Sister Carrie
by Theodore Dreiser
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

Chapter I

THE MAGNET ATTRACTING--A WAIF AMID FORCES

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
you?"

"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
relatives?"

"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
steadily.

"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
'round."

"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.
Drouet.

"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
write.

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
welcome.

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

WHAT POVERTY THREATENED--OF GRANITE AND BRASS

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
Park.

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

WEE QUESTION OF FORTUNE--FOUR-FIFTY A WEEK

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
waiting.

"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
stammered.

"Not just at present," he answered smiling. "Not just at
present. Come in some time next week. Occasionally we need some
one."

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
remarkable.

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
search.

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
curiously.

"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
situation.

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
turn.

"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
store?"

"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
inquired.

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
address.

"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
address.

"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

THE SPENDINGS OF FANCY--FACTS ANSWER WITH SNEERS

For the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flown
speculations.

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
little.

"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
right."

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
time.

"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
topic.

"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
appearance.

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
one.

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
centre.

"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
on.

"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.

"No."

"You ought to have seen the tie he had on. Gee, but he was a
mark."

"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
revolted.

Chapter V

A GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER--THE USE OF A NAME

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
did.

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
weeks.

"Why, hello, Charlie, old man," said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in
that evening about eight o'clock. "How goes it?"  The room was
crowded.

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
boy!"

"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
assertion.

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
Drouet.

"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
Hurstwood.

"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

THE MACHINE AND THE MAIDEN--A KNIGHT OF TO-DAY

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
satisfied.

"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
attention.

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
health."

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
accordingly.

"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
courage.

"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
Carrie.

"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
impressions.

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,
anyhow?"

"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."

"Yassah."

"Asparagus."

"Yassah."

"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
you."

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
completely.

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
looking?"

"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
money."

"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
it.

"Aw, come, Carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? Let me help
you."

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
impression.

"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 LURE OF THE MATERIAL--BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF

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."

Chapter VIII

INTIMATIONS BY WINTER--AN AMBASSADOR SUMMONED

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
that?"

"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
horse.

"Where do you suppose she's gone to?" said Minnie, thoroughly
aroused.

"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
breakfast."

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
musing.

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
her.

"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
sleep."

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
door.

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

CONVENTION'S OWN TINDER-BOX--THE EYE THAT IS GREEN

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
week."

"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
upstairs.

"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
satisfactory.

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
murmured.

"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
complacently.

"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
it.

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
destroyed.

Chapter X

THE COUNSEL OF WINTER--FORTUNE'S AMBASSADOR CALLS

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.

Chapter XI

THE PERSUASION OF FASHION--FEELING GUARDS O'ER ITS OWN

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
stones?

"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-
appearing?--never!

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
she?"

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
above.

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
repentant.

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
glance.

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
intention.

"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
conclusion.

"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
warranted.

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
home.

"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
children.

"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
beauty."

"Still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting to
jest.

"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
theatre.

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.
"Good-night."

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

OF THE LAMPS OF THE MANSIONS--THE AMBASSADOR PLEA

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
eye.

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
indifference.

"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
carefully.

"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
fox.

"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
Carrie.

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
place."

"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
strength.

"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

HIS CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED--A BABEL OF TONGUES

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
desires.

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
observe.

On this Friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous
visit, he made up his mind to see Carrie. He could not stay away
longer.

"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
favour.

"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
too.

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
shoulder.

Chapter XIV

WITH EYES AND NOT SEEING--ONE INFLUENCE WANES

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
happened.

"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
opposition.

"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
Crosse."

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
forget."

"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
notice.

"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
all.

"What did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased
curiosity.

"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
theatre."

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
score.

"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 IRK OF THE OLD TIES--THE MAGIC OF YOUTH

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
inflection.

"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
ticket."

"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
manner.

"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
penmanship.

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
express.

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
eyes.

"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
sparrows.

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
free.

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
habitation.

"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,
quietly.

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
street.

"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
heart.

"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
feeling.

"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
yields.

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.

"Yes."

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
happiness.

"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
rich."

Chapter XVI

A WITLESS ALADDIN--THE GATE TO THE WORLD

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
importance.

"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
entertainment."

"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
Hills'?"

"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.'"

"When?"

"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
theatricals?"

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
you."

"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
right."

"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
to-night."

"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.

"Yes."

"Well, I'll take it. I'm going right by her house in the
morning.

"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
Quincel.

"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
question.

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
delight.

"Well, you can bet that you're all right," said Drouet. "You can
take my word for that. You won't fail."

Chapter XVII

A GLIMPSE THROUGH THE GATEWAY--HOPE LIGHTENS THE EYE

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
discovered.

"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
list."

"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
good?"

"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
didn't."

"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
supper."

"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
underlings.

"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
lacking.

"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
shocked."

"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
significantly.

"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
get?"

"I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick
up."

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:

"Ray!"

"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
members."

"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
proceeded.

"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
approve.

Chapter XVIII

JUST OVER THE BORDER--A HAIL AND FAREWELL

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
place."

"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
performance.

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
friend.

"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
know."

"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
friends.

"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
importance.

"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
forty-five.

"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
ago."

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

AN HOUR IN ELFLAND--A CLAMOUR HALF HEARD

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,
saying:

"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
her.

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
it."

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
condition.

"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
studying.

"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."