_ Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of
judgment will none the less realise the negative influence on him
of the fact that he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong
idea of it. He said so little that she imagined he had
encountered nothing worse than the ordinary roughness--quitting
so soon in the face of this seemed trifling. He did not want to
work.
She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the
second act of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before
the new potentate as the treasures of his harem. There was no
word assigned to any of them, but on the evening when Hurstwood
was housing himself in the loft of the street-car barn, the
leading comedian and star, feeling exceedingly facetious, said in
a profound voice, which created a ripple of laughter:
"Well, who are you?"
It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him.
It might as well have been any of the others, so far as he was
concerned. He expected no answer and a dull one would have been
reproved. But Carrie, whose experience and belief in herself
gave her daring, courtesied sweetly again and answered:
"I am yours truly."
It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she
did it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-
fierce potentate towering before the young woman. The comedian
also liked it, hearing the laughter.
"I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to get
the last laugh.
Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this.
All members of the company had been warned that to interpolate
lines or "business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what
to think.
As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting
another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and
paused in recognition.
"You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing how
intelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though."
"Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found
herself trembling violently.
"Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus.
"There isn't another one of us has got a line."
There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the
company realised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself
when next evening the lines got the same applause. She went home
rejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. It was
Hurstwood who, by his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee
and replaced them with sharp longings for an end of distress.
The next day she asked him about his venture.
"They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They
don't want anybody just now--not before next week."
Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed more
apathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and
the like with the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times
he found himself staring at an item, but thinking of something
else. The first of these lapses that he sharply noticed
concerned a hilarious party he had once attended at a driving
club, of which he had been a member. He sat, gazing downward,
and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the clink of
glasses.
"You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was
standing again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient
of encores for a good story.
All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed
ghostlike. He heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected
that he had been dozing. The paper was so straight in his hands,
however, and the items he had been reading so directly before
him, that he rid himself of the doze idea. Still, it seemed
peculiar. When it occurred a second time, however, it did not
seem quite so strange.
Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group with
whom he was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the
limit--called. He met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse.
At last he became bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off.
"They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "if I had it
I'd pay them."
Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her
succeeding, had become a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could
never of herself amount to anything. She seemed to realise it in
a sort of pussy-like way and instinctively concluded to cling
with her soft little claws to Carrie.
"Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration.
"You're so good."
Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance
of others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she
dared. Experience of the world and of necessity was in her
favour. No longer the lightest word of a man made her head
dizzy. She had learned that men could change and fail. Flattery
in its most palpable form had lost its force with her. It
required superiority--kindly superiority--to move her--the
superiority of a genius like Ames.
"I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day.
"They're all so struck on themselves."
"Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, who
had received a condescending smile or two from that quarter.
"Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere.
He assumes such an air."
Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:
"Are you paying room-rent where you are?"
"Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?"
"I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap.
It's too big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the
rent is only six dollars a week for both."
"Where?" said Carrie.
"In Seventeenth Street."
"Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who was
already turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was
thinking if she had only herself to support this would leave her
seventeen for herself.
Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of
Hurstwood's and her success with the speaking part. Then she
began to feel as if she must be free. She thought of leaving
Hurstwood and thus making him act for himself, but he had
developed such peculiar traits she feared he might resist any
effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at the show and
hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that he would,
but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if
he made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly.
Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of
the actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice
of leaving and Carrie was selected.
"How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing
the good news.
"I didn't ask him," said Carrie.
"Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you
don't ask. Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow."
"Oh, no," said Carrie.
"Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway."
Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the
manager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the
part.
"How much do I get?" she inquired.
"Thirty-five dollars," he replied.
Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of
mentioning forty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost
hugged Lola, who clung to her at the news.
"It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter,
"especially when you've got to buy clothes."
Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She
had none laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing
near.
"I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't
use the flat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll
move."
Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more
urgent than ever.
"Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the
loveliest room. It won't cost you hardly anything that way."
"I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly.
"Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."
Carrie thought a while.
"I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see
first, though."
With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes
calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in
Hurstwood's lassitude. He said less and drooped more than ever.
As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by
the demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many
more. Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on
her," he thought. "We could get a cheaper place."
Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.
"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked.
"Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift.
"I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We
don't need four rooms."
Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have
exhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of his
determination to stay by her. He saw nothing remarkable in
asking her to come down lower.
"Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary.
"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of
rooms, which would do just as well."
Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the
money to move? To think of being in two rooms with him! She
resolved to spend her money for clothes quickly, before something
terrible happened. That very day she did it. Having done so,
there was but one other thing to do.
"Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come."
"Oh, jolly!" cried the latter.
"Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room.
"Certainly," cried Lola.
They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from her
expenditures--enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged
salary would not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her for
seventeen. She paid half of the six dollars with her friend.
"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she
confided.
"Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars,
if you need it."
"No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."
They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that
the thing was settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very
much like a criminal in the matter. Each day looking at
Hurstwood, she had realised that, along with the disagreeableness
of his attitude, there was something pathetic.
She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to
go, and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run
down and beaten upon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face
marked, his hands flabby. She thought his hair had a touch of
grey. All unconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper,
while she glanced at him.
Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.
"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked
Hurstwood, laying down a two-dollar bill.
"Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money.
"See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook
it for dinner."
Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and
getting his hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of
apparel were old and poor looking in appearance. It was plain
enough before, but now it came home with peculiar force. Perhaps
he couldn't help it, after all. He had done well in Chicago.
She remembered his fine appearance the days he had met her in the
park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had it been all his
fault?
He came back and laid the change down with the food.
"You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things."
"No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it."
"Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll
be other things."
He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had
become in her eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from
showing a quaver in her voice.
To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case.
She had looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had
regretted that she had served him so badly. She hoped she would
never meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not
that she had any choice in the final separation. She had gone
willingly to seek him, with sympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood
had reported him ill. There was something cruel somewhere, and
not being able to track it mentally to its logical lair, she
concluded with feeling that he would never understand what
Hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision in her
deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did not
want to make any one who had been good to her feel badly.
She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings
to possess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived
better of her. "Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.
Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little
lady packing and singing.
"Why don't you come over with me today?" she asked.
"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you
mind lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?"
"Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse.
"I want to get some other things," said Carrie.
"Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly,
glad to be of service.
It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to the
grocery or to the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was
upon him--had been for two days--but chill, grey weather had held
him back. Friday broke fair and warm. It was one of those
lovely harbingers of spring, given as a sign in dreary winter
that earth is not forsaken of warmth and beauty. The blue
heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured down a crystal wash of
warm light. It was plain, from the voice of the sparrows, that
all was halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front windows, and
felt the south wind blowing.
"It's lovely out to-day," she remarked.
"Is it?" said Hurstwood.
After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.
"Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie nervously.
"No," he said.
He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh
Avenue, idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point.
He had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the
brewers. He wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.
Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central
Park, which he followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he
remembered the neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass
of buildings erected. It was very much improved. The great open
spaces were filling up. Coming back, he kept to the Park until
110th Street, and then turned into Seventh Avenue again, reaching
the pretty river by one o'clock.
There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the
clear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the
tall, tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like
atmosphere woke him to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few
moments he stood looking at it, folding his hands behind his
back. Then he turned and followed it toward the east side, idly
seeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clock before the
waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused him
to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm
room.
When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark.
He knew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no
light showing through the transom, but because the evening papers
were stuck between the outside knob and the door. He opened with
his key and went in. Everything was still dark. Lighting the
gas, he sat down, preparing to wait a little while. Even if
Carrie did come now, dinner would be late. He read until six,
then got up to fix something for himself.
As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer.
What was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and
then saw an envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke
for itself, almost without further action on his part.
Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even
while he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was
loud. Green paper money lay soft within the note.
"Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand, "I'm
going away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to
keep up the flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if
I could, but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need
what little I make to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty
dollars. It's all I have just now. You can do whatever you like
with the furniture. I won't want it.--CARRIE.
He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what
he missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers.
It had gone from the mantelpiece. He went into the front room,
his bedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the
chiffonier had gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From
the table-top, the lace coverings. He opened the wardrobe--no
clothes of hers. He opened the drawers--nothing of hers. Her
trunk was gone from its accustomed place. Back in his own room
hung his old clothes, just as he had left them. Nothing else was
gone.
He stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking
vacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little
flat seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was
hungry, that it was only dinner-time. It seemed later in the
night.
Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There
were twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back,
leaving the lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.
"I'll get out of this," he said to himself.
Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in
full.
"Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!"
The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so
many days of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and
chillier confronted him. He sank down in his chair, resting his
chin in his hand--mere sensation, without thought, holding him.
Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over
him.
"She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something."
He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out
loud:
"I tried, didn't I?"
At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor. _