Chapter: When Hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater quandary
than ever. Lord, Lord, he thought, what had he got into? How could
things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? He could hardly
realise how it had all come about. It seemed a monstrous, unnatural,
unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him without his
let or hindrance.

Meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to Carrie. What could be the
trouble in that quarter? No letter had come, no word of any kind, and
yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to meet him that
morning. To-morrow they were to have met and gone off--where? He saw
that in the excitement of recent events he had not formulated a plan
upon that score. He was desperately in love, and would have taken great
chances to win her under ordinary circumstances, but now--now what?
Supposing she had found out something? Supposing she, too, wrote him and
told him that she knew all--that she would have nothing more to do with
him? It would be just like this to happen as things were going now.
Meanwhile he had not sent the money.

He strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in
his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. He was getting some vague
comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill which
affected him. Every once in a while he would clinch his fingers and tap
his foot--signs of the stirring mental process he was undergoing. His
whole nature was vigorously and powerfully shaken up, and he was finding
what limits the mind has to endurance. He drank more brandy and soda
than he had any evening in months. He was altogether a fine example of
great mental perturbation.

For all his study nothing came of the evening except this--he sent the
money. It was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the
most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an
envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up.

Then he called Harry, the boy of all work around the place.

"You take this to this address," he said, handing him the envelope, "and
give it to Mrs. Hurstwood."

"Yes, sir," said the boy.

"If she isn't there bring it back."

"Yes, sir"

"You've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy
turned to go.

"Oh, yes, sir. I know her."

"All right, now. Hurry right back."

"Any answer?"

"I guess not."

The boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. Now he had
done it. There was no use speculating over that. He was beaten for
to-night and he might just as well make the best of it. But, oh, the
wretchedness of being forced this way! He could see her meeting the boy
at the door and smiling sardonically. She would take the envelope and
know that she had triumphed. If he only had that letter back he wouldn't
send it. He breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face.

For relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who
were drinking. He tried to get the interest of things about him, but it
was not to be. All the time his thoughts would run out to his home and
see the scene being therein enacted. All the time he was wondering what
she would say when the boy handed her the envelope.

In about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. He had evidently
delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking
anything out of his pocket.

"Well?" said Hurstwood.

"I gave it to her."

"My wife?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any answer?"

"She said it was high time."

Hurstwood scowled fiercely.

There was no more to be done upon that score that night. He went on
brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to
the Palmer House. He wondered what the morning would bring forth, and
slept anything but soundly upon it. Next day he went again to the office
and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents. No word
from Carrie. Nothing from his wife, which was pleasant.

The fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it
worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done
it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. He
fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a week or
two. Meanwhile, he would have time to think.

This process of THINKING began by a reversion to Carrie and the
arrangement by which he was to get her away from Drouet. How about that
now? His pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly increased as
he devoted himself to this subject. He decided to write her care of the
West Side Post-office and ask for an explanation, as well as to have
her meet him. The thought that this letter would probably not reach
her until Monday chafed him exceedingly. He must get some speedier
method--but how?

He thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or a
cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding that
time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and then began
to think again.

The hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union he had
contemplated. He had thought to be joyously aiding Carrie by now in
the task of joining her interests to his, and here it was afternoon and
nothing done. Three o'clock came, four, five, six, and no letter. The
helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the gloom of defeat.
He saw a busy Saturday ushered out, the Sabbath in, and nothing done.
All day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone, shut out from home,
from the excitement of his resort, from Carrie, and without the ability
to alter his condition one iota. It was the worst Sunday he had spent in
his life.

In Monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter,
which held his interest for some time. It bore the imprint of the law
offices of McGregor, James and Hay, and with a very formal "Dear Sir,"
and "We beg to state," went on to inform him briefly that they had been
retained by Mrs. Julia Hurstwood to adjust certain matters which related
to her sustenance and property rights, and would he kindly call and see
them about the matter at once.

He read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook his
head. It seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning.

"Well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "I don't know."

Then he folded it up and put it in his pocket.

To add to his misery there was no word from Carrie. He was quite certain
now that she knew he was married and was angered at his perfidy. His
loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed her most. He thought
he would go out and insist on seeing her if she did not send him word
of some sort soon. He was really affected most miserably of all by
this desertion. He had loved her earnestly enough, but now that the
possibility of losing her stared him in the face she seemed much more
attractive. He really pined for a word, and looked out upon her with his
mind's eye in the most wistful manner. He did not propose to lose her,
whatever she might think. Come what might, he would adjust this matter,
and soon. He would go to her and tell her all his family complications.
He would explain to her just where he stood and how much he needed her.
Surely she couldn't go back on him now? It wasn't possible. He would
plead until her anger would melt--until she would forgive him.

