handed out the tickets.  Poised as she was to act, Carrie
    made no move.  She did not look about.
    When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.
    "You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said.  "I didn't
    mean to, Carrie.  As I live I didn't.  I couldn't help it.  I
    couldn't stay away from you after the first time I saw you."
    He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by
    the board.  He wanted to convince her that his wife could no
    longer be a factor in their relationship.  The money he had
    stolen he tried to shut out of his mind.
    "Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you.  I want you to go
    away from me.  I am going to get out at the very next station."
    She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.
    "All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After
    all you have said about loving me, you might hear me.  I don't
    want to do you any harm.  I'll give you the money to go back with
    when you go.  I merely want to tell you, Carrie.  You can't stop
    me from loving you, whatever you may think."
    He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply.
    "You think I have deceived you badly, but I haven't.  I didn't do
    it willingly.  I'm through with my wife.  She hasn't any claims
    on me.  I'll never see her any more.  That's why I'm here to-
    night.  That's why I came and got you."
    "You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely.  "You
    deceived me.  You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you
    want to force me to run away with you."
    She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again.
    He let her, and she took another seat.  Then he followed.
    "Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently.  "Let me
    explain.  If you will only hear me out you will see where I
    stand.  I tell you my wife is nothing to me.  She hasn't been
    anything for years or I wouldn't have ever come near you.  I'm
    going to get a divorce just as soon as I can.  I'll never see her
    again.  I'm done with all that.  You're the only person I want.
    If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again."
    Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state.  It sounded
    sincere enough, however, despite all he had done.  There was a
    tenseness in Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have
    some effect.  She did not want anything to do with him.  He was
    married, he had deceived her once, and now again, and she thought
    him terrible.  Still there is something in such daring and power
    which is fascinating to a woman, especially if she can be made to
    feel that it is all prompted by love of her.
    The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
    solution of this difficult situation.  The speeding wheels and
    disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind.
    Carrie could feel that she was being borne a long distance off--
    that the engine was making an almost through run to some distant
    city.  She felt at times as if she could cry out and make such a
    row that some one would come to her aid; at other times it seemed
    an almost useless thing--so far was she from any aid, no matter
    what she did.  All the while Hurstwood was endeavouring to
    formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike home and
    bring her into sympathy with him.
    "I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."
    Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.
    "When I say you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided
    to put everything else behind me and get you to come away with
    me.  I'm going off now to another city.  I want to go to Montreal
    for a while, and then anywhere you want to.  We'll go and live in
    New York, if you say."
    "I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie.  "I want to
    get off this train.  Where are we going?"
    "To Detroit," said Hurstwood.
    "Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish.  So distant and
    definite a point seemed to increase the difficulty.
    "Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great
    danger that she would not.  "You won't need to do anything but
    travel with me.  I'll not trouble you in any way.  You can see
    Montreal and New York, and then if you don't want to stay you can
    go back.  It will be better than trying to go back to-night."
    The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie.
    It seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his
    opposition if she tried to carry it out.  Montreal and New York!
    Even now she was speeding toward those great, strange lands, and
    could see them if she liked.  She thought, but made no sign.
    Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this.  He
    redoubled his ardour.
    "Think," he said, "what I've given up.  I can't go back to
    Chicago any more.  I've got to stay away and live alone now, if
    you don't come with me.  You won't go back on me entirely, will
    you, Carrie?"
    "I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.
    Hurstwood kept silent for a while.
    Carrie felt the train to be slowing down.  It was the moment to
    act if she was to act at all.  She stirred uneasily.
    "Don't think of going, Carrie," he said.  "If you ever cared for
    me at all, come along and let's start right.  I'll do whatever
    you say.  I'll marry you, or I'll let you go back.  Give yourself
    time to think it over.  I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I
    hadn't loved you.  I tell you, Carrie, before God, I can't live
    without you.  I won't!"
    There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which
    appealed deeply to her sympathies.  It was a dissolving fire
    which was actuating him now.  He was loving her too intensely to
    think of giving her up in this, his hour of distress.  He
    clutched her hand nervously and pressed it with all the force of
    an appeal.
    The train was now all but stopped.  It was running by some cars
    on a side track.  Everything outside was dark and dreary.  A few
    sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining.
    Carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and
    helplessness.  Now the train stopped, and she was listening to
    his plea.  The engine backed a few feet and all was still.
    She wavered, totally unable to make a move.  Minute after minute
    slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading.
    "Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she
    now had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.
    "Of course," he answered, "you know I will."
    Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty.
    She began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.
    The train was again in rapid motion.  Hurstwood changed the
    "Aren't you very tired?" he said.
    "No," she answered.
    "Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"
    She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery
    she was beginning to notice what she had always felt--his
    "Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."
    She shook her head.
    "Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged
    his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.
    "There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little."
    He could have kissed her for her compliance.  He took his seat
    beside her and thought a moment.
    "I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.
    "So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
    sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train
    swept on frantically through the shadow to a newer world.
    The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source
    of satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most
    temporary relief.  Now that her opposition was out of the way, he
    had all of his time to devote to the consideration of his own
    His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
    miserable sum he had stolen.  He did not want to be a thief.
    That sum or any other could never compensate for the state which
    he had thus foolishly doffed.  It could not give him back his
    host of friends, his name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as
    he had meant to have her.  He was shut out from Chicago--from his
    easy, comfortable state.  He had robbed himself of his dignity,
    his merry meetings, his pleasant evenings.  And for what? The
    more he thought of it the more unbearable it became.  He began to
    think that he would try and restore himself to his old state.  He
    would return the miserable thievings of the night and explain.
    Perhaps Moy would understand.  Perhaps they would forgive him and
    let him come back.
    By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
    exceedingly nervous.  The police must be on his track by now.
    They had probably notified all the police of the big cities, and
    detectives would be watching for him.  He remembered instances in
    which defaulters had been captured.  Consequently, he breathed
    heavily and paled somewhat.  His hands felt as if they must have
    something to do.  He simulated interest in several scenes without
    which he did not feel.  He repeatedly beat his foot upon the
    Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing.  She had no idea
    what it meant or that it was important.
    He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on
    through to Montreal or some Canadian point.  Perhaps he could
    have saved time.  He jumped up and sought the conductor.
    "Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.
    "Yes, the next sleeper back does."
    He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided
    to inquire at the depot.
    The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.
    "I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said
    to Carrie.  "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."
    He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm
    exterior.  Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes.
    She was drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.
    The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out.  He looked
    warily around him, pretending to look after Carrie.  Seeing
    nothing that indicated studied observation, he made his way to
    the ticket office.
    "The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.
    "In twenty minutes," said the man.
    He bought two tickets and Pullman berths.  Then he hastened back
    to Carrie.
    "We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie
    looked tired and weary.
    "I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.
    "You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said.
    "I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a
    "You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he
    explained.  "You can call in a dressmaker."
    Now the crier called the train ready and they got on.  Hurstwood
    breathed a sigh of relief as it started.  There was a short run
    to the river, and there they were ferried over.  They had barely
    pulled the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a
    "It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his
    relief.  "We get there the first thing in the morning."
    Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.
    "I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added.  "I'm hungry."
    Chapter XXIX
    To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath
    is invariably fascinating.  Next to love, it is the one thing
    which solaces and delights.  Things new are too important to be
    neglected, and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory
    impressions, succumbs to the flood of objects.  Thus lovers are
    forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden from view.  There is
    a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite dramatic
    expression--"I am going away."
    As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot
    that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will
    and that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling.
    She quite forgot Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away
    to homely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with
    wondering eyes.  It was an interesting world to her.  Her life
    had just begun.  She did not feel herself defeated at all.
    Neither was she blasted in hope.  The great city held much.
    Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom--who knows?
    Perhaps she would be happy.  These thoughts raised her above the
    level of erring.  She was saved in that she was hopeful.
    The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and
    they stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie
    wondering at the novel atmosphere of the northern city.  Long
    before, Hurstwood had been here, and now he remembered the name
    of the hotel at which he had stopped.  As they came out of the
    main entrance of the depot he heard it called anew by a busman.
    "We'll go right up and get rooms," he said.
    At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while
    the clerk came forward.  He was thinking what name he would put
    down.  With the latter before him he found no time for
    hesitation.  A name he had seen out of the car window came
    swiftly to him.  It was pleasing enough.  With an easy hand he
    wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was the largest concession to
    necessity he felt like making.  His initials he could not spare.
    When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had
    secured her a lovely chamber.
    "You have a bath there," said he.  "Now you can clean up when you
    get ready."
    Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood
    looked at himself in the glass.  He felt dusty and unclean.  He
    had no trunk, no change of linen, not even a hair-brush.
    "I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a
    hair-brush.  Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast.
    I'll go for a shave and come back and get you, and then we'll go
    out and look for some clothes for you."
    He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.
    "All right," said Carrie.
    She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited
    for the boy, who soon knocked.
    "Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water."
    "Yes, sir."
    "I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding
    out his hands, but she did not move to take them.
    "You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly.
    "Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently.
    "Don't you care for me at all?"
    She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.
    "Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking
    one of her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away.  "You once
    said you did."
    "What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie.
    "I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much."
    "You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking
    cleanly home.
    "Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am.  It's too late now.
    Won't you try and care for me a little?"
    He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.
    She shook her head negatively.
    "Let me start all over again.  Be my wife from to-day on."
    Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand.  Now he
    slipped his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain.  He
    held her quite close.  Instantly there flamed up in his body the
    all compelling desire.  His affection took an ardent form.
    "Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him.
    "Won't you love me?" he said.  "Won't you be mine from now on?"
    Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him.  Only a moment
    before she had been listening with some complacency, remembering
    her old affection for him.  He was so handsome, so daring!
    Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition,
    which rose feebly.  It mastered her for a moment, and then, held
    close as she was, began to wane.  Something else in her spoke.
    This man, to whose bosom she was being pressed, was strong; he
    was passionate, he loved her, and she was alone.  If she did not
    turn to him--accept of his love--where else might she go? Her
    resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong feeling.
    She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes.  What
    magnetism there was she could never know.  His many sins,
    however, were for the moment all forgotten.
    He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
    opposition was useless.
    "Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how.
    "This very day," he said, with all delight.
    Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold
    upon her regretfully.
    "You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?"
    "Yes," she answered.
    "I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour."
    Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.
    Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop.
    For the moment, he was in fine feather.  His recent victory over
    Carrie seemed to atone for much he had endured during the last
    few days.  Life seemed worth fighting for.  This eastward flight
    from all things customary and attached seemed as if it might have
    happiness in store.  The storm showed a rainbow at the end of
    which might be a pot of gold.
    He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which
    was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him
    familiarly.  Instantly his heart sank.
    "Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice.  "What are you
    doing down here?"
    Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend
    Kenny, the stock-broker.
    "Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his
    mind working like a key-board of a telephone station.  This man
    evidently did not know--he had not read the papers.
    "Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny
    genially.  "Stopping here?"
    "Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on
    the register.
    "Going to be in town long?"
    "No, only a day or so."
    "Is that so? Had your breakfast?"
    "Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly.  "I'm just going for a
    "Won't you come have a drink?"
    "Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager.  "I'll see you
    later.  Are you stopping here?"
    "Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added:
    "How are things out in Chicago?"
    "About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.
    "Wife with you?"
    "Well, I must see more of you to-day.  I'm just going in here for
    breakfast.  Come in when you're through."
    "I will," said Hurstwood, moving away.  The whole conversation
    was a trial to him.  It seemed to add complications with very
    word.  This man called up a thousand memories.  He represented
    everything he had left.  Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort--
    all these were in his greeting and inquiries.  And here he was in
    this same hotel expecting to confer with him, unquestionably
    waiting to have a good time with him.  All at once the Chicago
    papers would arrive.  The local papers would have accounts in
    them this very day.  He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the
    possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's
    eyes, a safe-breaker.  He could have groaned as he went into the
    barber shop.  He decided to escape and seek a more secluded
    Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,
    and hastened toward the stairs.  He would get Carrie and go out
    by the ladies' entrance.  They would have breakfast in some more
    inconspicuous place.
    Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him.
    He was of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply
    dressed, and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some
    huge ward politician's.  This individual had been evidently
    talking with the clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager
    Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the
    type.  Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective--that
    he was being watched.  He hurried across, pretending not to
    notice, but in his mind was a world of thoughts.  What would
    happen now? What could these people do? He began to trouble
    concerning the extradition laws.  He did not understand them
    absolutely.  Perhaps he could be arrested.  Oh, if Carrie should
    find out! Montreal was too warm for him.  He began to long to be
    out of it.
    Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived.  She looked
    refreshed--more delightful than ever, but reserved.  Since he had
    gone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him.
    Love was not blazing in her heart.  He felt it, and his troubles
    seemed increased.  He could not take her in his arms; he did not
    even try.  Something about her forbade it.  In part his opinion
    was the result of his own experiences and reflections below
    "You're ready, are you?" he said kindly.
    "Yes," she answered.
    "We'll go out for breakfast.  This place down here doesn't appeal
    to me very much."
    "All right," said Carrie.
    They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual
    was standing, eyeing him.  Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from
    showing that he knew of this chap's presence.  The insolence in
    the fellow's eye was galling.  Still they passed, and he
    explained to Carrie concerning the city.  Another restaurant was
    not long in showing itself, and here they entered.
    "What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it
    solely because it was not like Chicago.
    "It Isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood.  "Don't you like
    "No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the
    great Western city.
    "Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood.
    "What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit
    this town.
    "Nothing much," returned Hurstwood.  "It's quite a resort.
    There's some pretty scenery about here."
    Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest.  There was much
    about her situation which destroyed the possibility of
    "We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really
    glad to note her dissatisfaction.  "You pick out your clothes as
    soon as breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon.
    You'll like that.  It's a lot more like a city than any place
    outside Chicago."
    He was really planning to slip out and away.  He would see what
    these detectives would do--what move his employers at Chicago
    would make--then he would slip away--down to New York, where it
    was easy to hide.  He knew enough about that city to know that
    its mysteries and possibilities of mystification were infinite.
    The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation
    became.  He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the
    ground.  The firm would probably employ detectives to watch him--
    Pinkerton men or agents of Mooney and Boland.  They might arrest
    him the moment he tried to leave Canada.  So he might be
    compelled to remain here months, and in what a state!
    Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see
    the morning papers.  He wanted to know how far the news of his
    criminal deed had spread.  So he told Carrie he would be up in a
    few moments, and went to secure and scan the dailies.  No
    familiar or suspicious faces were about, and yet he did not like
    reading in the lobby, so he sought the main parlour on the floor
    above and, seated by a window there, looked them over.  Very
    little was given to his crime, but it was there, several "sticks"
    in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders, accidents,
    marriages, and other news.  He wished, half sadly, that he could
    undo it all.  Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of
    safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake.
    There could have been an easier way out if he had only known.
    He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to
    keep them out of the hands of Carrie.
    "Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her.  She was engaged in
    looking out of the window.
    "Oh, all right," she answered.
    He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her,
    when a knock came at their door.
    "Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie.
    Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual
    whom he had so thoroughly suspected.
    "You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume
    of affected shrewdness and assurance.
    "Yes," said Hurstwood calmly.  He knew the type so thoroughly
    that some of his old familiar indifference to it returned.  Such
    men as these were of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort.
    He stepped out and closed the door.
    "Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man
    "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
    "Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't
    understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.
    Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside.
    You'll have to excuse me."
    "Well, now, there's no use of your talking that way," said the
    man, "when you're in the hands of the police.  We can make a lot
    of trouble for you if we want to.  You're not registered right in
    this house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the
    newspapers don't know you're here yet.  You might as well be
    "What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood.
    "Whether you're going to send back that money or not."
    Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.
    "There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last.
    "There's no use of your asking me.  I'm no fool, you know.  I
    know just what you can do and what you can't.  You can create a
    lot of trouble if you want to.  I know that all right, but it
    won't help you to get the money.  Now, I've made up my mind what
    to do.  I've already written Fitzgerald and Moy, so there's
    nothing I can say.  You wait until you hear more from them."
    All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the
    door, down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie.  They were
    now near the end where the corridor opened into the large general
    "You won't give it up?" said the man.
    The words irritated Hurstwood greatly.  Hot blood poured into his
    brain.  Many thoughts formulated themselves.  He was no thief.
    He didn't want the money.  If he could only explain to Fitzgerald
    and Moy, maybe it would be all right again.
    "See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at
    all.  I respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with
    the people who know."
    "Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man.
    "I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood.  "When I get ready
    there'll be nothing to stop me for."
    He turned back, and the detective watched him closely.  It seemed
    an intolerable thing.  Still he went on and into the room.
    "Who was it?" asked Carrie.
    "A friend of mine from Chicago."
    The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as
    it did after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to
    induce a deep gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood.  What hurt
    him most was the fact that he was being pursued as a thief.  He
    began to see the nature of that social injustice which sees but
    one side--often but a single point in a long tragedy.  All the
    newspapers noted but one thing, his taking the money.  How and
    wherefore were but indifferently dealt with.  All the
    complications which led up to it were unknown.  He was accused
    without being understood.
    Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send
    the money back.  He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all,
    and then send it by express.  Maybe they would forgive him.
    Perhaps they would ask him back.  He would make good the false
    statement he had made about writing them.  Then he would leave
    this peculiar town.
    For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the
    tangle.  He wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't.  He
    finally narrowed it down to an assertion that he was light-headed
    from entertaining friends, had found the safe open, and having
    gone so far as to take the money out, had accidentally closed it.
    This act he regretted very much.  He was sorry he had put them to
    so much trouble.  He would undo what he could by sending the
    money back--the major portion of it.  The remainder he would pay
    up as soon as he could.  Was there any possibility of his being
    restored? This he only hinted at.
    The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very
    construction of this letter.  For the nonce he forgot what a
    painful thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it
    were given him.  He forgot that he had severed himself from the
    past as by a sword, and that if he did manage to in some way
    reunite himself with it, the jagged line of separation and
    reunion would always show.  He was always forgetting something--
    his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present situation, or
    something--and so did not reason clearly.  Nevertheless, he sent
    the letter, waiting a reply before sending the money.
    Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting
    what joy out of it he could.
    Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their
    open windows.  Sparrows were twittering.  There were laughter and
    song in the air.  Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie.
    She seemed the one ray of sunshine in all his trouble.  Oh, if
    she would only love him wholly--only throw her arms around him in
    the blissful spirit in which he had seen her in the little park
    in Chicago--how happy he would be! It would repay him; it would
    show him that he had not lost all.  He would not care.
    "Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are
    you going to stay with me from now on?"
    She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the
    value of the look upon his face forced itself upon her.  It was
    love now, keen and strong--love enhanced by difficulty and worry.
    She could not help smiling.
    "Let me be everything to you from now on," he said.  "Don't make
    me worry any more.  I'll be true to you.  We'll go to New York
    and get a nice flat.  I'll go into business again, and we'll be
    happy.  Won't you be mine?"
    Carrie listened quite solemnly.  There was no great passion in
    her, but the drift of things and this man's proximity created a
    semblance of affection.  She felt rather sorry for him--a sorrow
    born of what had only recently been a great admiration.  True
    love she had never felt for him.  She would have known as much if
    she could have analysed her feelings, but this thing which she
    now felt aroused by his great feeling broke down the barriers
    between them.
    "You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked.
    "Yes," she said, nodding her head.
    He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and
    "You must marry me, though," she said.
    "I'll get a license to-day," he answered.
    "How?" she asked.
    "Under a new name," he answered.  "I'll take a new name and live
    a new life.  From now on I'm Murdock."
    "Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie.
    "Why not?" he said.
    "I don't like it."
    "Well, what shall I take?" he asked.
    "Oh, anything, only don't take that."
    He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then
    "How would Wheeler do?"
    "That's all right," said Carrie.
    "Well, then, Wheeler," he said.  "I'll get the license this
    They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they
    found convenient.
    At last the Chicago firm answered.  It was by Mr. Moy's
    dictation.  He was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very
    sorry that it had come about as it had.  If the money were
    returned, they would not trouble to prosecute him, as they really
    bore him no ill-will.  As for his returning, or their restoring
    him to his former position, they had not quite decided what the
    effect of it would be.  They would think it over and correspond
    with him later, possibly, after a little time, and so on.
    The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they
    wanted the money with the least trouble possible.  Hurstwood read
    his doom.  He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said
    they would send, keeping $1,300 for his own use.  He telegraphed
    his acquiescence, explained to the representative who called at
    the hotel the same day, took a certificate of payment, and told
    Carrie to pack her trunk.  He was slightly depressed over this
    newest move at the time he began to make it, but eventually
    restored himself.  He feared that even yet he might be seized and
    taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements, but it was
    scarcely possible.  He ordered Carrie's trunk sent to the depot,
    where he had it sent by express to New York.  No one seemed to be
    observing him, but he left at night.  He was greatly agitated
    lest at the first station across the border or at the depot in
    New York there should be waiting for him an officer of the law.
    Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry
    into the latter city in the morning.  The round green hills
    sentinelling the broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her
    attention by their beauty as the train followed the line of the
    stream.  She had heard of the Hudson River, the great city of New
    York, and now she looked out, filling her mind with the wonder of
    As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east
    bank of the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her
    attention to the fact that they were on the edge of the city.
    After her experience with Chicago, she expected long lines of
    cars--a great highway of tracks--and noted the difference.  The
    sight of a few boats in the Harlem and more in the East River
    tickled her young heart.  It was the first sign of the great sea.
    Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and then
    the train plunged into the tunnel.
    "Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few
    minutes of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared.  Hurstwood
    arose and gathered up his small grip.  He was screwed up to the
    highest tension.  With Carrie he waited at the door and then
    dismounted.  No one approached him, but he glanced furtively to
    and fro as he made for the street entrance.  So excited was he
    that he forgot all about Carrie, who fell behind, wondering at
    his self-absorption.  As he passed through the depot proper the
    strain reached its climax and began to wane.  All at once he was
    on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him.  He heaved a
    great breath and turned, remembering Carrie.
    "I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said.
    "I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he
    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
    For the first time in years the thought that he must count these
    little expenses flashed through his mind.  It was a disagreeable
    He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent
    a flat.  Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.
    "We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said.
    Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal.  At the more
    important hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he
    knew.  He stood up and spoke to the driver.
    "Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less
    frequented by those whom he knew.  Then he sat down.
    "Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the
    tall five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of
    "Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well.
    "There are no lawns in New York.  All these are houses."
    "Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to
    have a few opinions of her own.
    Chapter XXX
    Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very
    evident that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean
    like New York.  In Chicago, whose population still ranged about
    500,000, millionaires were not numerous.  The rich had not become
    so conspicuously rich as to drown all moderate incomes in
    obscurity.  The attention of the inhabitants was not so
    distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic,
    social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man
    from view.  In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics
    and trade.  In New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred,
    and each had been diligently pursued by hundreds, so that
    celebrities were numerous.  The sea was already full of whales.
    A common fish must needs disappear wholly from view--remain
    unseen.  In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.
    There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which,
    though not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of
    the world.  The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly
    upon the small.  This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt.
    Walk among the magnificent residences, the splendid equipages,
    the gilded shops, restaurants, resorts of all kinds; scent the
    flowers, the silks, the wines; drink of the laughter springing
    from the soul of luxurious content, of the glances which gleam
    like light from defiant spears; feel the quality of the smiles
    which cut like glistening swords and of strides born of place,
    and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of the high and
    mighty.  Little use to argue that of such is not the kingdom of
    greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and the
    human heart views this as the one desirable realm which it must
    attain, so long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of
    greatness.  So long, also, will the atmosphere of this realm work
    its desperate results in the soul of man.  It is like a chemical
    reagent.  One day of it, like one drop of the other, will so
    affect and discolour the views, the aims, the desire of the mind,
    that it will thereafter remain forever dyed.  A day of it to the
    untried mind is like opium to the untried body.  A craving is set
    up which, if gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and
    death.  Aye! dreams unfulfilled--gnawing, luring, idle phantoms
    which beckon and lead, beckon and lead, until death and
    dissolution dissolve their power and restore us blind to nature's
    A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the
    illusions and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the
    strength of hope which gushes as a fountain in the heart of
    youth.  Such an atmosphere could not incite in him the cravings
    of a boy of eighteen, but in so far as they were excited, the
    lack of hope made them proportionately bitter.  He could not fail
    to notice the signs of affluence and luxury on every hand.  He
    had been to New York before and knew the resources of its folly.
    In part it was an awesome place to him, for here gathered all
    that he most respected on this earth--wealth, place, and fame.
    The majority of the celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses
    in his day as manager hailed from this self-centred and populous
    spot.  The most inviting stories of pleasure and luxury had been
    told of places and individuals here.  He knew it to be true that
    unconsciously he was brushing elbows with fortune the livelong
    day; that a hundred or five hundred thousand gave no one the
    privilege of living more than comfortably in so wealthy a place.
    Fashion and pomp required more ample sums, so that the poor man
    was nowhere.  All this he realised, now quite sharply, as he
    faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled of his modest
    fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the battle for
    place and comfort all over again.  He was not old, but he was not
    so dull but that he could feel he soon would be.  Of a sudden,
    then, this show of fine clothes, place, and power took on
    peculiar significance.  It was emphasised by contrast with his
    own distressing state.
    And it was distressing.  He soon found that freedom from fear of
    arrest was not the sine qua non of his existence.  That danger
    dissolved, the next necessity became the grievous thing.  The
    paltry sum of thirteen hundred and some odd dollars set against
    the need of rent, clothing, food, and pleasure for years to come
    was a spectacle little calculated to induce peace of mind in one
    who had been accustomed to spend five times that sum in the
    course of a year.  He thought upon the subject rather actively
    the first few days he was in New York, and decided that he must
    act quickly.  As a consequence, he consulted the business
    opportunities advertised in the morning papers and began
    investigations on his own account.
    That was not before he had become settled, however.  Carrie and
    he went looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in
    Seventy-eighth Street near Amsterdam Avenue.  It was a five-story
    building, and their flat was on the third floor.  Owing to the
    fact that the street was not yet built up solidly, it was
    possible to see east to the green tops of the trees in Central
    Park and west to the broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse of
    which was to be had out of the west windows.  For the privilege
    of six rooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they were
    compelled to pay thirty-five dollars a month--an average, and yet
    exorbitant, rent for a home at the time.  Carrie noticed the
    difference between the size of the rooms here and in Chicago and
    mentioned it.
    "You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless
    you go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't
    have any of these conveniences."
    Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright
    wood-work.  It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam
    heat, which was a great advantage.  The stationary range, hot and
    cold water, dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the
    janitor pleased her very much.  She had enough of the instincts
    of a housewife to take great satisfaction in these things.
    Hurstwood made arrangements with one of the instalment houses
    whereby they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty
    dollars down and ten dollars a month.  He then had a little
    plate, bearing the name G. W. Wheeler, made, which he placed on
    his letter-box in the hall.  It sounded exceedingly odd to Carrie
    to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the janitor, but in time she became
    used to it and looked upon the name as her own.
    These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the
    advertised opportunities to purchase an interest in some
    flourishing down-town bar.  After the palatial resort in Adams
    Street, he could not stomach the commonplace saloons which he
    found advertised.  He lost a number of days looking up these and
    finding them disagreeable.  He did, however, gain considerable
    knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence of Tammany
    Hall and the value of standing in with the police.  The most
    profitable and flourishing places he found to be those which
    conducted anything but a legitimate business, such as that
    controlled by Fitzgerald and Moy.  Elegant back rooms and private
    drinking booths on the second floor were usually adjuncts of very
    profitable places.  He saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts
    shone with large diamonds, and whose clothes were properly cut,
    that the liquor business here, as elsewhere, yielded the same
    golden profit.
    At last he found an individual who had a resort in Warren Street,
    which seemed an excellent venture.  It was fairly well-appearing
    and susceptible of improvement.  The owner claimed the business
    to be excellent, and it certainly looked so.
    "We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood.
    "Merchants, salesmen, and professionals.  It's a well-dressed
    class.  No bums.  We don't allow 'em in the place."
    Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the
    trade for a while.
    "It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked.
    "You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor
    trade," said the owner.  "This is only one of the two places I
    have.  The other is down in Nassau Street.  I can't tend to them
    both alone.  If I had some one who knew the business thoroughly I
    wouldn't mind sharing with him in this one and letting him manage
    "I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt
    a little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy.
    "Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor.
    He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and
    good-will, and this in return for a thousand dollars and
    managerial ability on the part of the one who should come in.
    There was no property involved, because the owner of the saloon
    merely rented from an estate.
    The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with
    Hurstwood whether a third interest in that locality could be made
    to yield one hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured
    he must have in order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be
    comfortable.  It was not the time, however, after many failures
    to find what he wanted, to hesitate.  It looked as though a third
    would pay a hundred a month now.  By judicious management and
    improvement, it might be made to pay more.  Accordingly he agreed
    to enter into partnership, and made over his thousand dollars,
    preparing to enter the next day.
    His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie
    that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement.  Time,
    however, introduced food for reflection.  He found his partner to
    be very disagreeable.  Frequently he was the worse for liquor,
    which made him surly.  This was the last thing which Hurstwood
    was used to in business.  Besides, the business varied.  It was
    nothing like the class of patronage which he had enjoyed in
    Chicago.  He found that it would take a long time to make
    friends.  These people hurried in and out without seeking the
    pleasures of friendship.  It was no gathering or lounging place.
    Whole days and weeks passed without one such hearty greeting as
    he had been wont to enjoy every day in Chicago.
    For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities--those well-
    dressed, elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars and
    bring news from far-off and exclusive circles.  He did not see
    one such in a month.  Evenings, when still at his post, he would
    occasionally read in the evening papers incidents concerning
    celebrities whom he knew--whom he had drunk a glass with many a
    time.  They would visit a bar like Fitzgerald and Moy's in
    Chicago, or the Hoffman House, uptown, but he knew that he would
    never see them down here.
    Again, the business did not pay as well as he thought.  It
    increased a little, but he found he would have to watch his
    household expenses, which was humiliating.
    In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night,
    as he did, and find Carrie.  He managed to run up and take dinner
    with her between six and seven, and to remain home until nine
    o'clock in the morning, but the novelty of this waned after a
    time, and he began to feel the drag of his duties.
    The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very
    natural way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress.'
    "What kind?" said Hurstwood.
    "Oh, something for street wear."
    "All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally
    that it would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't.
    Nothing was said about it the next day, but the following morning
    he asked:
    "Have you done anything about your dress?"
    "Not yet," said Carrie.
    He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:
    "Would you mind putting it off a few days?"
    "No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks.
    She had never thought of him in connection with money troubles
    before.  "Why?"
    "Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood.  "This investment of mine
    is taking a lot of money just now.  I expect to get it all back
    shortly, but just at present I am running close."
    "Oh!" answered Carrie.  "Why, certainly, dear.  Why didn't you
    tell me before?"
    "It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood.
    For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way
    Hurstwood spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little
    deal which he was always about to put through.  It was only the
    thought of a second, but it was a beginning.  It was something
    new in her thinking of Hurstwood.
    Other things followed from time to time, little things of the
    same sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal
    to a full revelation.  Carrie was not dull by any means.  Two
    persons cannot long dwell together without coming to an
    understanding of one another.  The mental difficulties of an
    individual reveal themselves whether he voluntarily confesses
    them or not.  Trouble gets in the air and contributes gloom,
    which speaks for itself.  Hurstwood dressed as nicely as usual,
    but they were the same clothes he had in Canada.  Carrie noticed
    that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was
    anything but large.  She noticed, also, that he did not suggest
    many amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned
    about his business.  This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago--
    not the liberal, opulent Hurstwood she had known.  The change was
    too obvious to escape detection.
    In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that
    she was not in his confidence.  He was evidently secretive and
    kept his own counsel.  She found herself asking him questions
    about little things.  This is a disagreeable state to a woman.
    Great love makes it seem reasonable, sometimes plausible, but
    never satisfactory.  Where great love is not, a more definite and
    less satisfactory conclusion is reached.
    As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the
    difficulties of a changed condition.  He was too shrewd not to
    realise the tremendous mistake he had made, and appreciate that
    he had done well in getting where he was, and yet he could not
    help contrasting his present state with his former, hour after
    hour, and day after day.
    Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time
    friends, ever since one such encounter which he made shortly
    after his arrival in the city.  It was in Broadway that he saw a
    man approaching him whom he knew.  There was no time for
    simulating non-recognition.  The exchange of glances had been too
    sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent.  So the friend,
    a buyer for one of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt, perforce,
    the necessity of stopping.
    "How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident
    mixture of feeling and a lack of plausible interest.
    "Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed.  "How is it
    with you?"
    "All right; I'm down here doing a little buying.  Are you located
    here now?"
    "Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street."
    "Is that so?" said the friend.  "Glad to hear it.  I'll come down
    and see you."
    "Do," said Hurstwood.
    "So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on.
    "He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn't
    think of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp,
    and hoped sincerely he would meet no one else.
    These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was.  His one
    hope was that things would change for the better in a money way.
    He had Carrie.  His furniture was being paid for.  He was
    maintaining his position.  As for Carrie, the amusements he could
    give her would have to do for the present.  He could probably
    keep up his pretensions sufficiently long without exposure to
    make good, and then all would be well.  He failed therein to take
    account of the frailties of human nature--the difficulties of
    matrimonial life.  Carrie was young.  With him and with her
    varying mental states were common.  At any moment the extremes of
    feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table.  This often
    happens in the best regulated families.  Little things brought
    out on such occasions need great love to obliterate them
    afterward.  Where that is not, both parties count two and two and
    make a problem after a while.
    Chapter XXXI
    The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was
    paralleled in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things which
    fortune provided with the most genial good-nature.  New York,
    despite her first expression of disapproval, soon interested her
    exceedingly.  Its clear atmosphere, more populous thoroughfares,
    and peculiar indifference struck her forcibly.  She had never
    seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon enlisted her
    affection.  The new furniture made an excellent showing, the
    sideboard which Hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly.  The
    furniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called
    parlour, or front room, was installed a piano, because Carrie
    said she would like to learn to play.  She kept a servant and
    developed rapidly in household tactics and information.  For the
    first time in her life she felt settled, and somewhat justified
    in the eyes of society as she conceived of it.  Her thoughts were
    merry and innocent enough.  For a long while she concerned
    herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and wondered at
    ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and
    indifferent to each other.  She also marvelled at the whistles of
    the hundreds of vessels in the harbour--the long, low cries of
    the Sound steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on.  The mere
    fact that these things spoke from the sea made them wonderful.
    She looked much at what she could see of the Hudson from her west
    windows and of the great city building up rapidly on either hand.
    It was much to ponder over, and sufficed to entertain her for
    more than a year without becoming stale.
    For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his
    affection for her.  Troubled as he was, he never exposed his
    difficulties to her.  He carried himself with the same self-
    important air, took his new state with easy familiarity, and
    rejoiced in Carrie's proclivities and successes.  Each evening he
    arrived promptly to dinner, and found the little dining-room a
    most inviting spectacle.  In a way, the smallness of the room
    added to its luxury.  It looked full and replete.  The white-
    covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a
    four-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red
    shade.  Between Carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out
    all right, and canned goods did the rest for a while.  Carrie
    studied the art of making biscuit, and soon reached the stage
    where she could show a plate of light, palatable morsels for her
    In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed.
    Winter came, and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that
    the attending of theatres was not much talked of.  Hurstwood made
    great efforts to meet all expenditures without a show of feeling
    one way or the other.  He pretended that he was reinvesting his
    money in strengthening the business for greater ends in the
    future.  He contented himself with a very moderate allowance of
    personal apparel, and rarely suggested anything for Carrie.  Thus
    the first winter passed.
