Sister Carrie, by Theodore DreiserPart 8 out of 11talk right." The afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. It was blowing up a disagreeable winter wind. He visited a place far up on the east side, near Sixty-ninth Street, and it was five o'clock, and growing dim, when he reached there. A portly German kept this place. "How about this ad of yours?" asked Hurstwood, who rather objected to the looks of the place. "Oh, dat iss all over," said the German. "I vill not sell now." "Oh, is that so?" "Yes; dere is nothing to dat. It iss all over." "Very well," said Hurstwood, turning around. The German paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry. "The crazy ass!" he said to himself. "What does he want to advertise for?" Wholly depressed, he started for Thirteenth Street. The flat had only a light in the kitchen, where Carrie was working. He struck a match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without even greeting her. She came to the door and looked in. "It's you, is it?" she said, and went back. "Yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he had bought. Carrie saw things were wrong with him. He was not so handsome when gloomy. The lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. Naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. He was quite a disagreeable figure. Carrie set the table and brought in the meal. "Dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something. He did not answer, reading on. She came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched. "Won't you eat now?" she asked. He folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, except for the "Pass me's." "It's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured Carrie, after a time. "Yes," he said. He only picked at his food. "Are you still sure to close up?" said Carrie, venturing to take up the subject which they had discussed often enough. "Of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification of sharpness. This retort angered Carrie. She had had a dreary day of it herself. "You needn't talk like that," she said. "Oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more, but letting it go at that. Then he picked up his paper. Carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. He saw she was hurt. "Don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen. "Eat your dinner." She passed, not answering. He looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on his coat. "I'm going downtown, Carrie," he said, coming out. "I'm out of sorts to-night." She did not answer. "Don't be angry," he said. "It will be all right to morrow." He looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at her dishes. "Good-bye!" he said finally, and went out. This was the first strong result of the situation between them, but with the nearing of the last day of the business the gloom became almost a permanent thing. Hurstwood could not conceal his feelings about the matter. Carrie could not help wondering where she was drifting. It got so that they talked even less than usual, and yet it was not Hurstwood who felt any objection to Carrie. It was Carrie who shied away from him. This he noticed. It aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to him. He made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant task, and then noticed with discontent that Carrie added to it by her manner and made it more impossible. At last the final day came. When it actually arrived, Hurstwood, who had got his mind into such a state where a thunderclap and raging storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to find that it was a plain, ordinary day. The sun shone, the temperature was pleasant. He felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it wasn't so terrible, after all. "Well," he said to Carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth." Carrie smiled in answer to his humour. Hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. He seemed to have lost a load. "I'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and then I'll look around. To-morrow I'll spend the whole day looking about. I think I can get something, now this thing's off my hands." He went out smiling and visited the place. Shaughnessy was there. They had made all arrangements to share according to their interests. When, however, he had been there several hours, gone out three more, and returned, his elation had departed. As much as he had objected to the place, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt sorry. He wished that things were different. Shaughnessy was coolly businesslike. "Well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the change and divide." They did so. The fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided. "Good-night," said Hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort to be genial. "So long," said Shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice. Thus the Warren Street arrangement was permanently concluded. Carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride up, Hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood. "Well?" said Carrie, inquisitively. "I'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat. As she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now. They ate and talked a little. "Will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked Carrie. "No," he said. "I'll have to get something else and save up." "It would be nice if you could get some place," said Carrie, prompted by anxiety and hope. "I guess I will," he said reflectively. For some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the morning and sallied forth. On these ventures he first consoled himself with the thought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could still make some advantageous arrangement. He thought about going to some brewery, which, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which they leased, and get them to help him. Then he remembered that he would have to pay out several hundred any way for fixtures and that he would have nothing left for his monthly expenses. It was costing him nearly eighty dollars a month to live. "No," he said, in his sanest moments, "I can't do it. I'll get something else and save up." This getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment he began to think of what it was he wanted to do. Manage a place? Where should he get such a position? The papers contained no requests for managers. Such positions, he knew well enough, were either secured by long years of service or were bought with a half or third interest. Into a place important enough to need such a manager he had not money enough to buy. Nevertheless, he started out. His clothes were very good and his appearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding. People, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age, stout and well dressed, must be well off. He appeared a comfortable owner of something, a man from whom the common run of mortals could well expect gratuities. Being now forty-three years of age, and comfortably built, walking was not easy. He had not been used to exercise for many years. His legs tired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at the close of the day, even when he took street cars in almost every direction. The mere getting up and down, if long continued, produced this result. The fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he well understood. It was so painfully clear to him that it retarded his search. Not that he wished to be less well- appearing, but that he was ashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. So he hesitated, wondering what to do. He thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had had no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no acquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go. He did know some hotel owners in several cities, including New York, but they knew of his dealings with Fitzgerald and Moy. He could not apply to them. He thought of other lines suggested by large buildings or businesses which he knew of--wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns, and the like--but he had had no experience. How to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. Would he have to go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then, distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking for something to do? He strained painfully at the thought. No, he could not do that. He really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being cold, stepped into a hotel. He knew hotels well enough to know that any decent individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby. This was in the Broadway Central, which was then one of the most important hotels in the city. Taking a chair here was a painful thing to him. To think he should come to this! He had heard loungers about hotels called chairwarmers. He had called