Suddenly he thought: "Supposing she isn't out there--suppose she has
gone?"

He was forced to take his feet. It was too much to think of and sit
still.

Nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing.

On Tuesday it was the same way. He did manage to bring himself into the
mood to go out to Carrie, but when he got in Ogden Place he thought he
saw a man watching him and went away. He did not go within a block of
the house.

One of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back on a
Randolph Street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite the
building of the concern with which his son was connected. This sent a
pang through his heart. He had called on his boy there several times.
Now the lad had not sent him a word. His absence did not seem to be
noticed by either of his children. Well, well, fortune plays a man queer
tricks. He got back to his office and joined in a conversation with
friends. It was as if idle chatter deadened the sense of misery.

That night he dined at Rector's and returned at once to his office. In
the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. He troubled over
many little details and talked perfunctorily to everybody. He stayed at
his desk long after all others had gone, and only quitted it when the
night watchman on his round pulled at the front door to see if it was
safely locked.

On Wednesday he received another polite note from McGregor, James and
Hay. It read:


"Dear Sir: We beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait until
to-morrow (Thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit against you, on
behalf of Mrs. Julia Hurstwood, for divorce and alimony. If we do not
hear from you before that time we shall consider that you do not wish to
compromise the matter in any way and act accordingly.

"Very truly yours, etc."


"Compromise!" exclaimed Hurstwood bitterly. "Compromise!"

Again he shook his head.

So here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what to
expect. If he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly. If he
did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil. He folded
the letter and put it with the other one. Then he put on his hat and
went for a turn about the block.




Carrie, left alone by Drouet, listened to his retreating steps, scarcely
realising what had happened. She knew that he had stormed out. It was
some moments before she questioned whether he would return, not now
exactly, but ever. She looked around her upon the rooms, out of which
the evening light was dying, and wondered why she did not feel quite
the same towards them. She went over to the dresser and struck a match,
lighting the gas. Then she went back to the rocker to think.

It was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she
did, this truth began to take on importance. She was quite alone.
Suppose Drouet did not come back? Suppose she should never hear anything
more of him? This fine arrangement of chambers would not last long. She
would have to quit them.

To her credit, be it said, she never once counted on Hurstwood. She
could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret. For
a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of human
depravity. He would have tricked her without turning an eyelash. She
would have been led into a newer and worse situation. And yet she could
not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. Only this one deed
seemed strange and miserable. It contrasted sharply with all she felt
and knew concerning the man.

But she was alone. That was the greater thought just at present. How
about that? Would she go out to work again? Would she begin to look
around in the business district? The stage! Oh, yes. Drouet had spoken
about that. Was there any hope there? She moved to and fro, in deep
and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell
completely. She had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat, thinking
it over.

She remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard in
the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts. She
looked at these things with certain misgivings. The contemplation of
food had more significance than usual.

While she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had. It
struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to look
for her purse. It was on the dresser, and in it were seven dollars in
bills and some change. She quailed as she thought of the insignificance
of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid until the end of
the month. She began also to think what she would have done if she had
gone out into the street when she first started. By the side of that
situation, as she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable. She
had a little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come out
all right, after all.

Drouet had gone, but what of it? He did not seem seriously angry. He
only acted as if he were huffy. He would come back--of course he would.
There was his cane in the corner. Here was one of his collars. He had
left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. She looked about and tried to
assure herself with the sight of a dozen such details, but, alas, the
secondary thought arrived. Supposing he did come back. Then what?

Here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing. She
would have to talk with and explain to him. He would want her to admit
that he was right. It would be impossible for her to live with him.

On Friday Carrie remembered her appointment with Hurstwood, and the
passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have
been in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her
exceedingly fresh and clear. In her nervousness and stress of mind she
felt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street dress,
and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion once again.
She must look for work.

The rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served equally
well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors as it did
to reduce Hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day.