    In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did
    increase somewhat.  He got out of it regularly the $150 per month
    which he had anticipated.  Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had
    reached certain conclusions, and he had scraped up a few
    Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and
    aggressive nature, Carrie accepted the situation.  Her state
    seemed satisfactory enough.  Once in a while they would go to a
    theatre together, occasionally in season to the beaches and
    different points about the city, but they picked up no
    acquaintances.  Hurstwood naturally abandoned his show of fine
    manners with her and modified his attitude to one of easy
    familiarity.  There were no misunderstandings, no apparent
    differences of opinion.  In fact, without money or visiting
    friends, he led a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor
    comment.  Carrie rather sympathised with his efforts and thought
    nothing upon her lack of entertainment such as she had enjoyed in
    Chicago.  New York as a corporate entity and her flat temporarily
    seemed sufficient.
    However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began
    to pick up acquaintances.  He also began to allow himself more
    clothes.  He convinced himself that his home life was very
    precious to him, but allowed that he could occasionally stay away
    from dinner.  The first time he did this he sent a message saying
    that he would be detained.  Carrie ate alone, and wished that it
    might not happen again.  The second time, also, he sent word, but
    at the last moment.  The third time he forgot entirely and
    explained afterwards.  These events were months apart, each.
    "Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence.
    "Tied up at the office," he said genially.  "There were some
    accounts I had to straighten."
    "I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly.  "I was
    fixing to have such a nice dinner."
    The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the
    feeling about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the
    "I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the
    evening, "I was so busy."
    "Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie.
    "I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too
    late to do any good."
    "And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie.
    Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began
    to imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind.
    He really thought, after a year, that her chief expression in
    life was finding its natural channel in household duties.
    Notwithstanding the fact that he had observed her act in Chicago,
    and that during the past year he had only seen her limited in her
    relations to her flat and him by conditions which he made, and
    that she had not gained any friends or associates, he drew this
    peculiar conclusion.  With it came a feeling of satisfaction in
    having a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction
    worked its natural result.  That is, since he imagined he saw her
    satisfied, he felt called upon to give only that which
    contributed to such satisfaction.  He supplied the furniture, the
    decorations, the food, and the necessary clothing.  Thoughts of
    entertaining her, leading her out into the shine and show of
    life, grew less and less.  He felt attracted to the outer world,
    but did not think she would care to go along.  Once he went to
    the theatre alone.  Another time he joined a couple of his new
    friends at an evening game of poker.  Since his money-feathers
    were beginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about.  All
    this, however, in a much less imposing way than had been his wont
    in Chicago.  He avoided the gay places where he would be apt to
    meet those who had known him.
    Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways.  She was
    not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions.  Not
    loving him greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way.
    In fact, she was not jealous at all.  Hurstwood was pleased with
    her placid manner, when he should have duly considered it.  When
    he did not come home it did not seem anything like a terrible
    thing to her.  She gave him credit for having the usual
    allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop, friends to
    consult with.  She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy
    himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself.
    Her state still seemed fairly reasonable, however.  All she did
    observe was that Hurstwood was somewhat different.
    Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth
    Street the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and
    into it moved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with
    both of whom Carrie afterwards became acquainted.  This was
    brought about solely by the arrangement of the flats, which were
    united in one place, as it were, by the dumb-waiter.  This useful
    elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the like were sent up
    from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down, was used by
    both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened into it
    from each flat.
    If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the
    janitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when they
    opened the dumb-waiter doors.  One morning, when Carrie went to
    remove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps
    twenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose.  She was
    in a night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much
    tousled, but she looked so pretty and good-natured that Carrie
    instantly conceived a liking for her.  The newcomer did no more
    than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient.  Carrie felt that
    she would like to know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the
    mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face.
    "That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said
    Carrie to Hurstwood at the breakfast table.
    "Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.
    "I don't know," said Carrie.  "The name on the bell is Vance.
    Some one over there plays beautifully.  I guess it must be she."
    "Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next
    to in this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the
    customary New York opinion about neighbours.
    "Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine
    other families for over a year and I don't know a soul.  These
    people have been here over a month and I haven't seen any one
    before this morning."
    "It's just as well," said Hurstwood.  'You never know who you're
    going to get in with.  Some of these people are pretty bad
    "I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably.
    The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no
    more upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out
    to market, she encountered Mrs. Vance coming in.  The latter
    recognised her and nodded, for which Carrie returned a smile.
    This settled the probability of acquaintanceship.  If there had
    been no faint recognition on this occasion, there would have been
    no future association.
    Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard
    her play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of
    the flats, and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and
    the brilliance of their rendition.  She could play only
    moderately herself, and such variety as Mrs. Vance exercised
    bordered, for Carrie, upon the verge of great art.  Everything
    she had seen and heard thus far--the merest scraps and shadows--
    indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and in
    comfortable circumstances.  So Carrie was ready for any extension
    of the friendship which might follow.
    One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the
    kitchen, pressed the button which caused the front door of the
    general entrance on the ground floor to be electrically
    unlatched.  When Carrie waited at her own door on the third floor
    to see who it might be coming up to call on her, Mrs. Vance
    "I hope you'll excuse me," she said.  "I went out a while ago and
    forgot my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell."
    This was a common trick of other residents of the building,
    whenever they had forgotten their outside keys.  They did not
    apologise for it, however.
    "Certainly," said Carrie.  "I'm glad you did.  I do the same
    thing sometimes."
    "Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for
    a moment.
    Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance
    was well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an
    agreeable companion.
    On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited.  Both
    flats were good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended
    somewhat more to the luxurious.
    "I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said
    Mrs. Vance, not long after their intimacy began.  "He wants to
    meet you.  You play cards, don't you?"
    "A little," said Carrie.
    "Well, we'll have a game of cards.  If your husband comes home
    bring him over."
    "He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie.
    "Well, when he does come we'll call him in."
    Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an
    individual a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his
    seemingly comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money
    than to his good looks.  He thought well of Carrie upon the first
    glance and laid himself out to be genial, teaching her a new game
    of cards and talking to her about New York and its pleasures.
    Mrs. Vance played some upon the piano, and at last Hurstwood
    "I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie
    introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had
    captivated Carrie.
    "Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance, extending
    his hand upon introduction.
    "I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband,"
    said Hurstwood.
    He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie
    saw again what she for some time had subconsciously missed in
    Hurstwood--the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable.
    She also saw that she was not well dressed--not nearly as well
    dressed--as Mrs. Vance.  These were not vague ideas any longer.
    Her situation was cleared up for her.  She felt that her life was
    becoming stale, and therein she felt cause for gloom.  The old
    helpful, urging melancholy was restored.  The desirous Carrie was
    whispered to concerning her possibilities.
    There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had
    little power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever
    capable of getting herself into the tide of change where she
    would be easily borne along.  Hurstwood noticed nothing.  He had
    been unconscious of the marked contrasts which Carrie had
    He did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in
    her eyes.  Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of
    the flat and seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her
    "Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who
    had stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed
    in a soft pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising.
    Hurstwood and Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour
    "All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and
    well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance.  She
    looked as though she was dearly loved and her every wish
    gratified.  "What shall we see?"
    "Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance.  "I do think
    he is the jolliest actor.  The papers say this is such a good
    "What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie.
    "Let's go at once and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth
    Street," said Mrs. Vance.  "It's such an interesting walk.  He's
    at the Madison Square."
    "I'll be glad to go," said Carrie.  "How much will we have to pay
    for seats?"
    "Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance.
    The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly
    arrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match.
    Carrie had gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman
    pained her by contrast.  She seemed to have so many dainty little
    things which Carrie had not.  There were trinkets of gold, an
    elegant green leather purse set with her initials, a fancy
    handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design, and the like.  Carrie
    felt that she needed more and better clothes to compare with this
    woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick Mrs. Vance
    for her raiment alone.  It was a trying, though rather unjust
    thought, for Carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure,
    and had grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive
    type of her colour of beauty.  There was some difference in the
    clothing of the two, both of quality and age, but this difference
    was not especially noticeable.  It served, however, to augment
    Carrie's dissatisfaction with her state.
    The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable
    features of the city.  There gathered, before the matinee and
    afterwards, not only all the pretty women who love a showy
    parade, but the men who love to gaze upon and admire them.  It
    was a very imposing procession of pretty faces and fine clothes.
    Women appeared in their very best hats, shoes, and gloves, and
    walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or theatres
    strung along from Fourteenth to Thirty-fourth Streets.  Equally
    the men paraded with the very latest they could afford.  A tailor
    might have secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on
    proper lasts and colours, a hatter on hats.  It was literally
    true that if a lover of fine clothes secured a new suit, it was
    sure to have its first airing on Broadway.  So true and well
    understood was this fact, that several years later a popular
    song, detailing this and other facts concerning the afternoon
    parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on
    Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-
    halls of the city.
    In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy
    parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place.
    On the other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not
    only knew of it as an entity, but had often been in it, going
    purposely to see and be seen, to create a stir with her beauty
    and dispel any tendency to fall short in dressiness by
    contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion of the town.
    Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car
    at Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely
    company which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded.  She
    noticed suddenly that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened
    under the gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies,
    whose glances were not modified by any rules of propriety.  To
    stare seemed the proper and natural thing.  Carrie found herself
    stared at and ogled.  Men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and
    silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often
    into conscious eyes.  Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff
    cloth, shedding affected smiles and perfume.  Carrie noticed
    among them the sprinkling of goodness and the heavy percentage of
    vice.  The rouged and powdered cheeks and lips, the scented hair,
    the large, misty, and languorous eye, were common enough.  With a
    start she awoke to find that she was in fashion's crowd, on
    parade in a show place--and such a show place! Jewellers' windows
    gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency.  Florist shops,
    furriers, haberdashers, confectioners--all followed in rapid
    succession.  The street was full of coaches.  Pompous doormen in
    immense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of
    expensive salesrooms.  Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and
    blue jackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages
    who were shopping inside.  The whole street bore the flavour of
    riches and show, and Carrie felt that she was not of it.  She
    could not, for the life of her, assume the attitude and smartness
    of Mrs. Vance, who, in her beauty, was all assurance.  She could
    only imagine that it must be evident to many that she was the
    less handsomely dressed of the two.  It cut her to the quick, and
    she resolved that she would not come here again until she looked
    better.  At the same time she longed to feel the delight of
    parading here as an equal.  Ah, then she would be happy!
    Chapter XXXII
    Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in
    an exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in
    the play.  The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his
    popularity by presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which
    sufficient sorrow was introduced to lend contrast and relief to
    humour. For Carrie, as we well know, the stage had a great
    attraction.  She had never forgotten her one histrionic
    achievement in Chicago.  It dwelt in her mind and occupied her
    consciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-
    chair and her latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her
    state.  Never could she witness a play without having her own
    ability vividly brought to consciousness.  Some scenes made her
    long to be a part of them--to give expression to the feelings
    which she, in the place of the character represented, would feel.
    Almost invariably she would carry the vivid imaginations away
    with her and brood over them the next day alone.  She lived as
    much in these things as in the realities which made up her daily
    It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's
    core by actualities.  To-day a low song of longing had been set
    singing in her heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she
    had seen.  Oh, these women who had passed her by, hundreds and
    hundreds strong, who were they? Whence came the rich, elegant
    dresses, the astonishingly coloured buttons, the knick-knacks of
    silver and gold? Where were these lovely creatures housed? Amid
    what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated walls, elaborate
    tapestries did they move? Where were their rich apartments,
    loaded with all that money could provide? In what stables champed
    these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages?
    Where lounged the richly groomed footmen? Oh, the mansions, the
    lights, the perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! New York
    must be filled with such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent,
    supercilious creatures could not be.  Some hothouses held them.
    It ached her to know that she was not one of them--that, alas,
    she had dreamed a dream and it had not come true.  She wondered
    at her own solitude these two years past--her indifference to the
    fact that she had never achieved what she had expected.
    The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which
    charmingly overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of
    love and jealousy amid gilded surroundings.  Such bon-mots are
    ever enticing to those who have all their days longed for such
    material surroundings and have never had them gratified.  They
    have the charm of showing suffering under ideal conditions.  Who
    would not grieve upon a gilded chair? Who would not suffer amid
    perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried servants?
    Grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing.  Carrie
    longed to be of it.  She wanted to take her sufferings, whatever
    they were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate
    them under such charming conditions upon the stage.  So affected
    was her mind by what she had seen, that the play now seemed an
    extraordinarily beautiful thing.  She was soon lost in the world
    it represented, and wished that she might never return.  Between
    the acts she studied the galaxy of matinee attendants in front
    rows and boxes, and conceived a new idea of the possibilities of
    New York.  She was sure she had not seen it all--that the city
    was one whirl of pleasure and delight.
    Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson.  The
    scene she had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its
    height.  Such a crush of finery and folly she had never seen.  It
    clinched her convictions concerning her state.  She had not
    lived, could not lay claim to having lived, until something of
    this had come into her own life.  Women were spending money like
    water; she could see that in every elegant shop she passed.
    Flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal things in which the
    elegant dames were interested.  And she--she had scarcely enough
    pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times a month.
    That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing.  It
    was not what the rest of the world was enjoying.  She saw the
    servant working at dinner with an indifferent eye.  In her mind
    were running scenes of the play.  Particularly she remembered one
    beautiful actress--the sweetheart who had been wooed and won.
    The grace of this woman had won Carrie's heart.  Her dresses had
    been all that art could suggest, her sufferings had been so real.
    The anguish which she had portrayed Carrie could feel.  It was
    done as she was sure she could do it.  There were places in which
    she could even do better.  Hence she repeated the lines to
    herself.  Oh, if she could only have such a part, how broad would
    be her life! She, too, could act appealingly.
    When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody.  She was sitting, rocking
    and thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations
    broken in upon; so she said little or nothing.
    "What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time,
    noticing her quiet, almost moody state.
    "Nothing," said Carrie.  "I don't feel very well tonight."
    "Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close.
    "Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very
    "That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest
    after his slight bending over.  "I was thinking we might go to a
    show to-night."
    "I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions
    should have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind.
    "I've been to the matinee this afternoon."
    "Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood.  "What was it?"
    "A Gold Mine."
    "How was it?"
    "Pretty good," said Carrie.
    "And you don't want to go again to night?"
    "I don't think I do," she said.
    Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the
    dinner table, she changed her mind.  A little food in the stomach
    does wonders.  She went again, and in so doing temporarily
    recovered her equanimity.  The great awakening blow had, however,
    been delivered.  As often as she might recover from these
    discontented thoughts now, they would occur again.  Time and
    repetition--ah, the wonder of it! The dropping water and the
    solid stone--how utterly it yields at last!
    Not long after this matinee experience--perhaps a month--Mrs.
    Vance invited Carrie to an evening at the theatre with them.  She
    heard Carrie say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.
    "Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself.
    We're going down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the
    Lyceum.  Come along with us."
    "I think I will," answered Carrie.
    She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-
    past five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding
    Delmonico's for position in society.  In this dressing Carrie
    showed the influence of her association with the dashing Mrs.
    Vance.  She had constantly had her attention called by the latter
    to novelties in everything which pertains to a woman's apparel.
    "Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen
    the new gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample
    phrases out of a large selection.
    "The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance,
    "get button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips.  They're
    all the rage this fall."
    "I will," said Carrie.
    "Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They
    have some of the loveliest patterns.  I saw one there that I know
    would look stunning on you.  I said so when I saw it."
    Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for
    they were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually
    common between pretty women.  Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable
    good-nature so well that she really took pleasure in suggesting
    to her the latest things.
    "Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts
    they're selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day.  "They're
    the circular style, and they're going to be worn from now on.  A
    dark blue one would look so nice on you."
    Carrie listened with eager ears.  These things never came up
    between her and Hurstwood.  Nevertheless, she began to suggest
    one thing and another, which Hurstwood agreed to without any
    expression of opinion.  He noticed the new tendency on Carrie's
    part, and finally, hearing much of Mrs. Vance and her delightful
    ways, suspected whence the change came.  He was not inclined to
    offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that Carrie's
    wants were expanding.  This did not appeal to him exactly, but he
    cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood.  Still,
    there was something in the details of the transactions which
    caused Carrie to feel that her requests were not a delight to
    him.  He did not enthuse over the purchases.  This led her to
    believe that neglect was creeping in, and so another small wedge
    was entered.
    Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was
    the fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her
    own satisfaction.  She had on her best, but there was comfort in
    the thought that if she must confine herself to a best, it was
    neat and fitting.  She looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-
    one, and Mrs. Vance praised her, which brought colour to her
    plump cheeks and a noticeable brightness into her large eyes.  It
    was threatening rain, and Mr. Vance, at his wife's request, had
    called a coach.
    "Your husband isn't coming?" suggested Mr. Vance, as he met
    Carrie in his little parlour.
    "No; he said he wouldn't be home for dinner."
    "Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are.
    He might turn up."
    "I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.
    "Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock.  He knows,
    though I guess."
    Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the
    note, gloves on.  When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance
    "Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said
    Mrs. Vance.  "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?"
    "I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to
    The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart
    figure.  She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good
    looking, and young, but nothing more.
    "Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance,
    "and we're trying to show him around a little."
    "Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the
    "Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said
    young Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while
    Mrs. Vance completed the last touches of her toilet.
    "I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said
    Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.
    "It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames,
    He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly
    free of affectation.  It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only
    overcoming the last traces of the bashfulness of youth.  He did
    not seem apt at conversation, but he had the merit of being well
    dressed and wholly courageous.  Carrie felt as if it were not
    going to be hard to talk to him.
    "Well, I guess we're ready now.  The coach is outside."
    "Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling.  "Bob,
    you'll have to look after Mrs. Wheeler."
    "I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie.
    "You won't need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a
    sort of ingratiating and help-me-out kind of way.
    "Not very, I hope," said Carrie.
    They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and
    climbed into the open coach.
    "All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the
    conveyance rolled away.
    "What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames.
