_ 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
bills.
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."
"Where?"
"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
money.
Drouet was on the corner when she came up.
"Hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"--looking down--"the
shoes?"
Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent
way, but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the
board.
"I came to tell you that--that I can't take the money."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "Well, you come on with me.
Let's go over here to Partridge's."
Carrie walked with him. Behold, the whole fabric of doubt 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
them."
"What do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?"
"I think I'll go home," she said, wearily.
"Oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long.
I'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
friend.
"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
something."
He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental
resources. She was a sweet little mortal to him--there was no
doubt of that. She seemed to have some power back of her
actions. She was not 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
cheeks.
"That's the thing," said Drouet. "Now pay for it."
"It's nine dollars," said Carrie.
"That's all right--take it," said Drouet.
She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The 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
stockings.
"To-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a
skirt."
In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. 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
along."
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
answered.
"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
strong.
"Didn't find anything, eh?" said Hanson.
"No."
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
said:
"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
more."
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." _