The morrow was Saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters, and
besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass shining
exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. When she went out
the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses. She could not
help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that life was a
joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she wished over
and over that something might interfere now to preserve for her the
comfortable state which she had occupied. She did not want Drouet or his
money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do with Hurstwood,
but only the content and ease of mind she had experienced, for, after
all, she had been happy--happier, at least, than she was now when
confronted by the necessity of making her way alone.

When she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock,
and the business had little longer to run. She did not realise this at
first, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result
of her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. She
wandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to
look for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was
not necessary to be in such haste about it. The thing was difficult to
encounter, and she had a few days. Besides, she was not sure that
she was really face to face again with the bitter problem of
self-sustenance. Anyhow, there was one change for the better. She knew
that she had improved in appearance. Her manner had vastly changed. Her
clothes were becoming, and men--well-dressed men, some of the kind
who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished
railings and imposing office partitions--now gazed into her face with a
soft light in their eyes. In a way, she felt the power and satisfaction
of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. She looked for nothing
save what might come legitimately and without the appearance of special
favour. She wanted something, but no man should buy her by false
protestations or favour. She proposed to earn her living honestly.

"This store closes at one on Saturdays," was a pleasing and satisfactory
legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to enter and inquire
for work. It gave her an excuse, and after encountering quite a number
of them, and noting that the clock registered 12.15, she decided that it
would be no use to seek further to-day, so she got on a car and went to
Lincoln Park. There was always something to see there--the flowers, the
animals, the lake--and she flattered herself that on Monday she would be
up betimes and searching. Besides, many things might happen between now
and Monday.

Sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven knows
what vagaries of mind and spirit. Every half-hour in the day the thought
would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing whip, that
action--immediate action--was imperative. At other times she would look
about her and assure herself that things were not so bad--that certainly
she would come out safe and sound. At such times she would think of
Drouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw some chance for
herself in that quarter. She decided to take up that opportunity on the
morrow.

Accordingly, she arose early Monday morning and dressed herself
carefully. She did not know just how such applications were made, but
she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the theatre
buildings. All you had to do was to inquire of some one about the
theatre for the manager and ask for a position. If there was anything,
you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how.

She had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever, and
did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe. She only
knew of the position which Mr. Hale occupied, but, of all things, she
did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of her intimacy
with his wife.

There was, however, at this time, one theatre, the Chicago Opera House,
which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager, David A.
Henderson, had a fair local reputation. Carrie had seen one or two
elaborate performances there and had heard of several others. She
knew nothing of Henderson nor of the methods of applying, but she
instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and accordingly
strolled about in that neighbourhood. She came bravely enough to the
showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded lobby, set with
framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading up to the quiet
box-office, but she could get no further. A noted comic opera comedian
was holding forth that week, and the air of distinction and prosperity
overawed her. She could not imagine that there would be anything in such
a lofty sphere for her. She almost trembled at the audacity which might
have carried her on to a terrible rebuff. She could find heart only to
look at the pictures which were showy and then walk out. It seemed to
her as if she had made a splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy
to think of applying in that quarter again.

This little experience settled her hunting for one day. She looked
around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. She got the location of
several playhouses fixed in her mind--notably the Grand Opera House and
McVickar's, both of which were leading in attractions--and then came
away. Her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly restored
sense of magnitude of the great interests and the insignificance of her
claims upon society, such as she understood them to be.

That night she was visited by Mrs. Hale, whose chatter and protracted
stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or the fortune
of the day. Before retiring, however, she sat down to think, and gave
herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Drouet had not put in an
appearance. She had had no word from any quarter, she had spent a
dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and paying car fare. It was
evident that she would not endure long. Besides, she had discovered no
resource.

In this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in Van Buren
Street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her
home at Columbia City, which seemed now a part of something that could
not be again. She looked for no refuge in that direction. Nothing but
sorrow was brought her by thoughts of Hurstwood, which would return.
That he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a
cruel thing.

Tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation. She
was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth
upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she
considered her weakness the day before. Accordingly she started out to
revisit the Chicago Opera House, but possessed scarcely enough courage
to approach.

She did manage to inquire at the box-office, however.

"Manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed
individual who took care of the tickets. He was favourably impressed by
Carrie's looks.

"I don't know," said Carrie, taken back by the question.

"You couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow," volunteered
the young man. "He's out of town."

He noted her puzzled look, and then added: "What is it you wish to see
about?"

"I want to see about getting a position," she answered.

"You'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but he
isn't here now."

"When will he be in?" asked Carrie, somewhat relieved by this
information.