    "Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'"
    "Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance.  "He's just the funniest
    "I notice the papers praise it," said Ames.
    "I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very
    Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it
    his bounden duty to pay her some attention.  He was interested to
    find her so young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a
    respectful interest.  There was nothing of the dashing lady's man
    about him.  He had respect for the married state, and thought
    only of some pretty marriageable girls in Indianapolis.
    "Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie.
    "Oh, no; I've only been here for two years."
    "Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow."
    "I don't seem to have," answered Carrie.  "It's about as strange
    to me as when I first came here."
    "You're not from the West, are you?"
    "Yes.  I'm from Wisconsin," she answered.
    "Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been
    here so very long.  I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line
    who are here."
    "What is your line?" asked Carrie.
    "I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth.
    Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional
    interruptions from the Vances.  Several times it became general
    and partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was
    Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking
    in the streets which they were following.  Coaches were numerous,
    pedestrians many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were
    crowded.  At Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of
    lights from several new hotels which bordered the Plaza Square
    gave a suggestion of sumptuous hotel life.  Fifth Avenue, the
    home of the wealthy, was noticeably crowded with carriages, and
    gentlemen in evening dress.  At Sherry's an imposing doorman
    opened the coach door and helped them out.  Young Ames held
    Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps.  They entered the
    lobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting
    themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room.
    In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this.
    In the whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified
    state had not permitted his bringing her to such a place.  There
    was an almost indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced
    the newcomer that this was the proper thing.  Here was the place
    where the matter of expense limited the patrons to the moneyed or
    pleasure-loving class.  Carrie had read of it often in the
    "Morning" and "Evening World." She had seen notices of dances,
    parties, balls, and suppers at Sherry's.  The Misses So-and-so
    would give a party on Wednesday evening at Sherry's.  Young Mr.
    So-and-So would entertain a party of friends at a private
    luncheon on the sixteenth, at Sherry's.  The common run of
    conventional, perfunctory notices of the doings of society, which
    she could scarcely refrain from scanning each day, had given her
    a distinct idea of the gorgeousness and luxury of this wonderful
    temple of gastronomy.  Now, at last, she was really in it.  She
    had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large and portly
    doorman.  She had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and
    portly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who
    took care of canes, overcoats, and the like.  Here was the
    splendid dining-chamber, all decorated and aglow, where the
    wealthy ate.  Ah, how fortunate was Mrs. Vance; young, beautiful,
    and well off--at least, sufficiently so to come here in a coach.
    What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.
    Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were
    seated parties of two, three, four, five, or six.  The air of
    assurance and dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to
    the novitiate.  Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow
    in polished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the walls,
    combined into one tone of light which it requires minutes of
    complacent observation to separate and take particular note of.
    The white shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of
    the ladies, diamonds, jewels, fine feathers--all were exceedingly
    Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and
    accepted the seat which the head waiter provided for her.  She
    was keenly aware of all the little things that were done--the
    little genuflections and attentions of the waiters and head
    waiter which Americans pay for.  The air with which the latter
    pulled out each chair, and the wave of the hand with which he
    motioned them to be seated, were worth several dollars in
    Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
    unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which
    is the wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the
    world over.  The large bill of fare held an array of dishes
    sufficient to feed an army, sidelined with prices which made
    reasonable expenditure a ridiculous impossibility--an order of
    soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose
    from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the half-dozen;
    entrees, fish, and meats at prices which would house one over
    night in an average hotel.  One dollar fifty and two dollars
    seemed to be the most common figures upon this most tastefully
    printed bill of fare.
    Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring
    chicken carried her back to that other bill of fare and far
    different occasion when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet
    in a good restaurant in Chicago.  It was only momentary--a sad
    note as out of an old song--and then it was gone.  But in that
    flash was seen the other Carrie--poor, hungry, drifting at her
    wits' ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed world, from which
    she only wandered because she could not find work.
    On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg
    blue, set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate
    mouldings of fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in
    angelic comfort.  On the ceilings were coloured traceries with
    more gilt, leading to a centre where spread a cluster of lights--
    incandescent globes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco
    tendrils of gilt.  The floor was of a reddish hue, waxed and
    polished, and in every direction were mirrors--tall, brilliant,
    bevel-edged mirrors--reflecting and re-reflecting forms, faces,
    and candelabra a score and a hundred times.
    The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the
    imprint of Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the
    silverware, the name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the
    glow of the small, red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints
    of the walls on garments and faces, made them seem remarkable.
    Each waiter added an air of exclusiveness and elegance by the
    manner in which he bowed, scraped, touched, and trifled with
    things.  The exclusively personal attention which he devoted to
    each one, standing half bent, ear to one side, elbows akimbo,
    saying: "Soup--green turtle, yes.  One portion, yes.  Oysters--
    certainly--half-dozen--yes.  Asparagus.  Olives--yes."
    It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order
    for all, inviting counsel and suggestions.  Carrie studied the
    company with open eyes.  So this was high life in New York.  It
    was so that the rich spent their days and evenings.  Her poor
    little mind could not rise above applying each scene to all
    society.  Every fine lady must be in the crowd on Broadway in the
    afternoon, in the theatre at the matinee, in the coaches and
    dining-halls at night.  It must be glow and shine everywhere,
    with coaches waiting, and footmen attending, and she was out of
    it all.  In two long years she had never even been in such a
    place as this.
    Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in
    former days.  He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats,
    and side dishes, and had several bottles of wine brought, which
    were set down beside the table in a wicker basket.
    Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed
    an interesting profile to Carrie.  His forehead was high, his
    nose rather large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing.  He
    had a good, wide, well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was
    parted slightly on one side.  He seemed to have the least touch
    of boyishness to Carrie, and yet he was a man full grown.
    "Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his
    reflection, "I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend
    so much money this way."
    Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise
    at his seriousness.  He seemed to be thinking about something
    over which she had never pondered.
    "Do you?" she answered, interestedly.
    "Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are
    worth.  They put on so much show."
    "I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said
    Mrs. Vance.
    "It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the
    bill of fare, though he had ordered.
    Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his
    forehead.  To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things.
    As he studied the crowd his eye was mild.
    "Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning
    to Carrie, and nodding in a direction.
    "Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.
    "Over there in the corner--way over.  Do you see that brooch?"
    "Isn't it large?" said Carrie.
    "One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said
    "It is, isn't it?" said Carrie.  She felt as if she would like to
    be agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or
    perhaps preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was
    better educated than she was--that his mind was better.  He
    seemed to look it, and the saving grace in Carrie was that she
    could understand that people could be wiser.  She had seen a
    number of people in her life who reminded her of what she had
    vaguely come to think of as scholars.  This strong young man
    beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold of
    things which she did not quite understand, but approved of.  It
    was fine to be so, as a man, she thought.
    The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at
    the time--"Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross.  Mrs. Vance had
    read it.  Vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers.
    "A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance.  "I
    notice this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was
    looking at Carrie as he spoke.
    "I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.
    "Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance.  "He's written lots of things.
    This last story is pretty good."
    "He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.
    Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.
    "His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.
    Carrie felt this as a personal reproof.  She read "Dora Thorne,"
    or had a great deal in the past.  It seemed only fair to her, but
    she supposed that people thought it very fine.  Now this clear-
    eyed, fine-headed youth, who looked something like a student to
    her, made fun of it.  It was poor to him, not worth reading.  She
    looked down, and for the first time felt the pain of not
    Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames
    spoke.  He had very little of that in him.  Carrie felt that it
    was just kindly thought of a high order--the right thing to
    think, and wondered what else was right, according to him.  He
    seemed to notice that she listened and rather sympathised with
    him, and from now on he talked mostly to her.
    As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if
    they were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those
    little attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the
    situation upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side
    and told her of Indianapolis in an intelligent way.  He really
    had a very bright mind, which was finding its chief development
    in electrical knowledge.  His sympathies for other forms of
    information, however, and for types of people, were quick and
    warm.  The red glow on his head gave it a sandy tinge and put a
    bright glint in his eye.  Carrie noticed all these things as he
    leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young.  This man was far
    ahead of her.  He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, saner and brighter
    than Drouet.  He seemed innocent and clean, and she thought that
    he was exceedingly pleasant.  She noticed, also, that his
    interest in her was a far-off one.  She was not in his life, nor
    any of the things that touched his life, and yet now, as he spoke
    of these things, they appealed to her.
    "I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner
    proceeded and the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not
    rich enough to spend my money this way."
    "Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude
    forcing itself distinctly upon her for the first time.
    "No," he said.  "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this
    sort of thing to be happy."
    Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had
    weight with her.
    "He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone.
    He's so strong."
    Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and
    these impressive things by Ames came at odd moments.  They were
    sufficient, however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth
    impressed itself upon Carrie without words.  There was something
    in him, or the world he moved in, which appealed to her.  He
    reminded her of scenes she had seen on the stage--the sorrows and
    sacrifices that always went with she knew not what.  He had taken
    away some of the bitterness of the contrast between this life and
    her life, and all by a certain calm indifference which concerned
    only him.
    As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach,
    and then they were off again, and so to the show.
    During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very
    attentively.  He mentioned things in the play which she most
    approved of--things which swayed her deeply.
    "Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.
    "Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one.  I think the theatre a
    great thing."
    Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding.  Ah, if
    she could only be an actress--a good one! This man was wise--he
    knew--and he approved of it.  If she were a fine actress, such
    men as he would approve of her.  She felt that he was good to
    speak as he had, although it did not concern her at all.  She did
    not know why she felt this way.
    At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not
    going back with them.
    "Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.
    "Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-
    third Street."
    Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development
    shocked her.  She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant
    evening, but she had thought there was a half-hour more.  Oh, the
    half-hours, the minutes of the world; what miseries and griefs
    are crowded into them!
    She said good-bye with feigned indifference.  What matter could
    it make? Still, the coach seemed lorn.
    When she went into her own flat she had this to think about.  She
    did not know whether she would ever see this man any more.  What
    difference could it make--what difference could it make?
    Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed.  His clothes were
    scattered loosely about.  Carrie came to the door and saw him,
    then retreated.  She did not want to go in yet a while.  She
    wanted to think.  It was disagreeable to her.
    Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked.  Her
    little hands were folded tightly as she thought.  Through a fog
    of longing and conflicting desires she was beginning to see.  Oh,
    ye legions of hope and pity--of sorrow and pain! She was rocking,
    and beginning to see.
    Chapter XXXIII
    The immediate result of this was nothing.  Results from such
    things are usually long in growing.  Morning brings a change of
    feeling.  The existent condition invariably pleads for itself.
    It is only at odd moments that we get glimpses of the misery of
    things.  The heart understands when it is confronted with
    contrasts.  Take them away and the ache subsides.
    Carrie went on, leading much this same life for six months
    thereafter or more.  She did not see Ames any more.  He called
    once upon the Vances, but she only heard about it through the
    young wife.  Then he went West, and there was a gradual
    subsidence of whatever personal attraction had existed.  The
    mental effect of the thing had not gone, however, and never would
    entirely.  She had an ideal to contrast men by--particularly men
    close to her.
    During all this time--a period rapidly approaching three years--
    Hurstwood had been moving along in an even path.  There was no
    apparent slope downward, and distinctly none upward, so far as
    the casual observer might have seen.  But psychologically there
    was a change, which was marked enough to suggest the future very
    distinctly indeed.  This was in the mere matter of the halt his
    career had received when he departed from Chicago.  A man's
    fortune or material progress is very much the same as his bodily
    growth.  Either he is growing stronger, healthier, wiser, as the
    youth approaching manhood, or he is growing weaker, older, less
    incisive mentally, as the man approaching old age.  There are no
    other states.  Frequently there is a period between the cessation
    of youthful accretion and the setting in, in the case of the
    middle-aged man, of the tendency toward decay when the two
    processes are almost perfectly balanced and there is little doing
    in either direction.  Given time enough, however, the balance
    becomes a sagging to the grave side.  Slowly at first, then with
    a modest momentum, and at last the graveward process is in the
    full swing.  So it is frequently with man's fortune.  If its
    process of accretion is never halted, if the balancing stage is
    never reached, there will be no toppling.  Rich men are,
    frequently, in these days, saved from this dissolution of their
    fortune by their ability to hire younger brains.  These younger
    brains look upon the interests of the fortune as their own, and
    so steady and direct its progress.  If each individual were left
    absolutely to the care of his own interests, and were given time
    enough in which to grow exceedingly old, his fortune would pass
    as his strength and will.  He and his would be utterly dissolved
    and scattered unto the four winds of the heavens.
    But now see wherein the parallel changes.  A fortune, like a man,
    is an organism which draws to itself other minds and other
    strength than that inherent in the founder.  Beside the young
    minds drawn to it by salaries, it becomes allied with young
    forces, which make for its existence even when the strength and
    wisdom of the founder are fading.  It may be conserved by the
    growth of a community or of a state.  It may be involved in
    providing something for which there is a growing demand.  This
    removes it at once beyond the special care of the founder.  It
    needs not so much foresight now as direction.  The man wanes, the
    need continues or grows, and the fortune, fallen into whose hands
    it may, continues.  Hence, some men never recognise the turning
    in the tide of their abilities.  It is only in chance cases,
    where a fortune or a state of success is wrested from them, that
    the lack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes apparent.
    Hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to
    see that he was no longer young.  If he did not, it was due
    wholly to the fact that his state was so well balanced that an
    absolute change for the worse did not show.
    Not trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analyse
    the change that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body,
    but he felt the depression of it.  Constant comparison between
    his old state and his new showed a balance for the worse, which
    produced a constant state of gloom or, at least, depression.
    Now, it has been shown experimentally that a constantly subdued
    frame of mind produces certain poisons in the blood, called
    katastates, just as virtuous feelings of pleasure and delight
    produce helpful chemicals called anastates.  The poisons
    generated by remorse inveigh against the system, and eventually
    produce marked physical deterioration.  To these Hurstwood was
    In the course of time it told upon his temper.  His eye no longer
    possessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had
    characterised it in Adams Street.  His step was not as sharp and
    firm.  He was given to thinking, thinking, thinking.  The new
    friends he made were not celebrities.  They were of a cheaper, a
    slightly more sensual and cruder, grade.  He could not possibly
    take the pleasure in this company that he had in that of those
    fine frequenters of the Chicago resort.  He was left to brood.
    Slowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, and
    make at home these people who visited the Warren Street place
    passed from him.  More and more slowly the significance of the
    realm he had left began to be clear.  It did not seem so
    wonderful to be in it when he was in it.  It had seemed very easy
    for any one to get up there and have ample raiment and money to
    spend, but now that he was out of it, how far off it became.  He
    began to see as one sees a city with a wall about it.  Men were
    posted at the gates.  You could not get in.  Those inside did not
    care to come out to see who you were.  They were so merry inside
    there that all those outside were forgotten, and he was on the
    Each day he could read in the evening papers of the doings within
    this walled city.  In the notices of passengers for Europe he
    read the names of eminent frequenters of his old resort.  In the
    theatrical column appeared, from time to time, announcements of
    the latest successes of men he had known.  He knew that they were
    at their old gayeties.  Pullmans were hauling them to and fro
    about the land, papers were greeting them with interesting
    mentions, the elegant lobbies of hotels and the glow of polished
    dining-rooms were keeping them close within the walled city.  Men
    whom he had known, men whom he had tipped glasses with--rich men,
    and he was forgotten! Who was Mr. Wheeler? What was the Warren
    Street resort? Bah!
    If one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a type
    of mind--that such feelings require a higher mental development--
    I would urge for their consideration the fact that it is the
    higher mental development that does away with such thoughts.  It
    is the higher mental development which induces philosophy and
    that fortitude which refuses to dwell upon such things--refuses
    to be made to suffer by their consideration.  The common type of
    mind is exceedingly keen on all matters which relate to its
    physical welfare--exceedingly keen.  It is the unintellectual
    miser who sweats blood at the loss of a hundred dollars.  It is
    the Epictetus who smiles when the last vestige of physical
    welfare is removed.
    The time came, in the third year, when this thinking began to
    produce results in the Warren Street place.  The tide of
    patronage dropped a little below what it had been at its best
    since he had been there.  This irritated and worried him.
    There came a night when he confessed to Carrie that the business
    was not doing as well this month as it had the month before.
    This was in lieu of certain suggestions she had made concerning
    little things she wanted to buy.  She had not failed to notice
    that he did not seem to consult her about buying clothes for
    himself.  For the first time, it struck her as a ruse, or that he
    said it so that she would not think of asking for things.  Her
    reply was mild enough, but her thoughts were rebellious.  He was
    not looking after her at all.  She was depending for her
    enjoyment upon the Vances.
    And now the latter announced that they were going away.  It was
    approaching spring, and they were going North.
    "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Vance to Carrie, "we think we might as well
    give up the flat and store our things.  We'll be gone for the
    summer, and it would be a useless expense.  I think we'll settle
    a little farther down town when we come back."
    Carrie heard this with genuine sorrow.  She had enjoyed Mrs.
    Vance's companionship so much.  There was no one else in the
    house whom she knew.  Again she would be all alone.
    Hurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and the
    departure of the Vances came together.  So Carrie had loneliness
    and this mood of her husband to enjoy at the same time.  It was a
    grievous thing.  She became restless and dissatisfied, not
    exactly, as she thought, with Hurstwood, but with life.  What was
    it? A very dull round indeed.  What did she have? Nothing but
    this narrow, little flat.  The Vances could travel, they could do
    the things worth doing, and here she was.  For what was she made,
    anyhow? More thought followed, and then tears--tears seemed
    justified, and the only relief in the world.
    For another period this state continued, the twain leading a
    rather monotonous life, and then there was a slight change for
    the worse.  One evening, Hurstwood, after thinking about a way to
    modify Carrie's desire for clothes and the general strain upon
    his ability to provide, said:
    "I don't think I'll ever be able to do much with Shaughnessy."
    "What's the matter?" said Carrie.
    "Oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! He won't agree to anything to
    improve the place, and it won't ever pay without it."
    "Can't you make him?" said Carrie.