them that himself in his day. But here he was, despite the possibility of meeting some one who knew him, shielding himself from cold and the weariness of the streets in a hotel lobby. "I can't do this way," he said to himself. "There's no use of my starting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. I'll think of some places and then look them up." It occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes open, but he put this out of his mind. Bartender--he, the ex-manager! It grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he went home. He tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was a feeble imitation. The rocking chair in the dining- room was comfortable. He sank into it gladly, with several papers he had bought, and began to read. As she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner, Carrie said: "The man was here for the rent to-day." "Oh, was he?" said Hurstwood. The least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this was February 2d, the time the man always called. He fished down in his pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when nothing is coming in. He looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man looks at the one possible saving cure. Then he counted off twenty-eight dollars. "Here you are," he said to Carrie, when she came through again. He buried himself in his papers and read. Oh, the rest of it-- the relief from walking and thinking! What Lethean waters were these floods of telegraphed intelligence! He forgot his troubles, in part. Here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper drawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband in Brooklyn for divorce. Here was another item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in ice and snow off Prince's Bay on Staten Island. A long, bright column told of the doings in the theatrical world--the plays produced, the actors appearing, the managers making announcements. Fannie Davenport was just opening at the Fifth Avenue. Daly was producing "King Lear." He read of the early departure for the season of a party composed of the Vanderbilts and their friends for Florida. An interesting shooting affray was on in the mountains of Kentucky. So he read, read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator and waiting for dinner to be served. Chapter XXXV THE PASSING OF EFFORT--THE VISAGE OF CARE The next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a long list of advertisements, making a few notes. Then he turned to the male-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. The day was before him--a long day in which to discover something--and this was how he must begin to discover. He scanned the long column, which mostly concerned bakers, bushelmen, cooks, compositors, drivers, and the like, finding two things only which arrested his eye. One was a cashier wanted in a wholesale furniture house, and the other a salesman for a whiskey house. He had never thought of the latter. At once he decided to look that up. The firm in question was Alsbery & Co., whiskey brokers. He was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance. "Good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that he was encountering one of his out-of-town customers. "Good-morning," said Hurstwood. "You advertised, I believe, for a salesman?" "Oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come to him. "Yes. Yes, I did." "I thought I'd drop in," said Hurstwood, with dignity. "I've had some experience in that line myself." "Oh, have you?" said the man. "What experience have you had?" "Well, I've managed several liquor houses in my time. Recently I owned a third-interest in a saloon at Warren and Hudson streets." "I see," said the man. Hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion. "We did want a salesman," said the man. "I don't know as it's anything you'd care to take hold of, though." "I see," said Hurstwood. "Well, I'm in no position to choose, just at present. If it were open, I should be glad to get it." The man did not take kindly at all to his "No position to choose." He wanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something better. Especially not an old man. He wanted some one young, active, and glad to work actively for a moderate sum. Hurstwood did not please him at all. He had more of an air than his employers. "Well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider your application. We shan't decide for a few days yet. Suppose you send us your references." "I will," said Hurstwood. He nodded good-morning and came away. At the corner he looked at the furniture company's address, and saw that it was in West Twenty-third Street. Accordingly, he went up there. The place was not large enough, however. It looked moderate, the men in it idle and small salaried. He walked by, glancing in, and then decided not to go in there. "They want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said. At one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in Madison Square. There he pondered over places which he might look up. He was tired. It was blowing up grey again. Across the way, through Madison Square Park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon a busy scene. He decided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a while. It was warm in there and bright. He had seen no one he knew at the Broadway Central. In all likelihood he would encounter no one here. Finding a seat on one of the red plush divans close to the great windows which look out on Broadway's busy rout, he sat musing. His state did not seem so bad in here. Sitting still and looking out, he could take some slight consolation in the few hundred dollars he had in his purse. He could forget, in a measure, the weariness of the street and his tiresome searches. Still, it was only escape from a severe to a less severe state. He was still gloomy and disheartened. There, minutes seemed to go very slowly. An hour was a long, long time in passing. It was filled for him with observations and mental comments concerning the actual guests of the hotel, who passed in and out, and those more prosperous pedestrians whose good fortune showed in their clothes and spirits as they passed along Broadway, outside. It was nearly the first time since he had arrived in the city that his leisure afforded him ample opportunity to contemplate this spectacle. Now, being, perforce, idle himself, he wondered at the activity of others. How gay were the youths he saw, how pretty the women. Such fine clothes they all wore. They were so intent upon getting somewhere. He saw coquettish glances cast by magnificent girls. Ah, the money it required to train with such--how well he knew! How long it had been since he had had the opportunity to do so! The clock outside registered four. It was a little early, but he thought he would go back to the flat. This going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that Carrie would think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. He hoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. Over there he was on his own ground. He could sit in his rocking-chair and read. This busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. He could read his papers. Accordingly, he went home. Carrie was reading, quite alone. It was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it was. "You'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her. After taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make some little report of his day. "I've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said. "I may go on the road." "Wouldn't that be nice!" said Carrie. "It wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered. Always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers--the "Evening World" and "Evening Sun." So now he merely picked his papers up, as he came by, without stopping. He drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. Then it was as the evening before. His difficulties vanished in the items he so well loved to read. The next day was even worse than the one before, because now he could not think of where to go. Nothing he saw in the papers he studied--till ten o'clock--appealed to him. He felt that he ought to go out, and yet he sickened at the thought. Where to, where to? "You mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," said Carrie, quietly. They had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week in her hands, out of which to pay current expenses. He heaved a little sigh as she said this, and drew out his purse. Again he felt the dread of the thing. Here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming in. "Lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on." To Carrie he said nothing whatsoever. She could feel that her request disturbed him. To pay her would soon become a distressing thing. "Yet, what have I got to do with it?" she thought. "Oh, why