"Well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. He's here after
two o'clock."

Carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed
after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop.

"Good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of
condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to himself.

One of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an
engagement at the Grand Opera House. Here Carrie asked to see the
manager of the company. She little knew the trivial authority of this
individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been
sent on from New York to fill it.

"His office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office.

Several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a
window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk--the
manager. Carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she
should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of
whom--the occupants of the window--were already observing her carefully.

"I can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of Mr. Frohman's
never to allow visitors back of the stage. No, no!"

Carrie timidly waited, standing. There were chairs, but no one motioned
her to be seated. The individual to whom the manager had been talking
went away quite crestfallen. That luminary gazed earnestly at some
papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern.

"Did you see that in the 'Herald' this morning about Nat Goodwin,
Harris?"

"No," said the person addressed. "What was it?" "Made quite a curtain
address at Hooley's last night. Better look it up."

Harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "Herald."

"What is it?" said the manager to Carrie, apparently noticing her for
the first time. He thought he was going to be held up for free tickets.

Carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. She
realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain. Of
this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had called
for advice.

"Can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?"

It was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. She
was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the
simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. He smiled, as did
the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to conceal
their humour.

"I don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "Have you ever
had any experience upon the stage?"

"A little," answered Carrie. "I have taken part in amateur
performances."

She thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to retain his
interest.

"Never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intended as
much to impress his friends with his discretion as Carrie.

"No, sir."

"Well, I don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his chair
while she stood before him. "What makes you want to get on the stage?"

She felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer to
his engaging smirk, and say:

"I need to make a living."

"Oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and feeling as
if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "That's a good reason,
isn't it? Well, Chicago is not a good place for what you want to do.
You ought to be in New York. There's more chance there. You could hardly
expect to get started out here." Carrie smiled genially, grateful that
he should condescend to advise her even so much. He noticed the smile,
and put a slightly different construction on it. He thought he saw an
easy chance for a little flirtation.

"Sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk
and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear.
Those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink.

"Well, I'll be going, Barney," said one, breaking away and so addressing
the manager. "See you this afternoon."

"All right," said the manager.

The remaining individual took up a paper as if to read.

"Did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?" asked
the manager softly.

"Oh, no," said Carrie. "I would take anything to begin with."

"I see," he said. "Do you live here in the city?"

"Yes, sir."

The manager smiled most blandly.

"Have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuming a
more confidential air.

Carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural in
his manner.

"No," she said.

"That's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage.
It's a good way to get experience."

He was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive
manner.

"I didn't know that," said Carrie.

"It's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a chance, you
know." Then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and
consulted it. "I've an appointment at two," he said, "and I've got to
go to lunch now. Would you care to come and dine with me? We can talk it
over there."

"Oh, no," said Carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at
once. "I have an engagement myself."

"That's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little
beforehand in his offer and that Carrie was about to go away. "Come in
later. I may know of something."

"Thank you," she answered, with some trepidation and went out.

"She was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion, who
had not caught all the details of the game he had played.

"Yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been lost.
"She'd never make an actress, though. Just another chorus girl--that's
all."

This little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the
manager at the Chicago Opera House, but she decided to do so after a
time. He was of a more sedate turn of mind. He said at once that there
was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish.

"Chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "You ought to be in New
York."

Still she persisted, and went to McVickar's, where she could not find
any one. "The Old Homestead" was running there, but the person to whom
she was referred was not to be found.

These little expeditions took up her time until quite four o'clock, when
she was weary enough to go home. She felt as if she ought to continue
and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too dispiriting. She
took the car and arrived at Ogden Place in three-quarters of an hour,
but decided to ride on to the West Side branch of the Post-office, where
she was accustomed to receive Hurstwood's letters. There was one
there now, written Saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled
feelings. There was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her
having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather
pitied the man. That he loved her was evident enough. That he had wished
and dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. She felt as if the
thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would write
and let him know that she knew of his married state and was justly
incensed at his deception. She would tell him that it was all over
between them.

At her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time, for
she fell to the task at once. It was most difficult.

"You do not need to have me explain why I did not meet you," she wrote
in part. "How could you deceive me so? You cannot expect me to have
anything more to do with you. I wouldn't under any circumstances. Oh,
how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "You have
caused me more misery than you can think. I hope you will get over your
infatuation for me. We must not meet any more. Good-bye."