    "No; I've tried.  The only thing I can see, if I want to improve,
    is to get hold of a place of my own."
    "Why don't you?" said Carrie.
    "Well, all I have is tied up in there just now.  If I had a
    chance to save a while I think I could open a place that would
    give us plenty of money."
    "Can't we save?" said Carrie.
    "We might try it," he suggested.  "I've been thinking that if
    we'd take a smaller flat down town and live economically for a
    year, I would have enough, with what I have invested, to open a
    good place.  Then we could arrange to live as you want to."
    "It would suit me all right," said Carrie, who, nevertheless,
    felt badly to think it had come to this.  Talk of a smaller flat
    sounded like poverty.
    "There are lots of nice little flats down around Sixth Avenue,
    below Fourteenth Street.  We might get one down there."
    "I'll look at them if you say so," said Carrie.
    "I think I could break away from this fellow inside of a year,"
    said Hurstwood.  "Nothing will ever come of this arrangement as
    it's going on now."
    "I'll look around," said Carrie, observing that the proposed
    change seemed to be a serious thing with him.
    The upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected;
    not without great gloom on the part of Carrie.  It really
    affected her more seriously than anything that had yet happened.
    She began to look upon Hurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a
    lover or husband.  She felt thoroughly bound to him as a wife,
    and that her lot was cast with his, whatever it might be; but she
    began to see that he was gloomy and taciturn, not a young,
    strong, and buoyant man.  He looked a little bit old to her about
    the eyes and mouth now, and there were other things which placed
    him in his true rank, so far as her estimation was concerned.
    She began to feel that she had made a mistake.  Incidentally, she
    also began to recall the fact that he had practically forced her
    to flee with him.
    The new flat was located in Thirteenth Street, a half block west
    of Sixth Avenue, and contained only four rooms.  The new
    neighbourhood did not appeal to Carrie as much.  There were no
    trees here, no west view of the river.  The street was solidly
    built up.  There were twelve families here, respectable enough,
    but nothing like the Vances.  Richer people required more space.
    Being left alone in this little place, Carrie did without a girl.
    She made it charming enough, but could not make it delight her.
    Hurstwood was not inwardly pleased to think that they should have
    to modify their state, but he argued that he could do nothing.
    He must put the best face on it, and let it go at that.
    He tried to show Carrie that there was no cause for financial
    alarm, but only congratulation over the chance he would have at
    the end of the year by taking her rather more frequently to the
    theatre and by providing a liberal table.  This was for the time
    only.  He was getting in the frame of mind where he wanted
    principally to be alone and to be allowed to think.  The disease
    of brooding was beginning to claim him as a victim.  Only the
    newspapers and his own thoughts were worth while.  The delight of
    love had again slipped away.  It was a case of live, now, making
    the best you can out of a very commonplace station in life.
    The road downward has but few landings and level places.  The
    very state of his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the
    breach to widen between him and his partner.  At last that
    individual began to wish that Hurstwood was out of it.  It so
    happened, however, that a real estate deal on the part of the
    owner of the land arranged things even more effectually than ill-
    will could have schemed.
    "Did you see that?" said Shaughnessy one morning to Hurstwood,
    pointing to the real estate column in a copy of the "Herald,"
    which he held.
    "No, what is it?" said Hurstwood, looking down the items of news.
    "The man who owns this ground has sold it."
    "You don't say so?" said Hurstwood.
    He looked, and there was the notice.  Mr. August Viele had
    yesterday registered the transfer of the lot, 25 x 75 feet, at
    the corner of Warren and Hudson Streets, to J. F. Slawson for the
    sum of $57,000.
    "Our lease expires when?" asked Hurstwood, thinking.  "Next
    February, isn't it?"
    "That's right," said Shaughnessy.
    "It doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it," remarked
    Hurstwood, looking back to the paper.
    "We'll hear, I guess, soon enough," said Shaughnessy.
    Sure enough, it did develop.  Mr. Slawson owned the property
    adjoining, and was going to put up a modern office building.  The
    present one was to be torn down.  It would take probably a year
    and a half to complete the other one.
    All these things developed by degrees, and Hurstwood began to
    ponder over what would become of the saloon.  One day he spoke
    about it to his partner.
    "Do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else
    in the neighbourhood?"
    "What would be the use?" said Shaughnessy.  "We couldn't get
    another corner around here."
    "It wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?"
    "I wouldn't try it," said the other.
    The approaching change now took on a most serious aspect to
    Hurstwood.  Dissolution meant the loss of his thousand dollars,
    and he could not save another thousand in the time.  He
    understood that Shaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement,
    and would probably lease the new corner, when completed, alone.
    He began to worry about the necessity of a new connection and to
    see impending serious financial straits unless something turned
    up.  This left him in no mood to enjoy his flat or Carrie, and
    consequently the depression invaded that quarter.
    Meanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, but
    opportunities were not numerous.  More, he had not the same
    impressive personality which he had when he first came to New
    York.  Bad thoughts had put a shade into his eyes which did not
    impress others favourably.  Neither had he thirteen hundred
    dollars in hand to talk with.  About a month later, finding that
    he had not made any progress, Shaughnessy reported definitely
    that Slawson would not extend the lease.
    "I guess this thing's got to come to an end," he said, affecting
    an air of concern.
    "Well, if it has, it has," answered Hurstwood, grimly.  He would
    not give the other a key to his opinions, whatever they were.  He
    should not have the satisfaction.
    A day or two later he saw that he must say something to Carrie.
    "You know," he said, "I think I'm going to get the worst of my
    deal down there."
    "How is that?" asked Carrie in astonishment.
    "Well, the man who owns the ground has sold it.  and the new
    owner won't release 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
    "Do you lose what you put in?"
    "Yes," said Hurstwood, whose face was a study.
    "Oh, isn't that too bad?" said Carrie.
    "It's a trick," said Hurstwood.  "That's all.  They'll start
    another place there all right."
    Carrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour what
    it meant.  It was serious, very serious.
    "Do you think you can get something else?" she ventured, timidly.
    Hurstwood thought a while.  It was all up with the bluff about
    money and investment.  She could see now that he was "broke."
    "I don't know," he said solemnly; "I can try."
    Chapter XXXIV
    Carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as Hurstwood,
    once she got the facts adjusted in her mind.  It took several
    days for her to fully realise that the approach of the
    dissolution of her husband's business meant commonplace struggle
    and privation.  Her mind went back to her early venture in
    Chicago, the Hansons and their flat, and her heart revolted.
    That was terrible! Everything about poverty was terrible.  She
    wished she knew a way out.  Her recent experiences with the
    Vances had wholly unfitted her to view her own state with
    complacence.  The glamour of the high life of the city had, in
    the few experiences afforded her by the former, seized her
    completely.  She had been taught how to dress and where to go
    without having ample means to do either.  Now, these things--
    ever-present realities as they were--filled her eyes and mind.
    The more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing
    seemed this other.  And now poverty threatened to seize her
    entirely and to remove this other world far upward like a heaven
    to which any Lazarus might extend, appealingly, his hands.
    So, too, the ideal brought into her life by Ames remained.  He
    had gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything;
    that there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that
    the stage was good, and the literature she read poor.  He was a
    strong man and clean--how much stronger and better than Hurstwood
    and Drouet she only half formulated to herself, but the
    difference was painful.  It was something to which she
    voluntarily closed her eyes.
    During the last three months of the Warren Street connection,
    Hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the
    business advertisements.  It was a more or less depressing
    business, wholly because of the thought that he must soon get
    something or he would begin to live on the few hundred dollars he
    was saving, and then he would have nothing to invest--he would
    have to hire out as a clerk.
    Everything he discovered in his line advertised as an
    opportunity, was either too expensive or too wretched for him.
    Besides, winter was coming, the papers were announcing hardships,
    and there was a general feeling of hard times in the air, or, at
    least, he thought so.  In his worry, other people's worries
    became apparent.  No item about a firm failing, a family
    starving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedly of
    starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morning
    papers.  Once the "World" came out with a flaring announcement
    about "80,000 people out of employment in New York this winter,"
    which struck as a knife at his heart.
    "Eighty thousand!" he thought.  "What an awful thing that is."
    This was new reasoning for Hurstwood.  In the old days the world
    had seemed to be getting along well enough.  He had been wont to
    see similar things in the "Daily News," in Chicago, but they did
    not hold his attention.  Now, these things were like grey clouds
    hovering along the horizon of a clear day.  They threatened to
    cover and obscure his life with chilly greyness.  He tried to
    shake them off, to forget and brace up.  Sometimes he said to
    himself, mentally:
    "What's the use worrying? I'm not out yet.  I've got six weeks
    more.  Even if worst comes to worst, I've got enough to live on
    for six months."
    Curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts
    occasionally reverted to his wife and family.  He had avoided
    such thoughts for the first three years as much as possible.  He
    hated her, and he could get along without her.  Let her go.  He
    would do well enough.  Now, however, when he was not doing well
    enough, he began to wonder what she was doing, how his children
    were getting along.  He could see them living as nicely as ever,
    occupying the comfortable house and using his property.
    "By George! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguely
    thought to himself on several occasions.  "I didn't do anything."
    As he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to
    his taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself.  What
    had he done--what in the world--that should bar him out this way
    and heap such difficulties upon him? It seemed only yesterday to
    him since he was comfortable and well-to-do.  But now it was all
    wrested from him.
    "She didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure.  I
    didn't do so much, if everybody could just know."
    There was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised.  It
    was only a mental justification he was seeking from himself--
    something that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous
    One afternoon, five weeks before the Warren Street place closed
    up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw
    advertised in the "Herald." One was down in Gold Street, and he
    visited that, but did not enter.  It was such a cheap looking
    place he felt that he could not abide it.  Another was on the
    Bowery, which he knew contained many showy resorts.  It was near
    Grand Street, and turned out to be very handsomely fitted up.  He
    talked around about investments for fully three-quarters of an
    hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was
    poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner.
    "Well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half
    interest here?" said Hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as
    his limit.
    "Three thousand," said the man.
    Hurstwood's jaw fell.
    "Cash?" he said.
    He tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might
    really buy; but his eyes showed gloom.  He wound up by saying he
    would think it over, and came away.  The man he had been talking
    to sensed his condition in a vague way.
    "I don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself.  "He doesn't
    talk right."
    The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold.  It was blowing up a
    disagreeable winter wind.  He visited a place far up on the east
    side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and
    growing dim, when he reached there.  A portly German kept this
    "How about this ad of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who rather
    objected to the looks of the place.
    "Oh, dat iss all over," said the German.  "I vill not sell now."
    "Oh, is that so?"
    "Yes; dere is nothing to dat.  It iss all over."
    "Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around.
    The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry.
    "The crazy ass!" he said to himself.  "What does he want to
    advertise for?"
    Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street.  The flat had
    only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working.  He struck
    a match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room
    without even greeting her.  She came to the door and looked in.
    "It's you, is it?" she said, and went back.
    "Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he
    had bought.
    Carrie saw things were wrong with him.  He was not so handsome
    when gloomy.  The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened.
    Naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister.
    He was quite a disagreeable figure.
    Carrie set the table and brought in the meal.
    "Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something.
    He did not answer, reading on.
    She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly
    "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
    "Yes," he said.
    He only picked at his food.
    "Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to take
    up the subject which they had discussed often enough.
    "Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification of
    This retort angered Carrie.  She had had a dreary day of it
    "You needn't talk like that," she said.
    "Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say
    more, but letting it go at that.  Then he picked up his paper.
    Carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty.  He saw
    she was hurt.
    "Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen.
    "Eat your dinner."
    She passed, not answering.
    He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on
    his coat.
    "I'm going downtown, Carrie," he said, coming out.  "I'm out of
    sorts to-night."
    She did not answer.
    "Don't be angry," he said.  "It will be all right to morrow."
    He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at
    her dishes.
    "Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out.
    This was the first strong result of the situation between them,
    but with the nearing of the last day of the business the gloom
    became almost a permanent thing.  Hurstwood could not conceal his
    feelings about the matter.  Carrie could not help wondering where
    she was drifting.  It got so that they talked even less than
    usual, and yet it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to
    Carrie.  It was Carrie who shied away from him.  This he noticed.
    It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to him.  He
    made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant task,
    and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by her
    manner and made it more impossible.
    At last the final day came.  When it actually arrived, Hurstwood,
    who had got his mind into such a state where a thunderclap and
    raging storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather
    relieved to find that it was a plain, ordinary day.  The sun
    shone, the temperature was pleasant.  He felt, as he came to the
    breakfast table, that it wasn't so terrible, after all.
    "Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth."
    Carrie smiled in answer to his humour.
    Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly.  He seemed to have
    lost a load.
    "I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and
    then I'll look around.  To-morrow I'll spend the whole day
    looking about.  I think I can get something, now this thing's off
    my hands."
    He went out smiling and visited the place.  Shaughnessy was
    there.  They had made all arrangements to share according to
    their interests.  When, however, he had been there several hours,
    gone out three more, and returned, his elation had departed.  As
    much as he had objected to the place, now that it was no longer
    to exist, he felt sorry.  He wished that things were different.
    Shaughnessy was coolly businesslike.
    "Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the
    change and divide."
    They did so.  The fixtures had already been sold and the sum
    "Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last
    effort to be genial.
    "So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice.
    Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded.
    Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride
    up, Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood.
    "Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively.
    "I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat.
    As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was
    now.  They ate and talked a little.
    "Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie.
    "No," he said.  "I'll have to get something else and save up."
    "It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie,
    prompted by anxiety and hope.
    "I guess I will," he said reflectively.
    For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the
    morning and sallied forth.  On these ventures he first consoled
    himself with the thought that with the seven hundred dollars he
    had he could still make some advantageous arrangement.  He
    thought about going to some brewery, which, as he knew,
    frequently controlled saloons which they leased, and get them to
    help him.  Then he remembered that he would have to pay out
    several hundred any way for fixtures and that he would have
    nothing left for his monthly expenses.  It was costing him nearly
    eighty dollars a month to live.
    "No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it.  I'll get
    something else and save up."
    This getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment
    he began to think of what it was he wanted to do.  Manage a
    place? Where should he get such a position? The papers contained
    no requests for managers.  Such positions, he knew well enough,
    were either secured by long years of service or were bought with
    a half or third interest.  Into a place important enough to need
    such a manager he had not money enough to buy.
    Nevertheless, he started out.  His clothes were very good and his
    appearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of
    deluding.  People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man
    of his age, stout and well dressed, must be well off.  He
    appeared a comfortable owner of something, a man from whom the
    common run of mortals could well expect gratuities.  Being now
    forty-three years of age, and comfortably built, walking was not
    easy.  He had not been used to exercise for many years.  His legs
    tired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at the close
    of the day, even when he took street cars in almost every
    direction.  The mere getting up and down, if long continued,
    produced this result.
    The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he
    well understood.  It was so painfully clear to him that it
    retarded his search.  Not that he wished to be less well-
    appearing, but that he was ashamed to belie his appearance by
    incongruous appeals.  So he hesitated, wondering what to do.
    He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had
    had no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no
    acquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go.  He
    did know some hotel owners in several cities, including New York,
    but they knew of his dealings with Fitzgerald and Moy.  He could
    not apply to them.  He thought of other lines suggested by large
    buildings or businesses which he knew of--wholesale groceries,
    hardware, insurance concerns, and the like--but he had had no
    How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought.  Would he
    have to go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and,
    then, distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was
    looking for something to do? He strained painfully at the
    thought.  No, he could not do that.
    He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being
    cold, stepped into a hotel.  He knew hotels well enough to know
    that any decent individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby.
    This was in the Broadway Central, which was then one of the most
    important hotels in the city.  Taking a chair here was a painful
    thing to him.  To think he should come to this! He had heard
    loungers about hotels called chairwarmers.  He had called them
    that himself in his day.  But here he was, despite the
    possibility of meeting some one who knew him, shielding himself
    from cold and the weariness of the streets in a hotel lobby.
    "I can't do this way," he said to himself.  "There's no use of my
    starting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go.
    I'll think of some places and then look them up."
    It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were
    sometimes open, but he put this out of his mind.  Bartender--he,
    the ex-manager!
    It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four
    he went home.  He tried to put on a business air as he went in,
    but it was a feeble imitation.  The rocking chair in the dining-
    room was comfortable.  He sank into it gladly, with several
    papers he had bought, and began to read.
    As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner,
    Carrie said:
    "The man was here for the rent to-day."
    "Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood.
    The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this
    was February 2d, the time the man always called.  He fished down
    in his pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying
    out when nothing is coming in.  He looked at the fat, green roll
    as a sick man looks at the one possible saving cure.  Then he
    counted off twenty-eight dollars.
    "Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again.
    He buried himself in his papers and read.  Oh, the rest of it--
    the relief from walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were
    these floods of telegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles,
    in part.  Here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believe
    the newspaper drawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband in
    Brooklyn for divorce.  Here was another item detailing the
    wrecking of a vessel in ice and snow off Prince's Bay on Staten
    Island.  A long, bright column told of the doings in the
    theatrical world--the plays produced, the actors appearing, the
    managers making announcements.  Fannie Davenport was just opening
    at the Fifth Avenue.  Daly was producing "King Lear." He read of
    the early departure for the season of a party composed of the
    Vanderbilts and their friends for Florida.  An interesting
    shooting affray was on in the mountains of Kentucky.  So he read,
    read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator and
    waiting for dinner to be served.
    Chapter XXXV
    The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a
    long list of advertisements, making a few notes.  Then he turned
    to the male-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings.
    The day was before him--a long day in which to discover
    something--and this was how he must begin to discover.  He
    scanned the long column, which mostly concerned bakers,
    bushelmen, cooks, compositors, drivers, and the like, finding two
    things only which arrested his eye.  One was a cashier wanted in
    a wholesale furniture house, and the other a salesman for a
    whiskey house.  He had never thought of the latter.  At once he
    decided to look that up.
    The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers.
    He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance.