should I be made to worry?" Hurstwood went out and made for Broadway. He wanted to think up some place. Before long, though, he reached the Grand Hotel at Thirty-first Street. He knew of its comfortable lobby. He was cold after his twenty blocks' walk. "I'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought. Thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his tonsorial treatment. Again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and this continued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining him, and each day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into lobby idleness. At last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not go out at all. The snow began to fall late one afternoon. It was a regular flurry of large, soft, white flakes. In the morning it was still coming down with a high wind, and the papers announced a blizzard. From out the front windows one could see a deep, soft bedding. "I guess I'll not try to go out to-day," he said to Carrie at breakfast. "It's going to be awful bad, so the papers say." "The man hasn't brought my coal, either," said Carrie, who ordered by the bushel. "I'll go over and see about it," said Hurstwood. This was the first time he had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the wish to sit about the house prompted it as a sort of compensation for the privilege. All day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from a general blockade of traffic. Great attention was given to the details of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress of the poor in large type. Hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. He did not try to think about his need of work. This storm being so terrific, and tying up all things, robbed him of the need. He made himself wholly comfortable and toasted his feet. Carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. For all the fury of the storm she doubted his comfort. He took his situation too philosophically. Hurstwood, however, read on and on. He did not pay much attention to Carrie. She fulfilled her household duties and said little to disturb him. The next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold. Hurstwood took the alarm of the paper and sat still. Now he volunteered to do a few other little things. One was to go to the butcher, another to the grocery. He really thought nothing of these little services in connection with their true significance. He felt as if he were not wholly useless--indeed, in such a stress of weather, quite worth while about the house. On the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm was over. Now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets would be. It was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way. Owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. He went across Fourteenth Street on the car and got a transfer south on Broadway. One little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down in Pearl Street. When he reached the Broadway Central, however, he changed his mind. "What's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "I couldn't buy into it. It's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. I guess I'll get off," and off he got. In the lobby he took a seat and waited again, wondering what he could do. While he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well- dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of his memory, and then approached. Hurstwood recognised Cargill, the owner of the large stables in Chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen at Avery Hall, the night Carrie appeared there. The remembrance of how this individual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was also on the instant clear. Hurstwood was greatly abashed. His eyes expressed the difficulty he felt. "Why, it's Hurstwood!" said Cargill, remembering now, and sorry that he had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoided this meeting. "Yes," said Hurstwood. "How are you?" "Very well," said Cargill, troubled for something to talk about. "Stopping here?" "No," said Hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment." "I knew you had left Chicago. I was wondering what had become of you." "Oh, I'm here now," answered Hurstwood, anxious to get away. "Doing well, I suppose?" "Excellent." "Glad to hear it." They looked at one another, rather embarrassed. "Well, I have an engagement with a friend upstairs. I'll leave you. So long." Hurstwood nodded his head. "Damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "I knew that would happen." He walked several blocks up the street. His watch only registered 1.30. He tried to think of some place to go or something to do. The day was so bad he wanted only to be inside. Finally his feet began to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. This took him to Fifty-ninth Street, which was as good as anywhere else. Landed here, he turned to walk back along Seventh Avenue, but the slush was too much. The misery of lounging about with nowhere to go became intolerable. He felt as if he were catching cold. Stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. This was no day to be out; he would go home. Carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three. "It's a miserable day out," was all he said. Then he took off his coat and changed his shoes. That night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. He was feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while Carrie waited on him. He was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a dull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. He looked haggard about the eyes and quite old. Carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal to her. She wanted to be good- natured and sympathetic, but something about the man held her aloof. Toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggested he go to bed. "You'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. I'll open your bed for you now." "All right," he said. As she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state. "What a life! What a life!" was her one thought. Once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. In the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and cried. This was the life cut out for her, was it? To live cooped up in a small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent to her. She was merely a servant to him now, nothing more. This crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed the fact. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. His voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome quality. "Nothing," said Carrie, weakly. "You've been crying," he said. "I haven't, either," she answered. It was not for love of him, that he knew. "You needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "Things will come out all right." In a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayed in. The Italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers, and these he read assiduously. A few times after that he ventured out, but meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy sitting about hotel corridors. Every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of going anywhere. Winter was no time to look for anything. Naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way Carrie did things. She was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and her little deviations on this score first caught his eye. Not, however, before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous thing. Sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very quickly. Every Tuesday Carrie asked for her money. "Do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one Tuesday morning. "I do the best I can," said Carrie. Nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said: "Do you ever go to the Gansevoort Market over here?" "I didn't know there was such a market," said Carrie. "They say you can get things lots cheaper there." Carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. These were things which she did not like at all. "How much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day. "Oh, there are different prices," said Carrie. "Sirloin steak is twenty-two cents." "That's steep, isn't it?" he answered. So he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing days, it seemed to become a mania with him. He learned the prices and remembered them. His errand-running capacity also improved. It began in a small way, of course. Carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was stopped by him. "Where are you going, Carrie?" he asked. "Over to the baker's," she answered. "I'd just as leave go for you," he said. She acquiesced, and he went. Each afternoon he would go to the corner for the papers. "Is there anything you want?" he would say. By degrees she began to use him. Doing this, however, she lost the