She took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it
reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she
should do so or not. Then she took the car and went down town.

This was the dull season with the department stores, but she was
listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young
women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. She was
asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar.

"What can you do? Have you ever worked in a retail store before? Are you
experienced?"

At The Fair, See and Company's, and all the great stores it was much the
same. It was the dull season, she might come in a little later, possibly
they would like to have her.

When she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and
disheartened, she discovered that Drouet had been there. His umbrella
and light overcoat were gone. She thought she missed other things, but
could not be sure. Everything had not been taken.

So his going was crystallising into staying. What was she to do now?
Evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a day
or two. Her clothes would get poor. She put her two hands together
in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. Large tears
gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. She was alone,
very much alone.

Drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from
that which Carrie had imagined. He expected to find her, to justify
his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his
wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace.

Accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find Carrie out.
He trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood and
would soon return. He constantly listened, expecting to hear her foot on
the stair.

When he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just
come in and was disturbed at being caught. Then he would explain his
need of his clothes and find out how things stood.

Wait as he did, however, Carrie did not come. From pottering around
among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival he changed
to looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the
rocking-chair. Still no Carrie. He began to grow restless and lit a
cigar. After that he walked the floor. Then he looked out of the window
and saw clouds gathering. He remembered an appointment at three. He
began to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his
umbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. It
would scare her, he hoped. To-morrow he would come back for the others.
He would find out how things stood.

As he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. There
was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the
little jacket he had first bought her--her face a little more wistful
than he had seen it lately. He was really touched by it, and looked into
the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him.

"You didn't do me right, Cad," he said, as if he were addressing her in
the flesh.

Then he went to the door, took a good look around and went out.




It was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets,
after receiving the decisive note from McGregor, James and Hay, that
Hurstwood found the letter Carrie had written him that morning. He
thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it
open.

"Then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to me at
all."

He was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few
minutes, but soon recovered. "She wouldn't write at all if she didn't
care for me."

This was his one resource against the depression which held him. He
could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he
thought he knew.

There was really something exceedingly human--if not pathetic--in his
being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. He who had for so
long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for
comfort--and to such a source. The mystic cords of affection! How they
bind us all.

The colour came to his cheeks. For the moment he forgot the letter from
McGregor, James and Hay. If he could only have Carrie, perhaps he could
get out of the whole entanglement--perhaps it would not matter. He
wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose
Carrie. He stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a
life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart.

It was not long, however, before the old worry was back for
consideration, and with it what weariness! He thought of the morrow and
the suit. He had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away.
It was now a quarter of four. At five the attorneys would have gone
home. He still had the morrow until noon. Even as he thought, the last
fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. Then he abandoned the
thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to Carrie.

It is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. He
was not troubling about that. His whole thought was the possibility of
persuading Carrie. Nothing was wrong in that. He loved her dearly. Their
mutual happiness depended upon it. Would that Drouet were only away!

While he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some
clean linen in the morning.

This he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the
Palmer House. As he entered he thought he saw Drouet ascending the
stairs with a key. Surely not Drouet! Then he thought, perhaps they had
changed their abode temporarily. He went straight up to the desk.

"Is Mr. Drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk.

"I think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry list.
"Yes."

"Is that so?" exclaimed Hurstwood, otherwise concealing his
astonishment. "Alone?" he added.

"Yes," said the clerk.

Hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal
his feelings.

"How's that?" he thought. "They've had a row."

He hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. As he
did so, he made up his mind that if Carrie was alone, or if she had gone
to another place, it behooved him to find out. He decided to call at
once.

"I know what I'll do," he thought. "I'll go to the door and ask if Mr.
Drouet is at home. That will bring out whether he is there or not and
where Carrie is."

He was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. He
decided to go immediately after supper.

On coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see
if Drouet was present and then went out to lunch. He could scarcely eat,
however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. Before starting he
thought it well to discover where Drouet would be, and returned to his
hotel.

"Has Mr. Drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk.

"No," answered the latter, "he's in his room. Do you wish to send up a
card?" "No, I'll call around later," answered Hurstwood, and strolled
out.

He took a Madison car and went direct to Ogden Place this time walking
boldly up to the door. The chambermaid answered his knock.

"Is Mr. Drouet in?" said Hurstwood blandly.

"He is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard Carrie tell this
to Mrs. Hale.

"Is Mrs. Drouet in?"

"No, she has gone to the theatre."