    "Good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that he
    was encountering one of his out-of-town customers.
    "Good-morning," said Hurstwood.  "You advertised, I believe, for
    a salesman?"
    "Oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had
    come to him.  "Yes.  Yes, I did."
    "I thought I'd drop in," said Hurstwood, with dignity.  "I've had
    some experience in that line myself."
    "Oh, have you?" said the man.  "What experience have you had?"
    "Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time.  Recently I
    owned a third-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets."
    "I see," said the man.
    Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion.
    "We did want a salesman," said the man.  "I don't know as it's
    anything you'd care to take hold of, though."
    "I see," said Hurstwood.  "Well, I'm in no position to choose,
    just at present.  If it were open, I should be glad to get it."
    The man did not take kindly at all to his "No position to
    choose." He wanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or
    something better.  Especially not an old man.  He wanted some one
    young, active, and glad to work actively for a moderate sum.
    Hurstwood did not please him at all.  He had more of an air than
    his employers.
    "Well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider your
    application.  We shan't decide for a few days yet.  Suppose you
    send us your references."
    "I will," said Hurstwood.
    He nodded good-morning and came away.  At the corner he looked at
    the furniture company's address, and saw that it was in West
    Twenty-third Street.  Accordingly, he went up there.  The place
    was not large enough, however.  It looked moderate, the men in it
    idle and small salaried.  He walked by, glancing in, and then
    decided not to go in there.
    "They want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said.
    At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in
    Madison Square.  There he pondered over places which he might
    look up.  He was tired.  It was blowing up grey again.  Across
    the way, through Madison Square Park, stood the great hotels,
    looking down upon a busy scene.  He decided to go over to the
    lobby of one and sit a while.  It was warm in there and bright.
    He had seen no one he knew at the Broadway Central.  In all
    likelihood he would encounter no one here.  Finding a seat on one
    of the red plush divans close to the great windows which look out
    on Broadway's busy rout, he sat musing.  His state did not seem
    so bad in here.  Sitting still and looking out, he could take
    some slight consolation in the few hundred dollars he had in his
    purse.  He could forget, in a measure, the weariness of the
    street and his tiresome searches.  Still, it was only escape from
    a severe to a less severe state.  He was still gloomy and
    disheartened.  There, minutes seemed to go very slowly.  An hour
    was a long, long time in passing.  It was filled for him with
    observations and mental comments concerning the actual guests of
    the hotel, who passed in and out, and those more prosperous
    pedestrians whose good fortune showed in their clothes and
    spirits as they passed along Broadway, outside.  It was nearly
    the first time since he had arrived in the city that his leisure
    afforded him ample opportunity to contemplate this spectacle.
    Now, being, perforce, idle himself, he wondered at the activity
    of others.  How gay were the youths he saw, how pretty the women.
    Such fine clothes they all wore.  They were so intent upon
    getting somewhere.  He saw coquettish glances cast by magnificent
    girls.  Ah, the money it required to train with such--how well he
    knew! How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to do
    The clock outside registered four.  It was a little early, but he
    thought he would go back to the flat.
    This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that
    Carrie would think he was sitting around too much if he came home
    early.  He hoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on
    his hands.  Over there he was on his own ground.  He could sit in
    his rocking-chair and read.  This busy, distracting, suggestive
    scene was shut out.  He could read his papers.  Accordingly, he
    went home.  Carrie was reading, quite alone.  It was rather dark
    in the flat, shut in as it was.
    "You'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her.
    After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make
    some little report of his day.
    "I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said.  "I
    may go on the road."
    "Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie.
    "It wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered.
    Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers--the
    "Evening World" and "Evening Sun." So now he merely picked his
    papers up, as he came by, without stopping.
    He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas.  Then
    it was as the evening before.  His difficulties vanished in the
    items he so well loved to read.
    The next day was even worse than the one before, because now he
    could not think of where to go.  Nothing he saw in the papers he
    studied--till ten o'clock--appealed to him.  He felt that he
    ought to go out, and yet he sickened at the thought.  Where to,
    where to?
    "You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," said
    Carrie, quietly.
    They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week
    in her hands, out of which to pay current expenses.  He heaved a
    little sigh as she said this, and drew out his purse.  Again he
    felt the dread of the thing.  Here he was taking off, taking off,
    and nothing coming in.
    "Lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on."
    To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever.  She could feel that her
    request disturbed him.  To pay her would soon become a
    distressing thing.
    "Yet, what have I got to do with it?" she thought.  "Oh, why
    should I be made to worry?"
    Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway.  He wanted to think up
    some place.  Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at
    Thirty-first Street.  He knew of its comfortable lobby.  He was
    cold after his twenty blocks' walk.
    "I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought.
    Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his
    tonsorial treatment.
    Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and
    this continued for several days, each day the need to hunt
    paining him, and each day disgust, depression, shamefacedness
    driving him into lobby idleness.
    At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did
    not go out at all.  The snow began to fall late one afternoon.
    It was a regular flurry of large, soft, white flakes.  In the
    morning it was still coming down with a high wind, and the papers
    announced a blizzard.  From out the front windows one could see a
    deep, soft bedding.
    "I guess I'll not try to go out to-day," he said to Carrie at
    breakfast.  "It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say."
    "The man hasn't brought my coal, either," said Carrie, who
    ordered by the bushel.
    "I'll go over and see about it," said Hurstwood.  This was the
    first time he had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow,
    the wish to sit about the house prompted it as a sort of
    compensation for the privilege.
    All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer
    from a general blockade of traffic.  Great attention was given to
    the details of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the
    distress of the poor in large type.
    Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner.  He did not
    try to think about his need of work.  This storm being so
    terrific, and tying up all things, robbed him of the need.  He
    made himself wholly comfortable and toasted his feet.
    Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving.  For all the fury
    of the storm she doubted his comfort.  He took his situation too
    Hurstwood, however, read on and on.  He did not pay much
    attention to Carrie.  She fulfilled her household duties and said
    little to disturb him.
    The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold.
    Hurstwood took the alarm of the paper and sat still.  Now he
    volunteered to do a few other little things.  One was to go to
    the butcher, another to the grocery.  He really thought nothing
    of these little services in connection with their true
    significance.  He felt as if he were not wholly useless--indeed,
    in such a stress of weather, quite worth while about the house.
    On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the
    storm was over.  Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the
    streets would be.
    It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under
    way.  Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were
    bad.  He went across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a
    transfer south on Broadway.  One little advertisement he had,
    relating to a saloon down in Pearl Street.  When he reached the
    Broadway Central, however, he changed his mind.
    "What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow.
    "I couldn't buy into it.  It's a thousand to one nothing comes of
    it.  I guess I'll get off," and off he got.  In the lobby he took
    a seat and waited again, wondering what he could do.
    While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well-
    dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if
    not sure of his memory, and then approached.  Hurstwood
    recognised Cargill, the owner of the large stables in Chicago of
    the same name, whom he had last seen at Avery Hall, the night
    Carrie appeared there.  The remembrance of how this individual
    brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was also on
    the instant clear.
    Hurstwood was greatly abashed.  His eyes expressed the difficulty
    he felt.
    "Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry
    that he had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to
    have avoided this meeting.
    "Yes," said Hurstwood.  "How are you?"
    "Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about.
    "Stopping here?"
    "No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment."
    "I knew you had left Chicago.  I was wondering what had become of
    "Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away.
    "Doing well, I suppose?"
    "Glad to hear it."
    They looked at one another, rather embarrassed.
    "Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs.  I'll leave
    you.  So long."
    Hurstwood nodded his head.
    "Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door.  "I knew
    that would happen."
    He walked several blocks up the street.  His watch only
    registered 1.30.  He tried to think of some place to go or
    something to do.  The day was so bad he wanted only to be inside.
    Finally his feet began to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a
    car.  This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which was as good as
    anywhere else.  Landed here, he turned to walk back along Seventh
    Avenue, but the slush was too much.  The misery of lounging about
    with nowhere to go became intolerable.  He felt as if he were
    catching cold.
    Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound.  This was
    no day to be out; he would go home.
    Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three.
    "It's a miserable day out," was all he said.  Then he took off
    his coat and changed his shoes.
    That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine.  He was
    feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie
    waited on him.  He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very
    handsome in a dull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed.  He
    looked haggard about the eyes and quite old.  Carrie noticed
    this, and it did not appeal to her.  She wanted to be good-
    natured and sympathetic, but something about the man held her
    Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she
    suggested he go to bed.
    "You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better.  I'll
    open your bed for you now."
    "All right," he said.
    As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state.
    "What a life! What a life!" was her one thought.
    Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up
    and reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her
    brows.  In the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by
    the window and cried.  This was the life cut out for her, was it?
    To live cooped up in a small flat with some one who was out of
    work, idle, and indifferent to her.  She was merely a servant to
    him now, nothing more.
    This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed,
    she lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he
    noticed the fact.
    "What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face.
    His voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its
    grewsome quality.
    "Nothing," said Carrie, weakly.
    "You've been crying," he said.
    "I haven't, either," she answered.
    It was not for love of him, that he knew.
    "You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed.  "Things will come
    out all right."
    In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he
    stayed in.  The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning
    papers, and these he read assiduously.  A few times after that he
    ventured out, but meeting another of his old-time friends, he
    began to feel uneasy sitting about hotel corridors.
    Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of
    going anywhere.  Winter was no time to look for anything.
    Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did
    things.  She was far from perfect in household methods and
    economy, and her little deviations on this score first caught his
    eye.  Not, however, before her regular demand for her allowance
    became a grievous thing.  Sitting around as he did, the weeks
    seemed to pass very quickly.  Every Tuesday Carrie asked for her
    "Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one
    Tuesday morning.
    "I do the best I can," said Carrie.
    Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he
    "Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?"
    "I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie.
    "They say you can get things lots cheaper there."
    Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion.  These were things
    which she did not like at all.
    "How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day.
    "Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie.  "Sirloin steak is
    twenty-two cents."
    "That's steep, isn't it?" he answered.
    So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing
    days, it seemed to become a mania with him.  He learned the
    prices and remembered them.
    His errand-running capacity also improved.  It began in a small
    way, of course.  Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was
    stopped by him.
    "Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked.
    "Over to the baker's," she answered.
    "I'd just as leave go for you," he said.
    She acquiesced, and he went.  Each afternoon he would go to the
    corner for the papers.
    "Is there anything you want?" he would say.
    By degrees she began to use him.  Doing this, however, she lost
    the weekly payment of twelve dollars.
    "You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this
    "How much?" he asked.
    She understood well enough what it meant.
    "Well, about five dollars," she answered.  "I owe the coal man."
    The same day he said:
    "I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty-
    five cents a bushel.  I'll trade with him."
    Carrie heard this with indifference.
    "All right," she said.
    Then it came to be:
    "George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get some
    meat of some kind for dinner."
    He would find out what she needed and order.
    Accompanying this plan came skimpiness.
    "I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one
    afternoon with his papers.  "We never seem to eat very much."
    These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie.  They
    blackened her days and grieved her soul.  Oh, how this man had
    changed!  All day and all day, here he sat, reading his papers.
    The world seemed to have no attraction.  Once in a while he would
    go out, in fine weather, it might be four or five hours, between
    eleven and four.  She could do nothing but view him with gnawing
    It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see
    his way out.  Each month drew from his small store.  Now, he had
    only five hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling
    as if he could stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite
    period.  Sitting around the house, he decided to wear some old
    clothes he had.  This came first with the bad days.  Only once he
    apologised in the very beginning:
    "It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around."
    Eventually these became the permanent thing.
    Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a
    tip of ten cents.  In his first distress, he cut down the tip to
    five, then to nothing.  Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop,
    and, finding that the shave was satisfactory, patronised
    regularly.  Later still, he put off shaving to every other day,
    then to every third, and so on, until once a week became the
    rule.  On Saturday he was a sight to see.
    Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him
    in Carrie.  She could not understand what had gotten into the
    man.  He had some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was
    not bad looking when dressed up.  She did not forget her own
    difficult struggle in Chicago, but she did not forget either that
    she had never ceased trying.  He never tried.  He did not even
    consult the ads in the papers any more.
    Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her.
    "What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her
    one evening, standing around in the kitchen.
    "To make it good, of course," she answered.
    "Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested.
    "You wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered.
    He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort
    rankled in his mind.  It was the first cutting remark that had
    come from her.
    That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front
    room to bed.  This was unusual.  When Hurstwood decided to go, he
    retired, as usual, without a light.  It was then that he
    discovered Carrie's absence.
    "That's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up."
    He gave the matter no more thought, but slept.  In the morning
    she was not beside him.  Strange to say, this passed without
    Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling
    prevailing, Carrie said:
    "I think I'll sleep alone to-night.  I have a headache."
    "All right," said Hurstwood.
    The third night she went to her front bed without apologies.
    This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it.
    "All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown,
    "let her sleep alone."
    Chapter XXXVI
    The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas,
    had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had
    never called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had
    never sent her address.  True to her nature, she corresponded
    with Mrs. Vance as long as she still lived in Seventy-eighth
    Street, but when she was compelled to move into Thirteenth, her
    fear that the latter would take it as an indication of reduced
    circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding the
    necessity of giving her address.  Not finding any convenient
    method, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her
    friend entirely.  The latter wondered at this strange silence,
    thought Carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave her
    up as lost.  So she was thoroughly surprised to encounter 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 a
    glance, "where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me?
    I've been 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'm living 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
    know I 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 while
    noting 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 a
    When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual.
    He seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance.  His
    beard was 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
    situation was 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 so
    "Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returned
    Hurstwood.  "He's got a soft job."
    Hurstwood was looking into the paper.  He could not see the look
    of infinite 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 keep
    up 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
    understanding the inference; "but his life isn't done yet.  You
    can't tell what'll happen.  He may get down like anybody else."
    There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude.  His eye
    seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting
    their defeat.  His own state seemed a thing apart--not
    This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and
    independence.  Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of
    other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came
    upon him.  Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the
    degradation of search, 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 things
    coming to me if I want to go after them."
    It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a
    shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively.
    Not with any definite aim.  It was more a barometric condition.
    He felt just right for being outside and doing something.
    On such occasions, his money went also.  He knew of several poker
    rooms down town.  A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts
    and about the City Hall.  It was a change to see them and
    exchange a few friendly 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
    the time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game--
    not the all 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 him
    several times before he acted upon it.
    The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West
    Street, near one of the ferries.  He had been there before.
    Several games were going.  These he watched for a time and
    noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved.
    "Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle.  He
    pulled up a chair and studied his cards.  Those playing made that
    quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so
    Poor fortune was with him at first.  He received a mixed
    collection without progression or pairs.  The pot was opened.
    "I pass," he said.
    On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante.  The
    deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away
    with a few dollars to the good.
    The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and
    profit.  This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom.
    There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious
    Irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany
    district in which they were located.  Hurstwood was surprised at
    the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a sang-
    froid which, if a bluff, was excellent art.  Hurstwood began to
    doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour
    with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of
    the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather
    than exterior evidences, however subtle.  He could not down the
    cowardly thought that this man had something better and would
    stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he
    choose to go so far.  Still, he hoped to win 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 in
    charge, taking out a bill.
    A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent.  When
    the chips 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
    without first 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
    mild protest.  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: "Some
    one 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
    should think he would be ashamed of himself."
    The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did
    call.  It was on one of her shopping rounds.  Making her way up
    the commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door.  To her
    subsequent and agonising distress, Carrie was out.  Hurstwood
    opened the door, half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's.  For
    once, he was taken honestly 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 her
    eyes.  His great confusion she instantly perceived.  He did not
    know whether 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 be
    back shortly."
    "No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all.  "I'm
    really very much in a hurry.  I thought I'd just run up and look
    in, but I couldn't stay.  Just tell your wife she must come and
    see me."
    "I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense
    relief at her going.  He was so ashamed that he folded his hands
    weakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought.
    Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs.
    Vance going away.  She strained her eyes, but could not make
    "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 sheer
    nervousness.  "What did she have to say?"
    "Nothing," he answered.  "She couldn't stay."
    "And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long
    "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 was
    coming.  I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes.
    Oh, I think this is just terrible."
    "Oh, let up," he answered.  "What difference does it make? You
    couldn'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'd committed----"
    Carrie interrupted:
    "It's true," she said.  "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose
    fault is it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could
    associate with.  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 the
    rent, don't I? I furnish the----"
    "Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie.  "You talk as if there was
    nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in.  You
    haven't done 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
    of your head.  You talk as though you didn't know."
    Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending.  She had
    believed it was all legal and binding enough.
    "What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely.  "What
    did you 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
    for him, both mental and moral.  He wiped his brow as he looked
    around, and then 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 losing him, though he might be going away
    permanently.  She heard him open the top of the wardrobe and take
    out his hat.  Then the dining-room door closed, and she knew he
    had gone.
    After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and
    looked out the window.  Hurstwood was just strolling up the
    street, from the flat, toward Sixth Avenue.
    The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth
    Street to Union Square.
    "Look for work!" he said to himself.  "Look for work! She tells
    me to get out and look for work."
    He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which
    told him that she was right.
    "What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," he
    thought.  "Stood right there, and looked me over.  I know what
    she was thinking."
    He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eight
    Street.  She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put
    on the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her.  Now,
    to think she had caught him looking this way.  He wrinkled his
    forehead in his distress.
    "The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour.
    It was a quarter after four when he left the house.  Carrie was
    in tears.  There would be no dinner that night.
    "What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own
    shame from 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
    make himself comfortable there.
    He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one
    of the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read.
    It did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did
    not allow of such extravagance.  Like the morphine fiend, he was
    becoming addicted to his ease.  Anything to relieve his mental
    distress, to satisfy his craving for comfort.  He must do it.  No
    thoughts for the morrow--he could not stand to think of it any
    more than he could of any other calamity.  Like the certainty of
    death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being without a
    dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doing
    Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets
    carried him back to the old days.  A young lady, a guest of the
    house, playing a piano in an alcove pleased him.  He sat there
    His dinner cost him $1.50.  By eight o'clock he was through, and
    then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers
    thickening outside wondered where he should go.  Not home.