weekly payment of twelve dollars. "You want to pay me to-day," she said one Tuesday, about this time. "How much?" he asked. She understood well enough what it meant. "Well, about five dollars," she answered. "I owe the coal man." The same day he said: "I think this Italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty- five cents a bushel. I'll trade with him." Carrie heard this with indifference. "All right," she said. Then it came to be: "George, I must have some coal to-day," or, "You must get some meat of some kind for dinner." He would find out what she needed and order. Accompanying this plan came skimpiness. "I only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoon with his papers. "We never seem to eat very much." These miserable details ate the heart out of Carrie. They blackened her days and grieved her soul. Oh, how this man had changed! All day and all day, here he sat, reading his papers. The world seemed to have no attraction. Once in a while he would go out, in fine weather, it might be four or five hours, between eleven and four. She could do nothing but view him with gnawing contempt. It was apathy with Hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see his way out. Each month drew from his small store. Now, he had only five hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he could stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. Sitting around the house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. This came first with the bad days. Only once he apologised in the very beginning: "It's so bad to-day, I'll just wear these around." Eventually these became the permanent thing. Also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip of ten cents. In his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then to nothing. Later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding that the shave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. Later still, he put off shaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on, until once a week became the rule. On Saturday he was a sight to see. Of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him in Carrie. She could not understand what had gotten into the man. He had some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking when dressed up. She did not forget her own difficult struggle in Chicago, but she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. He never tried. He did not even consult the ads in the papers any more. Finally, a distinct impression escaped from her. "What makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her one evening, standing around in the kitchen. "To make it good, of course," she answered. "Butter is awful dear these days," he suggested. "You wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered. He shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled in his mind. It was the first cutting remark that had come from her. That same evening, Carrie, after reading, went off to the front room to bed. This was unusual. When Hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as usual, without a light. It was then that he discovered Carrie's absence. "That's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up." He gave the matter no more thought, but slept. In the morning she was not beside him. Strange to say, this passed without comment. Night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling prevailing, Carrie said: "I think I'll sleep alone to-night. I have a headache." "All right," said Hurstwood. The third night she went to her front bed without apologies. This was a grim blow to Hurstwood, but he never mentioned it. "All right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "let her sleep alone." Chapter XXXVI A GRIM RETROGRESSION--THE PHANTOM OF CHANCE The Vances, who had been back in the city ever since Christmas, had not forgotten Carrie; but they, or rather Mrs. Vance, had never called on her, for the very simple reason that Carrie had never sent her address. True to her nature, she corresponded with Mrs. Vance as long as she still lived in Seventy-eighth Street, but when she was compelled to move into Thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. Not finding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her friend entirely. The latter wondered at this strange silence, thought Carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave her up as lost. So she was thoroughly surprised to encounter her in Fourteenth Street, where she had gone shopping. Carrie was there for the same purpose. "Why, Mrs. Wheeler," said Mrs. Vance, looking Carrie over in a glance, "where have you been? Why haven't you been to see me? I've been wondering all this time what had become of you. Really, I----" "I'm so glad to see you," said Carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed. Of all times, this was the worst to encounter Mrs. Vance. "Why, I'm living down town here. I've been intending to come and see you. Where are you living now?" "In Fifty-eighth Street," said Mrs. Vance, "just off Seventh Avenue--218. Why don't you come and see me?" "I will," said Carrie. "Really, I've been wanting to come. I know I ought to. It's a shame. But you know----" "What's your number?" said Mrs. Vance. "Thirteenth Street," said Carrie, reluctantly. "112 West." "Oh," said Mrs. Vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?" "Yes," said Carrie. "You must come down and see me some time." "Well, you're a fine one," said Mrs. Vance, laughing, the while noting that Carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "The address, too," she added to herself. "They must be hard up." Still she liked Carrie well enough to take her in tow. "Come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into a store. When Carrie returned home, there was Hurstwood, reading as usual. He seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. His beard was at least four days old. "Oh," thought Carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?" She shook her head in absolute misery. It looked as if her situation was becoming unbearable. Driven to desperation, she asked at dinner: "Did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?" "No," he said. "They don't want an inexperienced man." Carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more. "I met Mrs. Vance this afternoon," she said, after a time. "Did, eh?" he answered. "They're back in New York now," Carrie went on. "She did look so nice." "Well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returned Hurstwood. "He's got a soft job." Hurstwood was looking into the paper. He could not see the look of infinite weariness and discontent Carrie gave him. "She said she thought she'd call here some day." "She's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said Hurstwood, with a kind of sarcasm. The woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side. "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, angered by the man's attitude. "Perhaps I didn't want her to come." "She's too gay," said Hurstwood, significantly. "No one can keep up with her pace unless they've got a lot of money." "Mr. Vance doesn't seem to find it very hard." "He may not now," answered Hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding the inference; "but his life isn't done yet. You can't tell what'll happen. He may get down like anybody else." There was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. His eye seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat. His own state seemed a thing apart--not considered. This thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and independence. Sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him. Forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. It was as if he said: "I can do something. I'm not down yet. There's a lot of things coming to me if I want to go after them." It was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. Not with any definite aim. It was more a barometric condition. He felt just right for being outside and doing something. On such occasions, his money went also. He knew of several poker rooms down town. A few acquaintances he had in downtown resorts and about the City Hall. It was a change to see them and exchange a few friendly commonplaces. He had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker. Many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game-- not the all in all. Now, he thought of playing. "I might win a couple of hundred. I'm not out of practice." It is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several times before he acted upon it. The poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in West Street, near one of the ferries. He had been there before. Several games were going. These he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved. "Deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. He pulled up a chair and studied his cards. Those