"Is that so?" said Hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if
burdened with something important, "You don't know to which theatre?"

The girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking
Hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "Yes, Hooley's."

"Thank you," returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly, went
away.

"I'll look in at Hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he did
not. Before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought
the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. As much as he
longed to see Carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not
wish to intrude with his plea there. A little later he might do so--in
the morning. Only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him.

This little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising
spirits. He was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort
anxious to find relief. Quite a company of gentlemen were making the
place lively with their conversation. A group of Cook County politicians
were conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of
the room. Several young merrymakers were chattering at the bar before
making a belated visit to the theatre. A shabbily-genteel individual,
with a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale
alone at one end of the bar. Hurstwood nodded to the politicians and
went into his office.

About ten o'clock a friend of his, Mr. Frank L. Taintor, a local sport
and racing man, dropped in, and seeing Hurstwood alone in his office
came to the door.

"Hello, George!" he exclaimed.

"How are you, Frank?" said Hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of
him. "Sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little
room.

"What's the matter, George?" asked Taintor. "You look a little glum.
Haven't lost at the track, have you?"

"I'm not feeling very well to-night. I had a slight cold the other day."

"Take whiskey, George," said Taintor. "You ought to know that."

Hurstwood smiled.

While they were still conferring there, several other of Hurstwood's
friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some
actors began to drop in--among them some notabilities.

Then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in
American resorts where the would-be gilded attempt to rub off gilt from
those who have it in abundance. If Hurstwood had one leaning, it was
toward notabilities. He considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among
them. He was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe the
plane he occupied when there were those present who did not appreciate
him, but, in situations like the present, where he could shine as a
gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend and equal
among men of known ability, he was most delighted. It was on such
occasions, if ever, that he would "take something." When the social
flavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking
glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his turn
to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. If he ever approached
intoxication--or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which
precedes the more sloven state--it was when individuals such as these
were gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting
celebrities. To-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather
relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he
laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily.

It was not long before the imbibing began to tell. Stories began to crop
up--those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of
the conversation among American men under such circumstances.

Twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company
took leave. Hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. He was very
roseate physically. He had arrived at that state where his mind,
though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. He felt as if his
troubles were not very serious. Going into his office, he began to turn
over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the
cashier, who soon left.

It was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone
to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. As a rule,
no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about
the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the
owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless,
Hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash drawers and the
safe in order to see that they were tightly closed. Then he would lock
his own little office and set the proper light burning near the safe,
after which he would take his departure.

Never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but
to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe.
His way was to give a sharp pull. This time the door responded. He was
slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as left
for the day, apparently unprotected. His first thought was, of course,
to inspect the drawers and shut the door.

"I'll speak to Mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought.

The latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before
that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. He had
never failed to do so before. But to-night Mayhew had other thoughts. He
had been revolving the problem of a business of his own.

"I'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money
drawers. He did not know why he wished to look in there. It was quite a
superfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all.

As he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks
issue, caught his eye. He could not tell how much they represented, but
paused to view them. Then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers.
In that were the receipts of the day.

"I didn't know Fitzgerald and Moy ever left any money this way," his
mind said to itself. "They must have forgotten it."

He looked at the other drawer and paused again.

"Count them," said a voice in his ear.

He put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack,
letting the separate parcels fall. They were bills of fifty and one
hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. He thought he counted
ten such.

"Why don't I shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering. "What
makes me pause here?"

For answer there came the strangest words:

"Did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?"

Lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. All his
property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. He
was worth more than forty thousand, all told--but she would get that.

He puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers
and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so
easily lock it all beyond temptation. Still he paused. Finally he went
to the windows and pulled down the curtains. Then he tried the door,
which he had previously locked. What was this thing, making him
suspicious? Why did he wish to move about so quietly. He came back to
the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. Then he went and
unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. He also opened
his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange thoughts.

"The safe is open," said a voice. "There is just the least little crack
in it. The lock has not been sprung."

The manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. Now all the
entanglement of the day came back. Also the thought that here was a
solution. That money would do it. If he had that and Carrie. He rose up
and stood stock-still, looking at the floor.

"What about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly
up and scratched his head.

The manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant
proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. Wine was in his
veins. It had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the
situation. It also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him.
He could see great opportunities with that. He could get Carrie. Oh,
yes, he could! He could get rid of his wife. That letter, too, was
waiting discussion to-morrow morning. He would not need to answer that.
He went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. Then he pulled
the door open and took the drawer with the money quite out.

