_ 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
honestly.
"This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and
satisfactory legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to
enter and inquire for work. It gave her an excuse, and after
encountering quite a number of them, and noting that the clock
registered 12.15, she decided that it would be no use to seek
further to-day, so she got on a car and went to Lincoln Park.
There was always something to see there--the flowers, the
animals, the lake--and she flattered herself that on Monday she
would be up betimes and searching. Besides, many things might
happen between now and Monday.
Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven
knows what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the
day the thought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of
a swishing whip, that action--immediate action--was imperative.
At other times she would look about her and assure herself that
things were not so bad--that certainly she would come out safe
and sound. At such times she would think of Drouet's advice
about going on the stage, and saw some chance for herself in that
quarter. She decided to take up that opportunity on the morrow.
Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
carefully. She did not know just how such applications were
made, but she took it to be a matter which related more directly
to the theatre buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of
some one about the theatre for the manager and ask for a
position. If there was anything, you might get it, or, at least,
he could tell you how.
She had had no experience with this class of individuals
whatsoever, and did not know the salacity and humour of the
theatrical tribe. She only knew of the position which Mr. Hale
occupied, but, of all things, she did not wish to encounter that
personage, on account of her intimacy with his wife.
There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera
House, which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager,
David A. Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen
one or two elaborate performances there and had heard of several
others. She knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of
applying, but she instinctively felt that this would be a likely
place, and accordingly strolled about in that neighbourhood. She
came bravely enough to the showy entrance way, with the polished
and begilded lobby, set with framed pictures out of the current
attraction, leading up to the quiet box-office, but she could get
no further. A noted comic opera comedian was holding forth that
week, and the air of distinction and prosperity overawed her.
She could not imagine that there would be anything in such a
lofty sphere for her. She almost trembled at the audacity which
might have carried her on to a terrible rebuff. She could find
heart only to look at the pictures which were showy and then walk
out. It seemed to her as if she had made a splendid escape and
that it would be foolhardy to think of applying in that quarter
again.
This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She
looked around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got
the location of several playhouses fixed in her mind--notably the
Grand Opera House and McVickar's, both of which were leading in
attractions--and then came away. Her spirits were materially
reduced, owing to the newly restored sense of magnitude of the
great interests and the insignificance of her claims upon
society, such as she understood them to be.
That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and
protracted stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament
or the fortune of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat
down to think, and gave herself up to the most gloomy
forebodings. Drouet had not put in an appearance. She had had
no word from any quarter, she had spent a dollar of her precious
sum in procuring food and paying car fare. It was evident that
she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered no
resource.
In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van
Buren Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her
flight, and to her home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part
of something that could not be again. She looked for no refuge
in that direction. Nothing but sorrow was brought her by
thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return. That he could have
chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a cruel thing.
Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation.
She was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to
hasten forth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked
herself for what she considered her weakness the day before.
Accordingly she started out to revisit the Chicago Opera House,
but possessed scarcely enough courage to approach.
She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.
"Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed
individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably
impressed by Carrie's looks.
"I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question.
"You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow,"
volunteered the young man. "He's out of town."
He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish
to see about?"
"I want to see about getting a position," she answered.
"You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but
he isn't here now."
"When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
information.
"Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's
here after two o'clock."
Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man
gazed after her through one of the side windows of his gilded
coop.
"Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to
himself.
One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
engagement at the Grand Opera House. Here Carrie asked to see
the manager of the company. She little knew the trivial
authority of this individual, or that had there been a vacancy an
actor would have been sent on from New York to fill it.
"His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office.
Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a
window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top
desk--the manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to
fear that she should have to make her appeal before the assembled
company, two of whom--the occupants of the window--were already
observing her carefully.
"I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr.
Frohman's never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!"
Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one
motioned her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager
had been talking went away quite 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,
Harris?"
"No," said the person addressed. "What was it?"
"Made quite a curtain address at Hooley's last night. Better
look it up."
Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the
"Herald."
"What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her
for the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for
free tickets.
Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best.
She realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were
certain. Of this she was so sure that she only wished now to
pretend she had called for advice.
"Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?"
It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She
was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and
the simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He
smiled, as did the others in the room, who, however, made some
slight effort to conceal their humour.
"I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have
you ever had any experience upon the stage?"
"A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateur
performances."
She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to
retain his interest.
"Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air
intended as much to impress his friends with his discretion as
Carrie.
"No, sir."
"Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his
chair while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on
the stage?"
She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in
answer to his engaging smirk, and say:
"I need to make a living."
"Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and
feeling as if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her.
"That's a good reason, isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good
place for what you want to do. You ought to be in New York.
There's more chance there. You could hardly expect to get
started out here." Carrie smiled genially, grateful that he
should condescend to advise her even so much. He noticed the
smile, and put a slightly different construction on it. He
thought he saw an easy chance for a little flirtation.
"Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his
desk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room
should not hear. Those two gave each other the suggestion of a
wink.
"Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so
addressing the manager. "See you this afternoon."
"All right," said the manager.
The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.
"Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?"
asked the manager softly.
"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with."
"I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?"
"Yes, sir."
The manager smiled most blandly.
"Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked,
assuming a more confidential air.
Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and
unnatural in his manner.
"No," she said.
"That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the
stage. It's a good way to get experience."
He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and
persuasive manner.
"I didn't know that," said Carrie.
"It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a
chance, you know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled
out his watch and consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he
said, "and I've got to go to lunch now. Would you care to come
and dine with me? We can talk it over there."
"Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on
her at once. "I have an engagement myself."
"That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little
beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away.
"Come in later. I may know of something."
"Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation and went out.
"She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion,
who had not caught all the details of the game he had played.
"Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been
lost. "She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus
girl--that's all."
This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon
the manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so
after a time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at
once that there was no opening of any sort, and seemed to
consider her search foolish.
"Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be
in New York."
Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not
find any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the
person to whom she was referred was not to be found.
These little expeditions took up her time until quite four
o'clock, when she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if
she ought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so
far were too dispiriting. She took the car and arrived at Ogden
Place in three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the
West Side branch of the Post-office, where she was accustomed to
receive Hurstwood's letters. There was one there now, written
Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled feelings.
There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her
having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she
rather pitied the man. That he loved her was evident enough.
That he had wished and dared to do so, married as he was, was the
evil. She felt as if the thing deserved an answer, and
consequently decided that she would write and let him know that
she knew of his married state and was justly incensed at his
deception. She would tell him that it was all over between them.
At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some
time, for she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.
"You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she
wrote in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect
me to have anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any
circumstances. Oh, how could you act so?" she added in a burst
of feeling. "You have caused me more misery than you can think.
I hope you will get over your infatuation for me. We must not
meet any more. Good-bye."
She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped
it reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether
she should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down
town.
This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to
young women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive
appearance. She was asked the same old questions with which she
was already familiar.
"What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before?
Are you experienced?"
At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was
much the same. It was the dull season, she might come in a
little later, possibly they would like to have her.
When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His
umbrella and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed
other things, but could not be sure. Everything had not been
taken.
So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do
now? Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way
within a day or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her
two hands together in her customary expressive way and pressed
her fingers. Large tears gathered in her eyes and broke hot
across her cheeks. She was alone, very much alone.
Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind
from that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to
justify his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining
portion of his wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up
a peace.
Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie
out. He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the
neighbourhood and would soon return. He constantly listened,
expecting to hear her foot on the stair.
When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had
just come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would
explain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood.
Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering
around among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival
he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to resting
himself in the rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow
restless and lit a cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then
he looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering. He
remembered an appointment at three. He began to think that it
would be useless to wait, and got hold of his umbrella and light
coat, intending to take these things, any way. It would scare
her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others. He
would find out how things stood.
As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her.
There was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her
arrayed in the little jacket he had first bought her--her face a
little more wistful than he had seen it lately. He was really
touched by it, and looked into the eyes of it with a rather rare
feeling for him.
"You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing
her in the flesh.
Then he went to the door, took a good look around and went out. _