playing made that quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching. Poor fortune was with him at first. He received a mixed collection without progression or pairs. The pot was opened. "I pass," he said. On the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. The deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few dollars to the good. The next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. This time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. There was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious Irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the Tammany district in which they were located. Hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a sang- froid which, if a bluff, was excellent art. Hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle. He could not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. Still, he hoped to win much--his hand was excellent. Why not raise it five more? "I raise you three," said the youth. "Make it five," said Hurstwood, pushing out his chips. "Come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds. "Let me have some more chips," said Hurstwood to the keeper in charge, taking out a bill. A cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. When the chips were laid out, Hurstwood met the raise. "Five again," said the youth. Hurstwood's brow was wet. He was deep in now--very deep for him. Sixty dollars of his good money was up. He was ordinarily no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. Finally he gave way. He would not trust to this fine hand any longer. "I call," he said. "A full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards. Hurstwood's hand dropped. "I thought I had you," he said, weakly. The youth raked in his chips, and Hurstwood came away, not without first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair. "Three hundred and forty dollars," he said. With this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone. Back in the flat, he decided he would play no more. Remembering Mrs. Vance's promise to call, Carrie made one other mild protest. It was concerning Hurstwood's appearance. This very day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in. "What makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked Carrie. "What's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked. "Well, I should think you'd feel better." Then she added: "Some one might call." "Who?" he said. "Well, Mrs. Vance," said Carrie. "She needn't see me," he answered, sullenly. This lack of pride and interest made Carrie almost hate him. "Oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'She needn't see me.' I should think he would be ashamed of himself." The real bitterness of this thing was added when Mrs. Vance did call. It was on one of her shopping rounds. Making her way up the commonplace hall, she knocked at Carrie's door. To her subsequent and agonising distress, Carrie was out. Hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking that the knock was Carrie's. For once, he was taken honestly aback. The lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him. "Why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?" "How do you do?" said Mrs. Vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes. His great confusion she instantly perceived. He did not know whether to invite her in or not. "Is your wife at home?" she inquired. "No," he said, "Carrie's out; but won't you step in? She'll be back shortly." "No-o," said Mrs. Vance, realising the change of it all. "I'm really very much in a hurry. I thought I'd just run up and look in, but I couldn't stay. Just tell your wife she must come and see me." "I will," said Hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief at her going. He was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought. Carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw Mrs. Vance going away. She strained her eyes, but could not make sure. "Was anybody here just now?" she asked of Hurstwood. "Yes," he said guiltily; "Mrs. Vance." "Did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair. This cut Hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen. "If she had eyes, she did. I opened the door." "Oh," said Carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer nervousness. "What did she have to say?" "Nothing," he answered. "She couldn't stay." "And you looking like that!" said Carrie, throwing aside a long reserve. "What of it?" he said, angering. "I didn't know she was coming, did I?" "You knew she might," said Carrie. "I told you she said she was coming. I've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. Oh, I think this is just terrible." "Oh, let up," he answered. "What difference does it make? You couldn't associate with her, anyway. They've got too much money. "Who said I wanted to?" said Carrie, fiercely. "Well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. You'd think I'd committed----" Carrie interrupted: "It's true," she said. "I couldn't if I wanted to, but whose fault is it? You're very free to sit and talk about who I could associate with. Why don't you get out and look for work?" This was a thunderbolt in camp. "What's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "I pay the rent, don't I? I furnish the----" "Yes, you pay the rent," said Carrie. "You talk as if there was nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. You haven't done a thing for three months except sit around and interfere here. I'd like to know what you married me for?" "I didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone. "I'd like to know what you did, then, in Montreal?" she answered. "Well, I didn't marry you," he answered. "You can get that out of your head. You talk as though you didn't know." Carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. She had believed it was all legal and binding enough. "What did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "What did you force me to run away with you for?" Her voice became almost a sob. "Force!" he said, with curled lip. "A lot of forcing I did." "Oh!" said Carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "Oh, oh!" and she hurried into the front room. Hurstwood was now hot and waked up. It was a great shaking up for him, both mental and moral. He wiped his brow as he looked around, and then went for his clothes and dressed. Not a sound came from Carrie; she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. She thought, at first, with the faintest alarm, of being left without money--not of losing him, though he might be going away permanently. She heard him open the top of the wardrobe and take out his hat. Then the dining-room door closed, and she knew he had gone. After a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked out the window. Hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the flat, toward Sixth Avenue. The latter made progress along Thirteenth and across Fourteenth Street to Union Square. "Look for work!" he said to himself. "Look for work! She tells me to get out and look for work." He tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which told him that she was right. "What a cursed thing that Mrs. Vance's call was, anyhow," he thought. "Stood right there, and looked me over. I know what she was thinking." He remembered the few times he had seen her in Seventy-eight Street. She was always a swell-looker, and he had tried to put on the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. Now, to think she had caught him looking this way. He wrinkled his forehead in his distress. "The devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour. It was a quarter after four when he left the house. Carrie was in tears. There would be no dinner that night. "What the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame from himself. "I'm not so bad. I'm not down yet." He looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels, decided to go to one for dinner. He would get his papers and make himself comfortable there. He ascended into the fine parlour of the Morton House, then one of the best New York hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. It did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not allow of such extravagance. Like the morphine fiend, he was becoming addicted to his ease. Anything to relieve his mental distress, to satisfy his craving for comfort. He must do it. No thoughts for the morrow--he could not stand to think of it any more than he could of any other calamity. Like the certainty of death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doing it. Well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried him back to the old days. A young lady, a guest of the house, playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. He sat there reading. His dinner cost him $1.50. By eight o'clock he was through, and then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers thickening outside wondered where he should go. Not home. Carrie would be up. No, he would not go back there this evening. He would stay out and knock around as a man who was independent-- not broke--well might. He bought a cigar, and went outside on the corner where other individuals were lounging--brokers, racing people, thespians--his own flesh and blood. As he stood there, he thought of the old evenings in Chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. Many's the game he had had. This took him to poker. "I didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought, referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "I shouldn't have weakened. I could have bluffed that fellow down. I wasn't in form, that's what ailed me." Then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffing a little harder. "I'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. I'll try my hand to-night." Visions of a big stake floated before him. Supposing he did win a couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? Lots of sports he knew made their living at this game, and a good living, too. "They always had as much as I had," he thought. So off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as he had in the old days. In this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old Hurstwood as he would ever be again. It was not the old Hurstwood--only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom. This poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in a better drinking resort. Hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing an interesting game, joined in. As before, it went easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that account. At last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him. He enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake. To his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it. In the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him. No one else had done so well. Now came another moderate hand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. There were others there who were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation. "I have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself. "I'll just stay with that fellow to the finish." The result was that bidding began. "I raise you ten." "Good." "Ten more." "Good." "Ten again." "Right you are." It got to where Hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. The other man really became serious. Perhaps this individual (Hurstwood) really did have a stiff hand. "I call," he said. Hurstwood showed his hand. He was done. The bitter fact that he had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate. "Let's have another pot," he said, grimly. "All right," said the man. Some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their places. Time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. Hurstwood held on, neither winning nor losing much. Then he grew weary, and on a last hand lost twenty more. He was sick at heart. At a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place. The chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. He walked slowly west, little thinking of his row with Carrie. He ascended the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. It was his loss that occupied his mind. Sitting down on the bedside he counted his money. There was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change. He put it up and began to undress. "I wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said. In the morning Carrie scarcely spoke and he felt as if he must go out again. He had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up. Now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he lived like a gentleman--or what he conceived to be a gentleman--which took money. For his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process. Then he came down to cold, bitter sense again. "The rent man comes to-day," said Carrie, greeting him thus indifferently three mornings later. "He does?" "Yes; this is the second," answered Carrie. Hurstwood frowned. Then in despair he got out his purse. "It seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said. He was nearing his last hundred dollars. Chapter XXXVII THE SPIRIT AWAKENS--NEW SEARCH FOR THE GATE It would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty dollars was in sight. The seven hundred, by his process of handling, had only carried them into June. Before the final hundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching. "I don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for meat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live." "It doesn't seem to me," said Carrie, "that we spend very much." "My money is nearly gone," he said, "and I hardly know where it's gone to." "All that seven hundred dollars?" asked Carrie. "All but a hundred." He looked so disconsolate that it scared her. She began to see that she herself had been drifting. She had felt it all the time. "Well, George," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look for something? You could find something." "I have looked," he said. "You can t make people give you a place." She gazed weakly at him and said: "Well, what do you think you will do? A hundred dollars won't last long." "I don't know," he said. "I can't do any more than look." Carrie became frightened over this announcement. She thought desperately upon the subject. Frequently she had considered the stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state which she had so much craved. Now, as in Chicago, it came as a last resource in distress. Something must be done if he did not get work soon. Perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone. She began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. Her experience in Chicago proved that she had not tried the right way. There must be people who would listen to and try you--men who would give you an opportunity. They were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later, when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that Sarah Bernhardt was coming to this country. Hurstwood had seen it, too. "How do people get on the stage, George?" she finally asked, innocently. "I don't know," he said. "There must be dramatic agents." Carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up. "Regular people who get you a place?" "Yes, I think so," he answered. Suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention. "You're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" he asked. "No," she answered, "I was just wondering." Without being clear, there was something in the thought which he objected to. He did not believe any more, after three years of observation, that Carrie would ever do anything great in that line. She seemed too simple, too yielding. His idea of the art was that it involved something more pompous. If she tried to get on the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like the rest of them. He had a good idea of what he meant by THEM. Carrie was pretty. She would get along all right, but where would he be? "I'd get that idea out of my head, if I were you. It's a lot more difficult than you think." Carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her ability. "You said I did real well in Chicago," she rejoined. "You did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, "but Chicago isn't New York, by a big jump." Carrie did not answer this at all. It hurt her. "The stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of the big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. It takes a long while to get up." "Oh, I don't know," said Carrie, slightly aroused. In a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. Now, when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. Strangely, he had not conceived well of her mental ability. That was because he did not understand the nature of emotional greatness. He had never learned that a person might be emotionally--instead of intellectually--great. Avery Hall was too far away for him to look back and sharply remember. He had lived with this woman too long. "Well, I do," he answered. "If I were you I wouldn't think of it. It's not much of a profession for a woman." "It's better than going hungry," said Carrie. "If you don't want me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?" There was no answer ready for this. He had got used to the suggestion. "Oh, let up," he answered. The result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. It didn't matter about him. She was not going to be dragged into poverty and something worse to suit him. She could act. She could get something and then work up. What would he say then? She pictured herself already appearing in some fine performance on Broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room and making up. Then she would come out at eleven