With it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think
about leaving it. Certainly it would. Why, he could live quietly with
Carrie for years.

Lord! what was that? For the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand
had been laid upon his shoulder. He looked fearfully around. Not a soul
was present. Not a sound. Some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. He
took the box and the money and put it back in the safe. Then he partly
closed the door again.

To those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the
individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles
in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless
graphically portrayed. Those who have never heard that solemn voice of
the ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, "thou shalt,"
"thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," are in no position to
judge. Not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental
conflict possible. The dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn
by desire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is
proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. We must
remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of
right is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. Men
are still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. It
is instinct which recalls the criminal--it is instinct (where highly
organised reasoning is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of
danger, his fear of wrong.

At every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers.
The clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. To those who
have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal
on the simple ground of revelation.

When Hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and
daring. No one had observed him. He was quite alone. No one could tell
what he wished to do. He could work this thing out for himself.

The imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. Moist as was his
brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was
still flushed with the fumes of liquor. He scarcely noticed that the
time was passing. He went over his situation once again, his eye always
seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. He
strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again.
He put his hand on the knob and opened it. There was the money! Surely
no harm could come from looking at it!

He took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. They were so smooth,
so compact, so portable. How little they made, after all. He decided he
would take them. Yes, he would. He would put them in his pocket. Then he
looked at that and saw they would not go there. His hand satchel! To be
sure, his hand satchel. They would go in that--all of it would. No one
would think anything of it either. He went into the little office and
took it from the shelf in the corner. Now he set it upon his desk and
went out toward the safe. For some reason he did not want to fill it out
in the big room. First he brought the bills and then the loose receipts
of the day. He would take it all. He put the empty drawers back and
pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating.

The wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost
inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. Hurstwood could not
bring himself to act definitely. He wanted to think about it--to ponder
over it, to decide whether it were best. He was drawn by such a keen
desire for Carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs
that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. He did
not know what evil might result from it to him--how soon he might come
to grief. The true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him,
and never would have, under any circumstances.

After he had all the money in the handbag, a revulsion of feeling seized
him. He would not do it--no! Think of what a scandal it would make. The
police! They would be after him. He would have to fly, and where? Oh,
the terror of being a fugitive from justice! He took out the two boxes
and put all the money back. In his excitement he forgot what he was
doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. As he pushed the door to,
he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. There
were the two boxes mixed.

He took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had
gone. Why be afraid?

While the money was in his hand the lock clicked. It had sprung! Did
he do it? He grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. It had closed.
Heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough.

The moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat
burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. He looked about him
and decided instantly. There was no delaying now.

"Supposing I do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'll
know who took it. I'm the last to close up. Besides, other things will
happen."

At once he became the man of action.

"I must get out of this," he thought.

He hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat,
locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. Then he turned out all but one
light and opened the door. He tried to put on his old assured air, but
it was almost gone. He was repenting rapidly.

"I wish I hadn't done that," he said. "That was a mistake."

He walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom
he knew who was trying doors. He must get out of the city, and that
quickly.

"I wonder how the trains run?" he thought.

Instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. It was nearly half-past
one.

At the first drugstore he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone
booth inside. It was a famous drugstore, and contained one of the first
private telephone booths ever erected. "I want to use your 'phone a
minute," he said to the night clerk.

The latter nodded.

"Give me 1643," he called to Central, after looking up the Michigan
Central depot number. Soon he got the ticket agent.

"How do the trains leave here for Detroit?" he asked.

The man explained the hours.

"No more to-night?"

"Nothing with a sleeper. Yes, there is, too," he added. "There is a mail
train out of here at three o'clock."

"All right," said Hurstwood. "What time does that get to Detroit?"

He was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into
Canada, he could take his time about getting to Montreal. He was
relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon.

"Mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "They can't get on
my track before noon."

Then he thought of Carrie. With what speed must he get her, if he got
her at all. She would have to come along. He jumped into the nearest cab
standing by.

"To Ogden Place," he said sharply. "I'll give you a dollar more if you
make good time."

The cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop which was
fairly fast, however. On the way Hurstwood thought what to do. Reaching
the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking
the servant.

"Is Mrs. Drouet in?" he asked.

"Yes," said the astonished girl.

