_ In the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties,
the nature of Carrie's mental state deserves consideration.
Actions such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society
possesses a conventional standard whereby it judges all things.
All men should be good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain,
hast thou failed?
For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern
naturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of
morals. There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a
law of evolution. It is yet deeper than conformity to things of
earth alone. It is more involved than we, as yet, perceive.
Answer, first, why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some
plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying; make
clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light
and rain. In the essence of these facts lie the first principles
of morals.
"Oh," thought Drouet, "how delicious is my conquest."
"Ah," thought Carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it I
have lost?"
Before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested,
confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the
true answer to what is right.
In the view of a certain stratum of society, Carrie was
comfortably established--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by
every wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon
harbour. Drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in Ogden
Place, facing Union Park, on the West Side. That was a little,
green-carpeted breathing spot, than which, to-day, there is
nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It afforded a vista pleasant
to contemplate. The best room looked out upon the lawn of the
park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered.
Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry
wind, rose the steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church,
and far off the towers of several others.
The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good
Brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades,
and representing large jardinieres filled with gorgeous,
impossible flowers. There was a large pier-glass mirror between
the two windows. A large, soft, green, plush-covered couch
occupied one corner, and several rocking-chairs were set about.
Some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-a-brac,
and the tale of contents is told.
In the bedroom, off the front room, was Carrie's trunk, bought by
Drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of
clothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very
becoming designs. There was a third room for possible use as a
kitchen, where Drouet had Carrie establish a little portable gas
stove for the preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh
rarebits, and the like, of which he was exceedingly fond; and,
lastly, a bath. The whole place was cosey, in that it was
lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers, possessing also a
small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of cheerful
warming which was then first coming into use. By her industry
and natural love of order, which now developed, the place
maintained an air pleasing in the extreme.
Here, then, was Carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free
of certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her,
laden with many new ones which were of a mental order, and
altogether so turned about in all of her earthly relationships
that she might well have been a new and different individual.
She looked into her glass and saw a prettier Carrie than she had
seen before; she looked into her mind, a mirror prepared of her
own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse. Between these two
images she wavered, hesitating which to believe.
"My, but you're a little beauty," Drouet was wont to exclaim to
her.
She would look at him with large, pleased eyes.
"You know it, don't you?" he would continue.
"Oh, I don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact
that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she
really did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself.
Her conscience, however, was not a Drouet, interested to praise.
There she heard a different voice, with which she argued,
pleaded, excused. It was no just and sapient counsellor, in its
last analysis. It was only an average little conscience, a thing
which represented the world, her past environment, habit,
convention, in a confused way. With it, the voice of the people
was truly the voice of God.
"Oh, thou failure!" said the voice.
"Why?" she questioned.
"Look at those about," came the whispered answer. "Look at those
who are good. How would they scorn to do what you have done.
Look at the good girls; how will they draw away from such as you
when they know you have been weak. You had not tried before you
failed."
It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that
she would be listening to this. It would come infrequently--when
something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not
too apparent, when Drouet was not there. It was somewhat clear
in utterance at first, but never wholly convincing. There was
always an answer, always the December days threatened. She was
alone; she was desireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind.
The voice of want made answer for her.
Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that
sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours
during the long winter. Its endless buildings look grey, its sky
and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless
trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general
solemnity of colour. There seems to be something in the chill
breezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares
productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, nor
that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all
refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much
as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression.
The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse
tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter.
It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate. If
it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of
profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if the
various merchants failed to make the customary display within and
without their establishments; if our streets were not strung with
signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we
would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays
upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun
withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are
more dependent upon these things than is often thought. We are
insects produced by heat, and pass without it.
In the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert
itself, feebly and more feebly.
Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by
any means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm
hold upon a definite truth. When she could not find her way out
of the labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject
created, she would turn away entirely.
Drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for
one of his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money
upon her, and when he travelled took her with him. There were
times when she would be alone for two or three days, while he
made the shorter circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she
saw a great deal of him.
"Say, Carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so
established themselves, "I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come
out some day and spend the evening with us."
"Who is he?" asked Carrie. doubtfully.
"Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moy's."
"What's that?" said Carrie.
"The finest resort in town. It's a way-up, swell place."
Carrie puzzled a moment. She was wondering what Drouet had told
him, what her attitude would be.
"That's all right," said Drouet, feeling her thought. "He doesn't
know anything. You're Mrs. Drouet now."
There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly
inconsiderate. She could see that Drouet did not have the
keenest sensibilities.
"Why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble
promises he had made.
"Well, we will," he said, "just as soon as I get this little deal
of mine closed up."
He was referring to some property which he said he had, and which
required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that
somehow or other it interfered with his free moral, personal
actions.
"Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January we'll
do it."
Carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to
her conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances,
things would be righted. Her actions would be justified.
She really was not enamoured of Drouet. She was more clever than
he. In a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. If
it had not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and
judge him in a way, she would have been worse off than she was.
She would have adored him. She would have been utterly wretched
in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his interest,
of being swept away and left without an anchorage. As it was,
she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him
completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting. She was not
exactly sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do.
When Hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than
Drouet in a hundred ways. He paid that peculiar deference to
women which every member of the sex appreciates. He was not
overawed, he was not overbold. His great charm was
attentiveness. Schooled in winning those birds of fine feather
among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who visited
his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring to
prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. In a pretty woman
of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest
incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression
that he wished to be of service only--to do something which would
make the lady more pleased.
Drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth
the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish
which Hurstwood possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy
life, too assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite
schooled in the art of love. He failed dismally where the woman
was slightly experienced and possessed innate refinement. In the
case of Carrie he found a woman who was all of the latter, but
none of the former. He was lucky in the fact that opportunity
tumbled into his lap, as it were. A few years later, with a
little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had
not been able to approach Carrie at all.
"You ought to have a piano here, Drouet," said Hurstwood, smiling
at Carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could
play."
Drouet had not thought of that.
"So we ought," he observed readily.
"Oh, I don't play," ventured Carrie.
"It isn't very difficult," returned Hurstwood. "You could do
very well in a few weeks."
He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His
clothes were particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat
lapels stood out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth
possesses. The vest was of a rich Scotch plaid, set with a
double row of round mother-of-pearl buttons. His cravat was a
shiny combination of silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous.
What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly as that which
Drouet had on, but Carrie could see the elegance of the material.
Hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a
dull shine. Drouet wore patent leather but Carrie could not help
feeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft
leather, where all else was so rich. She noticed these things
almost unconsciously. They were things which would naturally
flow from the situation. She was used to Drouet's appearance.
"Suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested Hurstwood,
after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in
avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of
Carrie's past. He kept away from personalities altogether, and
confined himself to those things which did not concern
individuals at all. By his manner, he put Carrie at her ease,
and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her. He
pretended to be seriously interested in all she said.
"I don't know how to play," said Carrie.
"Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to
Drouet most affably. "Between us, though," he went on, "we can
show you."
By his tact he made Drouet feel that he admired his choice.
There was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased
to be there. Drouet felt really closer to him than ever before.
It gave him more respect for Carrie. Her appearance came into a
new light, under Hurstwood's appreciation. The situation livened
considerably.
"Now, let me see," said Hurstwood, looking over Carrie's shoulder
very deferentially. "What have you?" He studied for a moment.
"That's rather good," he said.
"You're lucky. Now, I'll show you how to trounce your husband.
You take my advice."
"Here," said Drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, I
won't stand a ghost of a show. Hurstwood's a regular sharp."
"No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she
win?"
Carrie looked gratefully at Hurstwood, and smiled at Drouet. The
former took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to
enjoy himself. Anything that Carrie did was pleasing to him,
nothing more.
"There," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and
giving Carrie a chance to take a trick. "I count that clever
playing for a beginner."
The latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way.
It was as if she were invincible when Hurstwood helped her.
He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild
light in his eye. Not a shade was there of anything save
geniality and kindness. He took back the shifty, clever gleam,
and replaced it with one of innocence. Carrie could not guess
but that it was pleasure with him in the immediate thing. She
felt that he considered she was doing a great deal.
"It's unfair to let such playing go without earning something,"
he said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin
pocket of his coat. "Let's play for dimes."
"All right," said Drouet, fishing for bills.
Hurstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten-cent
pieces. "Here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little
stack.
"Oh, this is gambling," smiled Carrie. "It's bad."
"No," said Drouet, "only fun. If you never play for more than
that, you will go to Heaven."
"Don't you moralise," said Hurstwood to Carrie gently, "until you
see what becomes of the money."
Drouet smiled.
"If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is."
Drouet laughed loud.
There was such an ingratiating tone about Hurstwood's voice, the
insinuation was so perceptible that even Carrie got the humour of
it.
"When do you leave?" said Hurstwood to Drouet.
"On Wednesday," he replied.
"It's rather hard to have your husband running about like that,
isn't it?" said Hurstwood, addressing Carrie.
"She's going along with me this time," said Drouet.
"You must both go with me to the theatre before you go."
"Certainly," said Drouet. "Eh, Carrie?"
"I'd like it ever so much," she replied.
Hurstwood did his best to see that Carrie won the money. He
rejoiced in her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally
gathered and put them in her extended hand. They spread a little
lunch, at which he served the wine, and afterwards he used fine
tact in going.
"Now," he said, addressing first Carrie and then Drouet with his
eyes, "you must be ready at 7.30. I'll come and get you."
They went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its
red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow.
"Now," he observed to Drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship,
"when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around
a little. It will break up her loneliness."
"Sure," said Drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown.
"You're so kind," observed Carrie.
"Not at all," said Hurstwood, "I would want your husband to do as
much for me."
He smiled and went lightly away. Carrie was thoroughly
impressed. She had never come in contact with such grace. As
for Drouet, he was equally pleased.
"There's a nice man," he remarked to Carrie, as they returned to
their cosey chamber. "A good friend of mine, too."
"He seems to be," said Carrie. _