o'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting for the people. It did not matter whether she was the star or not. If she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and there as she pleased, how delightful it would all be. Her mind ran over this picture all the day long. Hurstwood's dreary state made its beauty become more and more vivid. Curiously this idea soon took hold of Hurstwood. His vanishing sum suggested that he would need sustenance. Why could not Carrie assist him a little until he could get something? He came in one day with something of this idea in his mind. "I met John B. Drake to-day," he said. "He's going to open a hotel here in the fall. He says that he can make a place for me then." "Who is he?" asked Carrie. "He's the man that runs the Grand Pacific in Chicago." "Oh," said Carrie. "I'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that." "That would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically. "If I can only get over this summer," he added, "I think I'll be all right. I'm hearing from some of my friends again." Carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. She sincerely wished he could get through the summer. He looked so hopeless. "How much money have you left?" "Only fifty dollars." "Oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? It's only twenty days until the rent will be due again." Hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the floor. "Maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly suggested. "Maybe I could," said Carrie, glad that some one approved of the idea. "I'll lay my hand to whatever I can get," he said, now that he saw her brighten up. "I can get something." She cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for Broadway. She did not know that thoroughfare very well. To her it was a wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. The theatres were there--these agencies must be somewhere about. She decided to stop in at the Madison Square Theatre and ask how to find the theatrical agents. This seemed the sensible way. Accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at the box office. "Eh?" he said, looking out. "Dramatic agents? I don't know. You'll find them in the 'Clipper,' though. They all advertise in that." "Is that a paper?" said Carrie. "Yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common fact. "You can get it at the news-stands," he added politely, seeing how pretty the inquirer was. Carrie proceeded to get the "Clipper," and tried to find the agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. This could not be done so easily. Thirteenth Street was a number of blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting the waste of time. Hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place. "Where were you?" he asked. "I've been trying to find some dramatic agents." He felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success. The paper she began to scan attracted his attention. "What have you got there?" he asked. "The 'Clipper.' The man said I'd find their addresses in here." "Have you been all the way over to Broadway to find that out? I could have told you." "Why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up. "You never asked me," he returned. She went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. Her mind was distracted by this man's indifference. The difficulty of the situation she was facing was only added to by all he did. Self- commiseration brewed in her heart. Tears trembled along her eyelids but did not fall. Hurstwood noticed something. "Let me look." To recover herself she went into the front room while he searched. Presently she returned. He had a pencil, and was writing upon an envelope. "Here're three," he said. Carrie took it and found that one was Mrs. Bermudez, another Marcus Jenks, a third Percy Weil. She paused only a moment, and then moved toward the door. "I might as well go right away," she said, without looking back. Hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. He sat a while, and then it became too much. He got up and put on his hat. "I guess I'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go. Carrie's first call was upon Mrs. Bermudez, whose address was quite the nearest. It was an old-fashioned residence turned into offices. Mrs. Bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been a back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "Private." As Carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about-- men, who said nothing and did nothing. While she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. After them came a portly lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently good-natured. At least she was smiling. "Now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women. "I won't," said the portly woman. "Let's see," she added, "where are you the first week in February?" "Pittsburg," said the woman. "I'll write you there." "All right," said the other, and the two passed out. Instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and shrewd. She turned about and fixed on Carrie a very searching eye. "Well," she said, "young woman, what can I do for you?" "Are you Mrs. Bermudez?" "Yes." "Well," said Carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places for persons upon the stage?" "Yes." "Could you get me one?" "Have you ever had any experience?" "A very little," said Carrie. "Whom did you play with?" "Oh, with no one," said Carrie. "It was just a show gotten----" "Oh, I see," said the woman, interrupting her. "No, I don't know of anything now." Carrie's countenance fell. "You want to get some New York experience," concluded the affable Mrs. Bermudez. "We'll take your name, though." Carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office. "What is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter, taking up the curtailed conversation. "Mrs. George Wheeler," said Carrie, moving over to where she was writing. The woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her to depart at her leisure. She encountered a very similar experience in the office of Mr. Jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "If you could play at some local house, or had a programme with your name on it, I might do something." In the third place the individual asked: "What sort of work do you want to do?" "What do you mean?" said Carrie. "Well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville or in the chorus?" "Oh, I'd like to get a part in a play," said Carrie. "Well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that." "How much?" said Carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not thought of this before. "Well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly. Carrie looked at him curiously. She hardly knew how to continue the inquiry. "Could you get me a part if I paid?" "If we didn't you'd get your money back." "Oh," she said. The agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and continued accordingly. "You'd want to deposit fifty dollars, anyway. No agent would trouble about you for less than that." Carrie saw a light. "Thank you," she said. "I'll think about it." She started to go, and then bethought herself. "How soon would I get a place?" she asked. "Well, that's hard to say," said the man. "You might get one in a week, or it might be a month. You'd get the first thing that we thought you could do." "I see," said Carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she walked out. The agent studied a moment, and then said to himself: "It's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage." Carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar proposition. "Maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything," she thought. She had some jewelry--a diamond ring and pin and several other pieces. She could get fifty dollars for those if she went to a pawnbroker. Hurstwood was home before her. He had not thought she would be so long seeking. "Well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news. "I didn't find out anything to-day," said Carrie, taking off her gloves. "They all want money to get you a place." "How much?" asked Hurstwood. "Fifty dollars." "They don't want anything, do they?" "Oh, they're like everybody else. You can't tell whether they'd ever get you anything after you did pay them." "Well, I wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said Hurstwood, as if he were deciding, money in hand. "I don't know," said Carrie. "I think I'll try some of the managers." Hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. He rocked a little to and fro, and chewed at his finger. It seemed all very natural in such extreme states. He would do better later on. Chapter XXXVIII IN ELF LAND DISPORTING--THE GRIM WORLD WITHOUT When Carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to the Casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields, employment