    Carrie would be up.  No, he would not go back there this evening.
    He would stay out and knock around as a man who was independent--
    not broke--well might.  He bought a cigar, and went outside on
    the corner where other individuals were lounging--brokers, racing
    people, thespians--his own flesh and blood.  As he stood there,
    he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how he used to
    dispose of them.  Many's the game he had had.  This took him to
    "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 what ailed 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, by bluffing a little harder.
    "I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it.  I'll try
    my hand to-night."
    Visions of a big stake floated before him.  Supposing he did win
    a couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew
    made their 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
    as he had in the old days.  In this period of self-forgetfulness,
    aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner
    in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like
    the old Hurstwood 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
    room in a better drinking resort.  Hurstwood watched a while, and
    then, seeing an interesting game, joined in.  As before, it went
    easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing
    a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that
    account.  At last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him.
    He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff
    the company and secure a fair stake.  To his self-satisfaction
    intense and strong, he did it.
    In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with
    him.  No one else had done so well.  Now came another moderate
    hand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it.  There were
    others there who were 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 that fellow to the finish."
    The result was that bidding began.
    "I raise you ten."
    "Ten more."
    "Ten again."
    "Right you are."
    It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up.  The other
    man really became serious.  Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood)
    really did have a stiff hand.
    "I call," he said.
    Hurstwood showed his hand.  He was done.  The bitter fact that he
    had 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 their
    places.  Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock.  Hurstwood
    held on, neither winning nor losing much.  Then he grew weary,
    and on a last hand 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 walked
    slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie.  He ascended
    the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no
    trouble.  It was his loss that occupied his mind.  Sitting down
    on the bedside he counted his money.  There was now but a hundred
    and ninety dollars and some change.  He put it up and began to
    "I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said.
    In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke and he felt as if he must go
    out again.  He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to
    make up.  Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going
    out thus, he lived like a gentleman--or what he conceived to be a
    gentleman--which took money.  For his escapades he was soon
    poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had
    lost thirty by the process.  Then he came down to cold, bitter
    sense again.
    "The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus
    indifferently three mornings later.
    "He does?"
    "Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie.
    Hurstwood frowned.  Then in despair he got out his purse.
    "It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said.
    He was nearing his last hundred dollars.
    Chapter XXXVII
    It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty
    dollars was in sight.  The seven hundred, by his process of
    handling, had only carried them into June.  Before the final
    hundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity was
    "I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for
    meat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live."
    "It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much."
    "My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it's
    gone to."
    "All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie.
    "All but a hundred."
    He looked so disconsolate that it scared her.  She began to see
    that she herself had been drifting.  She had felt it all the
    "Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look
    for something? You could find something."
    "I have looked," he said.  "You can t make people give you a
    She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think you
    will do? A hundred dollars won't last long."
    "I don't know," he said.  "I can't do any more than look."
    Carrie became frightened over this announcement.  She thought
    desperately upon the subject.  Frequently she had considered the
    stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state
    which she had so much craved.  Now, as in Chicago, it came as a
    last resource in distress.  Something must be done if he did not
    get work soon.  Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again
    She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place.  Her
    experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right
    way.  There must be people who would listen to and try you--men
    who would give you an opportunity.
    They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later,
    when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw
    that Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country.  Hurstwood had
    seen it, too.
    "How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked,
    "I don't know," he said.  "There must be dramatic agents."
    Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up.
    "Regular people who get you a place?"
    "Yes, I think so," he answered.
    Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention.
    "You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" he
    "No," she answered, "I was just wondering."
    Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he
    objected to.  He did not believe any more, after three years of
    observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that
    line.  She seemed too simple, too yielding.  His idea of the art
    was that it involved something more pompous.  If she tried to get
    on the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager
    and become like the rest of them.  He had a good idea of what he
    meant by THEM.  Carrie was pretty.  She would get along all
    right, but where would he be?
    "I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you.  It's a lot
    more difficult than you think."
    Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her
    "You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined.
    "You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition,
    "but Chicago isn't New York, by a big jump."
    Carrie did not answer this at all.  It hurt her.
    "The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of the
    big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it.  It takes a long
    while to get up."
    "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused.
    In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing.  Now,
    when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on
    the stage in some cheap way and forsake him.  Strangely, he had
    not conceived well of her mental ability.  That was because he
    did not understand the nature of emotional greatness.  He had
    never learned that a person might be emotionally--instead of
    intellectually--great.  Avery Hall was too far away for him to
    look back and sharply remember.  He had lived with this woman too
    "Well, I do," he answered.  "If I were you I wouldn't think of
    it.  It's not much of a profession for a woman."
    "It's better than going hungry," said Carrie.  "If you don't want
    me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?"
    There was no answer ready for this.  He had got used to the
    "Oh, let up," he answered.
    The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try.  It
    didn't matter about him.  She was not going to be dragged into
    poverty and something worse to suit him.  She could act.  She
    could get something and then work up.  What would he say then?
    She pictured herself already appearing in some fine performance
    on Broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room and
    making up.  Then she would come out at eleven o'clock and see the
    carriages ranged about, waiting for the people.  It did not
    matter whether she was the star or not.  If she were only once
    in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she
    liked, having the money to do with, going here and there as she
    pleased, how delightful it would all be.  Her mind ran over this
    picture all the day long.  Hurstwood's dreary state made its
    beauty become more and more vivid.
    Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood.  His vanishing
    sum suggested that he would need sustenance.  Why could not
    Carrie assist him a little until he could get something?
    He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind.
    "I met John B. Drake to-day," he said.  "He's going to open a
    hotel here in the fall.  He says that he can make a place for me
    "Who is he?" asked Carrie.
    "He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago."
    "Oh," said Carrie.
    "I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that."
    "That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically.
    "If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be
    all right.  I'm hearing from some of my friends again."
    Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty.  She
    sincerely wished he could get through the summer.  He looked so
    "How much money have you left?"
    "Only fifty dollars."
    "Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty
    days until the rent will be due again."
    Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the
    "Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly
    "Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the
    "I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he
    saw her brighten up.  "I can get something."
    She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed
    as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway.
    She did not know that thoroughfare very well.  To her it was a
    wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty.  The
    theatres were there--these agencies must be somewhere about.
    She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how
    to find the theatrical agents.  This seemed the sensible way.
    Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the
    clerk at the box office.
    "Eh?" he said, looking out.  "Dramatic agents? I don't know.
    You'll find them in the 'Clipper,' though.  They all advertise in
    "Is that a paper?" said Carrie.
    "Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common
    fact.  "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely,
    seeing how pretty the inquirer was.
    Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find the
    agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand.  This
    could not be done so easily.  Thirteenth Street was a number of
    blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and
    regretting the waste of time.
    Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place.
    "Where were you?" he asked.
    "I've been trying to find some dramatic agents."
    He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success.
    The paper she began to scan attracted his attention.
    "What have you got there?" he asked.
    "The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here."
    "Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I
    could have told you."
    "Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up.
    "You never asked me," he returned.
    She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns.  Her mind
    was distracted by this man's indifference.  The difficulty of the
    situation she was facing was only added to by all he did.  Self-
    commiseration brewed in her heart.  Tears trembled along her
    eyelids but did not fall.  Hurstwood noticed something.
    "Let me look."
    To recover herself she went into the front room while he
    searched.  Presently she returned.  He had a pencil, and was
    writing upon an envelope.
    "Here're three," he said.
    Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another
    Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil.  She paused only a moment, and
    then moved toward the door.
    "I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back.
    Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame,
    which were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming
    stultified.  He sat a while, and then it became too much.  He got
    up and put on his hat.
    "I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling
    nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go.
    Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was
    quite the nearest.  It was an old-fashioned residence turned into
    offices.  Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had
    been a back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private."
    As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about--
    men, who said nothing and did nothing.
    While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom
    opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very
    tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs.  After them
    came a portly lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed,
    and evidently good-natured.  At least she was smiling.
    "Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women.
    "I won't," said the portly woman.  "Let's see," she added, "where
    are you the first week in February?"
    "Pittsburg," said the woman.
    "I'll write you there."
    "All right," said the other, and the two passed out.
    Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and
    shrewd.  She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching
    "Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?"
    "Are you Mrs. Bermudez?"
    "Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places
    for persons upon the stage?"
    "Could you get me one?"
    "Have you ever had any experience?"
    "A very little," said Carrie.
    "Whom did you play with?"
    "Oh, with no one," said Carrie.  "It was just a show gotten----"
    "Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her.  "No, I don't know
    of anything now."
    Carrie's countenance fell.
    "You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable
    Mrs. Bermudez.  "We'll take your name, though."
    Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office.
    "What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter,
    taking up the curtailed conversation.
    "Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she was
    writing.  The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed
    her to depart at her leisure.
    She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr.
    Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could
    play at some local house, or had a programme with your name on
    it, I might do something."
    In the third place the individual asked:
    "What sort of work do you want to do?"
    "What do you mean?" said Carrie.
    "Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville or in
    the chorus?"
    "Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie.
    "Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that."
    "How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not
    thought of this before.
    "Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly.
    Carrie looked at him curiously.  She hardly knew how to continue
    the inquiry.
    "Could you get me a part if I paid?"
    "If we didn't you'd get your money back."
    "Oh," she said.
    The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and
    continued accordingly.
    "You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway.  No agent would
    trouble about you for less than that."
    Carrie saw a light.
    "Thank you," she said.  "I'll think about it."
    She started to go, and then bethought herself.
    "How soon would I get a place?" she asked.
    "Well, that's hard to say," said the man.  "You might get one in
    a week, or it might be a month.  You'd get the first thing that
    we thought you could do."
    "I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she
    walked out.
    The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself:
    "It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage."
    Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar
    proposition.  "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me
    anything," she thought.  She had some jewelry--a diamond ring and
    pin and several other pieces.  She could get fifty dollars for
    those if she went to a pawnbroker.
    Hurstwood was home before her.  He had not thought she would be
    so long seeking.
    "Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news.
    "I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her
    gloves.  "They all want money to get you a place."
    "How much?" asked Hurstwood.
    "Fifty dollars."
    "They don't want anything, do they?"
    "Oh, they're like everybody else.  You can't tell whether they'd
    ever get you anything after you did pay them."
    "Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as
    if he were deciding, money in hand.
    "I don't know," said Carrie.  "I think I'll try some of the
    Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it.  He rocked a
    little to and fro, and chewed at his finger.  It seemed all very
    natural in such extreme states.  He would do better later on.
    Chapter XXXVIII
    When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to
    the Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other
    fields, employment is difficult to secure.  Girls who can stand
    in a line and look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can
    swing a pick.  She found there was no discrimination between one
    and the other of applicants, save as regards a conventional
    standard of prettiness and form.  Their own opinion or knowledge
    of their ability went for nothing.
    "Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at
    the stage entrance of the Casino.
    "You can't see him now; he's busy."
    "Do you know when I can see him?"
    "Got an appointment with him?"
    "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
    The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told.
    Mr. Daly saw no one save by appointment.  Carrie waited an hour
    in a dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this
    fact of the placid, indifferent Mr. Dorney.
    "You will have to write and ask him to see you."
    So she went away.
    At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and
    indifferent individuals.  Everything ornately upholstered,
    everything carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved.
    At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway
    closets, berugged and bepaneled, which causes one to feel the
    greatness of all positions of authority.  Here was reserve itself
    done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant,
    glorying in their fine positions.
    "Ah, be very humble now--very humble indeed.  Tell us what it is
    you require.  Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige
    of self-respect.  If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what
    we can do."
    This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum--the attitude, for that
    matter, of every managerial office in the city.  These little
    proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground.
    Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains.
    Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search
    that evening.
    "I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie.  "I just walked, and
    walked, and waited around."
    Hurstwood only looked at her.
    "I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in,"
    she added, disconsolately.
    Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not
    seem so terrible.  Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she
    could rest.  Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its
    bitterness did not seem to approach so rapidly.  To-morrow was
    another day.
    To-morrow came, and the next, and the next.
    Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once.
    "Come around," he said, "the first of next week.  I may make some
    changes then."
    He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good
    clothes and good eating, who judged women as another would
    horseflesh.  Carrie was pretty and graceful.  She might be put in
    even if she did not have any experience.  One of the proprietors
    had suggested that the chorus was a little weak on looks.
    The first of next week was some days off yet.  The first of the
    month was drawing near.  Carrie began to worry as she had never
    worried before.
    "Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked
    Hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her
    "Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over
    the disgrace of the insinuation.
    "I'd take anything," she said, "for the present.  It will soon be
    the first of the month again."
    She looked the picture of despair.
    Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes.
    "He would look for something," he thought.  "He would go and see
    if some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere.  Yes, he would
    take a position as bartender, if he could get it."
    It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before.  One or
    two slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared.
    "No use," he thought.  "I might as well go on back home."
    Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes
    and feel that even his best ones were beginning to look
    commonplace.  This was a bitter thought.
    Carrie came in after he did.
    "I went to see some of the variety managers," she said,
    aimlessly.  "You have to have an act.  They don't want anybody
    that hasn't."
    "I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood.  "One
    man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three
    In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make
    some showing, and it was thus he did so.  It was lassitude's
    apology to energy.
    Monday Carrie went again to the Casino.
    "Did I tell you to come around to day?" said the manager, looking
    her over as she stood before him.
    "You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed.
    "Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely.
    Carrie owned to ignorance.
    He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers.  He was
    secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman.
    "Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning."
    Carrie's heart bounded to her throat.
    "I will," she said with difficulty.  She could see he wanted her,
    and turned to go.
    "Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it
    Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows
    became pleasant.
    A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all
    immediate fears on that score.
    "Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly.
    "You'll be dropped if you're not."
    Carrie hastened away.  She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's
    idleness.  She had a place--she had a place! This sang in her
    In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood.  But, as
    she walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case
    became larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding
    work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number
    of months.
    "Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself.  "If I
    can he surely ought to.  It wasn't very hard for me."
    She forgot her youth and her beauty.  The handicap of age she did
    not, in her enthusiasm, perceive.
    Thus, ever, the voice of success.
    Still, she could not keep her secret.  She tried to be calm and
    indifferent, but it was a palpable sham.
    "Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face.
    "I have a place."
    "You have?" he said, breathing a better breath.
    "What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as
    if now he might get something good also.
    "In the chorus," she answered.
    "Is it the Casino show you told me about?"
    "Yes," she answered.  "I begin rehearsing to-morrow."
    There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was
    happy.  At last Hurstwood said:
    "Do you know how much you'll get?"
    "No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie.  "I guess they pay
    twelve or fourteen dollars a week."
    "About that, I guess," said Hurstwood.
    There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the
    mere lifting of the terrible strain.  Hurstwood went out for a
    shave, and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak.
    "Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and with
    renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground.
    On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in
    the line.  She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still
    redolent of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable
    for its rich, oriental appearance.  The wonder of it awed and
    delighted her.  Blessed be its wondrous reality.  How hard she
    would try to be worthy of it.  It was above the common mass,
    above idleness, above want, above insignificance.  People came to
    it in finery and carriages to see.  It was ever a centre of light
    and mirth.  And here she was of it.  Oh, if she could only
    remain, how happy would be her days!
    "What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the
    "Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had
    selected in Chicago.  "Carrie Madenda."
    "Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie
    thought, "you go over there."
    Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company:
    "Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda."
    This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go,
    and the rehearsal began.
    Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight
    resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the
    attitude of the manager was much more pronounced.  She had
    marvelled at the insistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but
    the individual conducting here had the same insistence, coupled
    with almost brutal roughness.  As the drilling proceeded, he
    seemed to wax exceedingly wroth over trifles, and to increase his
    lung power in proportion.  It was very evident that he had a
    great contempt for any assumption of dignity or innocence on the
    part of these young women.
    "Clark," he would call--meaning, of course, Miss Clark--"why
    don't you catch step there?"
    "By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on
    to yourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last
    sounds into a vehement roar.
    "Maitland! Maitland!" he called once.
    A nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out.  Carrie
    trembled for her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and
    "Yes, sir," said Miss Maitland.
    "Is there anything the matter with your ears?"
    "No, sir."
    "Do you know what 'column left' means?"
    "Yes, sir."
    "Well, what are you stumbling around the right for? Want to break
    up the line?"
    "I was just"
    "Never mind what you were just.  Keep your ears open."
    Carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn.
    Yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke.
    "Hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as
    if in despair.  His demeanour was fierce.
    "Elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?"
    "Nothing," said Miss Elvers, while some smiled and stood
    nervously by.
    "Well, are you talking?"
    "No, sir."
    "Well, keep your mouth still then.  Now, all together again."
    At last Carrie's turn came.  It was because of her extreme
    anxiety to do all that was required that brought on the trouble.
    She heard some one called.
    "Mason," said the voice.  "Miss Mason."
    She looked around to see who it could be.  A girl behind shoved
    her a little, but she did not understand.
    "You, you!" said the manager.  "Can't you hear?"
    "Oh," said Carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely.
    "Isn't your name Mason?" asked the manager.
    "No, sir," said Carrie, "it's Madenda."
    "Well, what's the matter with your feet? Can't you dance?"
    "Yes, sir," said Carrie, who had long since learned this art.
    "Why don't you do it then? Don't go shuffling along as if you
    were dead.  I've got to have people with life in them."
    Carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat.  Her lips trembled a
    "Yes, sir," she said.
    It was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and
    energy, for three long hours.  Carrie came away worn enough in
    body, but too excited in mind to notice it.  She meant to go home
    and practise her evolutions as prescribed.  She would not err in
    any way, if she could help it.
    When she reached the flat Hurstwood was not there.  For a wonder
    he was out looking for work, as she supposed.  She took only a
    mouthful to eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of
    freedom from financial distress--"The sound of glory ringing in
    her ears."
    When Hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went
    away, and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner.
    Here was an early irritation.  She would have her work and this.
    Was she going to act and keep house?
    "I'll not do it," she said, "after I get started.  He can take
    his meals out."
    Each day thereafter brought its cares.  She found it was not such
    a wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that
    her salary would be twelve dollars a week.  After a few days she
    had her first sight of those high and mighties--the leading
    ladies and gentlemen.  She saw that they were privileged and
    deferred to.  She was nothing--absolutely nothing at all.
    At home was Hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought.  He
    seemed to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how
    she was getting along.  The regularity with which he did this
    smacked of some one who was waiting to live upon her labour.  Now
    that she had a visible means of support, this irritated her.  He
    seemed to be depending upon her little twelve dollars.
    "How are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire.
    "Oh, all right," she would reply.
    "Find it easy?"
    "It will be all right when I get used to it."
    His paper would then engross his thoughts.
    "I got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought.  "I thought
    maybe you might want to make some biscuit."
    The calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little,
    especially in the light of recent developments.  Her dawning
    independence gave her more courage to observe, and she felt as if
    she wanted to say things.  Still she could not talk to him as she
    had to Drouet.  There was something in the man's manner of which
    she had always stood in awe.  He seemed to have some invisible
    strength in reserve.
    One day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came
    openly to the surface.
    "We'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meat
    he had purchased.  "You won't get any money for a week or so
    "No," said Carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove.
    "I've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added.
    "That's it," she said to herself.  "I'm to use my money now."
    Instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things
    for herself.  She needed clothes.  Her hat was not nice.
    "What will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" she
    thought.  "I can't do it.  Why doesn't he get something to do?"
    The important night of the first real performance came.  She did
    not suggest to Hurstwood that he come and see.  He did not think
    of going.  It would only be money wasted.  She had such a small
    The advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon
    the bill-boards.  The leading lady and many members were cited.
    Carrie was nothing.
    As in Chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first
    entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered.  The
    apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away
    from her.  She felt that she was so obscure it did not matter.
    Fortunately, she did not have to wear tights.  A group of twelve
    were assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line
    about an inch above the knee.  Carrie happened to be one of the
    In standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting
    up her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe
    the audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit.  There
    was plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly
    some of the women of alleged ability did.
    "I could do better than that," Carrie ventured to herself, in
    several instances.  To do her justice, she was right.
    After it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had
    scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have
    proved satisfactory.  She wanted to get out quickly, because she
    knew but few, and the stars were gossiping.  Outside were
    carriages and some correct youths in attractive clothing,
    waiting.  Carrie saw that she was scanned closely.  The flutter
    of an eyelash would have brought her a companion.  That she did
    not give.
    One experienced youth volunteered, anyhow.
    "Not going home alone, are you?" he said.
    Carrie merely hastened her steps and took the Sixth Avenue car.
    Her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for
    nothing else.
    "Did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end of
    the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action.
    "No," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet.  I think
    something will come of that, though."
    She said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money,
    and yet feeling that such would have to be the case.  Hurstwood
    felt the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to Carrie.  He
    had long since realised how good-natured she was, how much she
    would stand.  There was some little shame in him at the thought
    of doing so, but he justified himself with the thought that he
    really would get something.  Rent day gave him his opportunity.
    "Well," he said, as he counted it out, "that's about the last of
    my money.  I'll have to get something pretty soon."
    Carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal.
    "If I could only hold out a little longer I think I could get
    something.  Drake is sure to open a hotel here in September."
    "Is he?" said Carrie, thinking of the short month that still
    remained until that time.
    "Would you mind helping me out until then?" he said appealingly.
    "I think I'll be all right after that time."
    "No," said Carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate.
    "We can get along if we economise.  I'll pay you back all right."
    "Oh, I'll help you," said Carrie, feeling quite hardhearted at
    thus forcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the
    benefit of her earnings wrung a faint protest from her.
    "Why don't you take anything, George, temporarily?" she said.
    "What difference does it make? Maybe, after a while, you'll get
    something better."
    "I will take anything," he said, relieved, and wincing under
    reproof.  "I'd just as leave dig on the streets.  Nobody knows me
    "Oh, you needn't do that," said Carrie, hurt by the pity of it.
    "But there must be other things."
    "I'll get something!" he said, assuming determination.
    Then he went back to his paper.
    Chapter XXXIX
    What Hurstwood got as the result of this determination was more
    self-assurance that each particular day was not the day.  At the
    same time, Carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress.
    Her need of clothes--to say nothing of her desire for ornaments--
    grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was
    not to have them.  The sympathy she felt for Hurstwood, at the
    time he asked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer
    urgings of decency.  He was not always renewing his request, but
    this love of good appearance was.  It insisted, and Carrie wished
    to satisfy it, wished more and more that Hurstwood was not in the
    Hurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he
    had better keep a little pocket change and not become wholly
    dependent for car-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum
    was still in his hand he announced himself as penniless.
    "I'm clear out," he said to Carrie one afternoon.  "I paid for
    some coal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen
    "I've got some money there in my purse."
    Hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes.  Carrie
    scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order.
    He took out fifteen cents and bought the can with it.  Thereafter
    it was dribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning Carrie
    suddenly remembered that she would not be back until close to
    dinner time.
    "We're all out of flour," she said; "you'd better get some this
    afternoon.  We haven't any meat, either.  How would it do if we
    had liver and bacon?"
    "Suits me," said Hurstwood.
    "Better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that."
    "Half 'll be enough," volunteered Hurstwood.
    She opened her purse and laid down a half dollar.  He pretended
    not to notice it.
    Hurstwood bought the flour--which all grocers sold in 3 1/2-pound
    packages--for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-
    pound of liver and bacon.  He left the packages, together with
    the balance of twenty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where
    Carrie found it.  It did not escape her that the change was
    accurate.  There was something sad in realising that, after all,
    all that he wanted of her was something to eat.  She felt as if
    hard thoughts were unjust.  Maybe he would get something yet.  He
    had no vices.
    That very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the
    chorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled
    tweed suit, which took Carrie's eye.  The young woman wore a fine
    bunch of violets and seemed in high spirits.  She smiled at
    Carrie good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth,
    and Carrie smiled back.
    "She can afford to dress well," thought Carrie, "and so could I,
    if I could only keep my money.  I haven't a decent tie of any
    kind to wear."
    She put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively.
    "I'll get a pair of shoes Saturday, anyhow; I don't care what
    One of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in
    the company made friends with her because in Carrie she found
    nothing to frighten her away.  She was a gay little Manon,
    unwitting of society's fierce conception of morality, but,
    nevertheless, good to her neighbour and charitable.  Little
    license was allowed the chorus in the matter of conversation,
    but, nevertheless, some was indulged in.
    "It's warm to-night, isn't it?" said this girl, arrayed in pink
    fleshings and an imitation golden helmet.  She also carried a
    shining shield.
    "Yes; it is," said Carrie, pleased that some one should talk to
    "I'm almost roasting," said the girl.
    Carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and
    saw little beads of moisture.
    "There's more marching in this opera than ever I did before,"
    added the girl.
    "Have you been in others?" asked Carrie, surprised at her
    "Lots of them," said the girl; "haven't you?"
    "This is my first experience."
    "Oh, is it? I thought I saw you the time they ran 'The Queen's
    Mate' here."
    "No," said Carrie, shaking her head; "not me."
    This conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestra
    and the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line
    was called to form for a new entrance.  No further opportunity
    for conversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were
    getting ready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side.
    "They say this show is going on the road next month."
    "Is it?" said Carrie.
    "Yes; do you think you'll go?"
    "I don't know; I guess so, if they'll take me."
    "Oh, they'll take you.  I wouldn't go.  They won't give you any
    more, and it will cost you everything you make to live.  I never
    leave New York.  There are too many shows going on here."
    "Can you always get in another show?"
    "I always have.  There's one going on up at the Broadway this
    month.  I'm going to try and get in that if this one really
    Carrie heard this with aroused intelligence.  Evidently it wasn't
    so very difficult to get on.  Maybe she also could get a place if
    this show went away.
    "Do they all pay about the same?" she asked.
    "Yes.  Sometimes you get a little more.  This show doesn't pay
    very much."
    "I get twelve," said Carrie.
    "Do you?" said the girl.  "They pay me fifteen, and you do more
    work than I do.  I wouldn't stand it if I were you.  They're just
    giving you less because they think you don't know.  You ought to
    be making fifteen."
    "Well, I'm not," said Carrie.
    "Well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it," went on
    the girl, who admired Carrie very much.  "You do fine, and the
    manager knows it."
    To say the truth, Carrie did unconsciously move about with an air
    pleasing and somewhat distinctive.  It was due wholly to her
    natural manner and total lack of self-consciousness.
    "Do you suppose I could get more up at the Broadway?"
    "Of course you can," answered the girl.  "You come with me when I
    go.  I'll do the talking."
    Carrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness.  She liked this
    little gaslight soldier.  She seemed so experienced and self-
    reliant in her tinsel helmet and military accoutrements.
    "My future must be assured if I can always get work this way,"
    thought Carrie.
    Still, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe
    upon her and Hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate,
    her fate seemed dismal and unrelieved.  It did not take so very
    much to feed them under Hurstwood's close-measured buying, and
    there would possibly be enough for rent, but it left nothing
    else.  Carrie bought the shoes and some other things, which
    complicated the rent problem very seriously.  Suddenly, a week
    from the fatal day, Carrie realised that they were going to run
    "I don't believe," she exclaimed, looking into her purse at
    breakfast, "that I'll have enough to pay the rent."
    "How much have you?" inquired Hurstwood.
    "Well, I've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to be
    paid for this week yet, and if I use all I get Saturday to pay
    this, there won't be any left for next week.  Do you think your
    hotel man will open his hotel this month?"
    "I think so," returned Hurstwood.  "He said he would."
    After a while, Hurstwood said:
    "Don't worry about it.  Maybe the grocer will wait.  He can do
    that.  We've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a
    week or two."
    "Do you think he will?" she asked.
    "I think so."
    On this account, Hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer Oeslogge
    clearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said:
    "Do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?"
    "No, no, Mr. Wheeler," said Mr. Oeslogge.  "Dat iss all right."
    Hurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this.  It
    seemed an easy thing.  He looked out of the door, and then
    gathered up his coffee when ready and came away.  The game of a
    desperate man had begun.
    Rent was paid, and now came the grocer.  Hurstwood managed by
    paying out of his own ten and collecting from Carrie at the end
    of the week.  Then he delayed a day next time settling with the
    grocer, and so soon had his ten back, with Oeslogge getting his
    pay on this Thursday or Friday for last Saturday's bill.
    This entanglement made Carrie anxious for a change of some sort.
    Hurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to
    anything.  He schemed to make what she earned cover all expenses,
    but seemed not to trouble over adding anything himself.
    "He talks about worrying," thought Carrie.  "If he worried enough
    he couldn't sit there and wait for me.  He'd get something to do.
    No man could go seven months without finding something if he
    The sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy
    appearance drove Carrie to seek relief in other places.  Twice a
    week there were matinees, and then Hurstwood ate a cold snack,
    which he prepared himself.  Two other days there were rehearsals
    beginning at ten in the morning and lasting usually until one.
    Now, to this Carrie added a few visits to one or two chorus
    girls, including the blue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet.  She
    did it because it was pleasant and a relief from dulness of the
    home over which her husband brooded.
    The blue-eyed soldier's name was Osborne--Lola Osborne.  Her room
    was in Nineteenth Street near Fourth Avenue, a block now given up
    wholly to office buildings.  Here she had a comfortable back
    room, looking over a collection of back yards in which grew a
    number of shade trees pleasant to see.
    "Isn't your home in New York?" she asked of Lola one day.
    "Yes; but I can't get along with my people.  They always want me
    to do what they want.  Do you live here?"
    "Yes," said Carrie.
    "With your family?"
    Carrie was ashamed to say that she was married.  She had talked
    so much about getting more salary and confessed to so much
    anxiety about her future, that now, when the direct question of
    fact was waiting, she could not tell this girl.
    "With some relatives," she answered.
    Miss Osborne took it for granted that, like herself, Carrie's
    time was her own.  She invariably asked her to stay, proposing
    little outings and other things of that sort until Carrie began
    neglecting her dinner hours.  Hurstwood noticed it, but felt in
    no position to quarrel with her.  Several times she came so late
    as scarcely to have an hour in which to patch up a meal and start
    for the theatre.
    "Do you rehearse in the afternoons?" Hurstwood once asked,
    concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret which
    prompted it.
    "No; I was looking around for another place," said Carrie.
    As a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished
    the least straw of an excuse.  Miss Osborne and she had gone to
    the office of the manager who was to produce the new opera at the
    Broadway and returned straight to the former's room, where they
    had been since three o'clock.
    Carrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty.
    She did not take into account how much liberty she was securing.
    Only the latest 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 any effectual protest.  In his almost inexplicable
    apathy he was content to droop supinely while Carrie drifted out
    of his life, just as he was willing supinely to see opportunity
    pass beyond his control.  He could not help clinging and
    protesting in a mild, irritating, and ineffectual way, however--a
    way that simply widened the breach by slow degrees.
    A further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the
    manager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted
    stage where the chorus was going through some of its glittering
    evolutions, said to the master of the ballet:
    "Who is that fourth girl there on the right--the one coming round
    at the end now?"
    "Oh," said the ballet-master, "that's Miss Madenda."
    "She's good looking.  Why don't you let her head that line?"
    "I will," said the man.
    "Just do that.  She'll look better there than the woman you've
    "All right.  I will do that," said the master.
    The next evening Carrie was called out, much as if for an error.
    "You lead your company to night," said the master.
    "Yes, sir," said Carrie.
    "Put snap into it," he added.  "We must have snap."
    "Yes, sir," replied Carrie.
    Astonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leader
    must be ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct
    expression of something unfavourable in her eye, she began to
    think that perhaps it was merit.
    She had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holding
    her arms as if for action--not listlessly.  In front of the line
    this showed up even more effectually.
    "That girl knows how to carry herself," said the manager, another
    evening.  He began to think that he should like to talk with her.
    If he hadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the
    members of the chorus, he would have approached her most
    "Put that girl at the head of the white column," he suggested to
    the man in charge of the ballet.
    This white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in snow-
    white flannel trimmed with silver and blue.  Its leader was most
    stunningly arrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, with
    epaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one
    side.  Carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later
    appeared, proud of her new laurels.  She was especially gratified
    to find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve.
    Hurstwood heard nothing about this.
    "I'll not give him the rest of my money," said Carrie.  "I do
    enough.  I am going to get me something to wear."
    As a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying
    for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the
    consequences.  There were impending more complications rent day,
    and more extension of the credit system in the neighbourhood.
    Now, however, she proposed to do better by herself.
    Her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these
    she found how little her money would buy--how much, if she could
    only use all.  She forgot that if she were alone she would have
    to pay for a room and board, and imagined that every cent of her
    eighteen could be spent for clothes and things that she liked.
    At last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her
    surplus above twelve, but invaded that sum.  She knew she was
    going too far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed.  The
    next day Hurstwood said:
    "We owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week."
    "Do we?" said Carrie, frowning a little.
    She looked in her purse to leave it.
    "I've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether."
    "We owe the milkman sixty cents," added Hurstwood.
    "Yes, and there's the coal man," said Carrie.
    Hurstwood said nothing.  He had seen the new things she was
    buying; the way she was neglecting household duties; the
    readiness with which she was slipping out afternoons and staying.
    He felt that something was going to happen.  All at once she
    "I don't know," she said; "I can't do it all.  I don't earn
    This was a direct challenge.  Hurstwood had to take it up.  He
    tried to be calm.
    "I don't want you to do it all," he said.  "I only want a little
    help until I can get something to do."
    "Oh, yes," answered Carrie.  "That's always the way.  It takes
    more than I can earn to pay for things.  I don't see what I'm
    going to do.
    "Well, I've tried to get something," he exclaimed.  What do you
    want me to do?"
    "You couldn't have tried so very hard," said Carrie.  "I got
    "Well, I did," he said, angered almost to harsh words.  "You
    needn't throw up your success to me.  All I asked was a little
    help until I could get something.  I'm not down yet.  I'll come
    up all right."
    He tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little.
    Carrie's anger melted on the instant.  She felt ashamed.
    "Well," she said, "here's the money," and emptied it out on the
    table.  "I haven't got quite enough to pay it all.  If they can
    wait until Saturday, though, I'll have some more."
    "You keep it," said Hurstwood sadly.  "I only want enough to pay
    the grocer."
    She put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good
    time.  Her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make
    In a little while their old thoughts returned to both.
    "She's making more than she says," thought Hurstwood.  "She says
    she's making twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things.  I
    don't care.  Let her keep her money.  I'll get something again
    one of these days.  Then she can go to the deuce."
    He only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible
    course of action and attitude well enough.
    "I don't care," thought Carrie.  "He ought to be told to get out
    and do something.  It isn't right that I should support him."
    In these days Carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of
    Miss Osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay
    and festive.  They called once to get Miss Osborne for an
    afternoon drive.  Carrie was with her at the time.
    "Come and go along," said Lola.
    "No, I can't," said Carrie.
    "Oh, yes, come and go.  What have you got to do?"
    "I have to be home by five," said Carrie.
    "What for?"
    "Oh, dinner."
    "They'll take us to dinner," said Lola.
    "Oh, no," said Carrie.  "I won't go.  I can't."
    "Oh, do come.  They're awful nice boys.  We'll get you back in
    time.  We're only going for a drive in Central Park."
    Carrie thought a while, and at last yielded.
    "Now, I must be back by half-past four," she said.
    The information went in one ear of Lola and out the other.
    After Drouet and Hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism
    in her attitude toward young men--especially of the gay and
    frivolous sort.  She felt a little older than they.  Some of
    their pretty compliments seemed silly.  Still, she was young in
    heart and body and youth appealed to her.
    "Oh, we'll be right back, Miss Madenda," said one of the chaps,
    bowing.  "You wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would
    "Well, I don't know," said Carrie, smiling.