is difficult to secure. Girls who can stand in a line and look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. She found there was no discrimination between one and the other of applicants, save as regards a conventional standard of prettiness and form. Their own opinion or knowledge of their ability went for nothing. "Where shall I find Mr. Gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at the stage entrance of the Casino. "You can't see him now; he's busy." "Do you know when I can see him?" "Got an appointment with him?" "No." "Well, you'll have to call at his office." "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Carrie. "Where is his office?" He gave her the number. She knew there was no need of calling there now. He would not be in. Nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search. The dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. Mr. Daly saw no one save by appointment. Carrie waited an hour in a dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of the placid, indifferent Mr. Dorney. "You will have to write and ask him to see you." So she went away. At the Empire Theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and indifferent individuals. Everything ornately upholstered, everything carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved. At the Lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway closets, berugged and bepaneled, which causes one to feel the greatness of all positions of authority. Here was reserve itself done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying in their fine positions. "Ah, be very humble now--very humble indeed. Tell us what it is you require. Tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige of self-respect. If no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we can do." This was the atmosphere of the Lyceum--the attitude, for that matter, of every managerial office in the city. These little proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground. Carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains. Hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search that evening. "I didn't get to see any one," said Carrie. "I just walked, and walked, and waited around." Hurstwood only looked at her. "I suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in," she added, disconsolately. Hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not seem so terrible. Carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she could rest. Viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did not seem to approach so rapidly. To-morrow was another day. To-morrow came, and the next, and the next. Carrie saw the manager at the Casino once. "Come around," he said, "the first of next week. I may make some changes then." He was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothes and good eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh. Carrie was pretty and graceful. She might be put in even if she did not have any experience. One of the proprietors had suggested that the chorus was a little weak on looks. The first of next week was some days off yet. The first of the month was drawing near. Carrie began to worry as she had never worried before. "Do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked Hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own. "Of course I do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over the disgrace of the insinuation. "I'd take anything," she said, "for the present. It will soon be the first of the month again." She looked the picture of despair. Hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes. "He would look for something," he thought. "He would go and see if some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. Yes, he would take a position as bartender, if he could get it." It was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. One or two slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared. "No use," he thought. "I might as well go on back home." Now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes and feel that even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace. This was a bitter thought. Carrie came in after he did. "I went to see some of the variety managers," she said, aimlessly. "You have to have an act. They don't want anybody that hasn't." "I saw some of the brewery people to-day," said Hurstwood. "One man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks." In the face of so much distress on Carrie's part, he had to make some showing, and it was thus he did so. It was lassitude's apology to energy. Monday Carrie went again to the Casino. "Did I tell you to come around to day?" said the manager, looking her over as she stood before him. "You said the first of the week," said Carrie, greatly abashed. "Ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely. Carrie owned to ignorance. He looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. He was secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman. "Come around to the theatre to-morrow morning." Carrie's heart bounded to her throat. "I will," she said with difficulty. She could see he wanted her, and turned to go. "Would he really put her to work? Oh, blessed fortune, could it be?" Already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows became pleasant. A sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all immediate fears on that score. "Be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "You'll be dropped if you're not." Carrie hastened away. She did not quarrel now with Hurstwood's idleness. She had a place--she had a place! This sang in her ears. In her delight she was almost anxious to tell Hurstwood. But, as she walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months. "Why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "If I can he surely ought to. It wasn't very hard for me." She forgot her youth and her beauty. The handicap of age she did not, in her enthusiasm, perceive. Thus, ever, the voice of success. Still, she could not keep her secret. She tried to be calm and indifferent, but it was a palpable sham. "Well?" he said, seeing her relieved face. "I have a place." "You have?" he said, breathing a better breath. "Yes." "What sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as if now he might get something good also. "In the chorus," she answered. "Is it the Casino show you told me about?" "Yes," she answered. "I begin rehearsing to-morrow." There was more explanation volunteered by Carrie, because she was happy. At last Hurstwood said: "Do you know how much you'll get?" "No, I didn't want to ask," said Carrie. "I guess they pay twelve or fourteen dollars a week." "About that, I guess," said Hurstwood. There was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the mere lifting of the terrible strain. Hurstwood went out for a shave, and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak. "Now, to-morrow," he thought, "I'll look around myself," and with renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground. On the morrow Carrie reported promptly and was given a place in the line. She saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich, oriental appearance. The wonder of it awed and delighted her. Blessed be its wondrous reality. How hard she would try to be worthy of it. It was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, above insignificance. People came to it in finery and carriages to see. It was ever a centre of light and mirth. And here she was of it. Oh, if she could only remain, how happy would be her days! "What is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the drill. "Madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name Drouet had selected in Chicago. "Carrie Madenda." "Well, now, Miss Madenda," he said, very affably, as Carrie thought, "you go over there." Then he called to a young woman who was already of the company: "Miss Clark, you pair with Miss Madenda." This young lady stepped forward, so that Carrie saw where to go, and the rehearsal began. Carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at Avery Hall, the attitude of the manager was much more pronounced. She had marvelled at the insistence and superior airs of Mr. Millice, but the individual conducting here had the same insistence, coupled with almost brutal roughness. As the drilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedingly wroth over trifles, and to increase his lung power in proportion. It was very evident that he had a great contempt for any assumption of dignity or innocence on the part of these young women. "Clark," he would call--meaning, of course, Miss Clark--"why don't you catch step there?" "By fours, right! Right, I said, right! For heaven's sake, get on to yourself! Right!" and in saying this he would lift the last sounds into a vehement roar. "Maitland! Maitland!" he called once.
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