"Tell her to dress and come to the door at once. Her husband is in the
hospital, injured, and wants to see her."

The servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained and
emphatic manner.

"What!" said Carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes.

"Mr. Drouet is hurt and in the hospital. He wants to see you. The cab's
downstairs."

Carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting
everything save the necessities.

"Drouet is hurt," said Hurstwood quickly. "He wants to see you. Come
quickly."

Carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story.

"Get in," said Hurstwood, helping her and jumping after.

The cabby began to turn the horse around. "Michigan Central depot," he
said, standing up and speaking so low that Carrie could not hear, "as
fast as you can go."




The cab had not travelled a short block before Carrie, settling herself
and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked:

"What's the matter with him? Is he hurt badly?"

"It isn't anything very serious," Hurstwood said solemnly. He was very
much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had Carrie with
him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law. Therefore he
was in no mood for anything save such words as would further his plans
distinctly.

Carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between
her and Hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. The one
thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage.

"Where is he?"

"Way out on the South Side," said Hurstwood. "We'll have to take the
train. It's the quickest way."

Carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. The weirdness of the
city by night held her attention. She looked at the long receding rows
of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses.

"How did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the nature of his
injuries. Hurstwood understood. He hated to lie any more than necessary,
and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger.

"I don't know exactly," he said. "They just called me up to go and get
you and bring you out. They said there wasn't any need for alarm, but
that I shouldn't fail to bring you."

The man's serious manner convinced Carrie, and she became silent,
wondering.

Hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. For one in so
delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. He could only think of how
needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. Carrie seemed
quite tractable, and he congratulated himself.

In due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he handed
the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on.

"You wait here," he said to Carrie, when they reached the waiting-room,
"while I get the tickets."

"Have I much time to catch that train for Detroit?" he asked of the
agent.

"Four minutes," said the latter.

He paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible.

"Is it far?" said Carrie, as he hurried back.

"Not very," he said. "We must get right in."

He pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the ticket
man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could not see,
and then hurried after.

There was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two
common day coaches. As the train had only recently been made up and few
passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen waiting.
They entered the rear day coach and sat down. Almost immediately, "All
aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and the train started.

Carrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to a
depot--but said nothing. The whole incident was so out of the natural
that she did not attach too much weight to anything she imagined.

"How have you been?" asked Hurstwood gently, for he now breathed easier.

"Very well," said Carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not bring
a proper attitude to bear in the matter. She was still nervous to reach
Drouet and see what could be the matter. Hurstwood contemplated her and
felt this. He was not disturbed that it should be so. He did not trouble
because she was moved sympathetically in the matter. It was one of the
qualities in her which pleased him exceedingly. He was only thinking how
he should explain. Even this was not the most serious thing in his mind,
however. His own deed and present flight were the great shadows which
weighed upon him.

"What a fool I was to do that," he said over and over. "What a mistake!"

In his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had been
done. He could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from justice.
He had often read of such things, and had thought they must be terrible,
but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and looked into the
past. The future was a thing which concerned the Canadian line. He
wanted to reach that. As for the rest he surveyed his actions for the
evening, and counted them parts of a great mistake.

"Still," he said, "what could I have done?"

Then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do so
by starting the whole inquiry over again. It was a fruitless, harassing
round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the proposition he had
in the presence of Carrie.

The train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran rather
slowly to Twenty-fourth Street. Brakes and signals were visible without.
The engine gave short calls with its whistle, and frequently the bell
rang. Several brakemen came through, bearing lanterns. They were locking
the vestibules and putting the cars in order for a long run.

Presently it began to gain speed, and Carrie saw the silent streets
flashing by in rapid succession. The engine also began its whistle-calls
of four parts, with which it signalled danger to important crossings.

"Is it very far?" asked Carrie. "Not so very," said Hurstwood. He could
hardly repress a smile at her simplicity. He wanted to explain and
conciliate her, but he also wanted to be well out of Chicago.

In the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to Carrie that it
was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow.

"Is it in Chicago?" she asked nervously. They were now far beyond the
city limits, and the train was scudding across the Indiana line at a
great rate.

"No," he said, "not where we are going."

There was something in the way he said this which aroused her in an
instant.

Her pretty brow began to contract.

"We are going to see Charlie, aren't we?" she asked.

He felt that the time was up. An explanation might as well come now as
later. Therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle negative.

"What?" said Carrie. She was nonplussed at the possibility of the errand
being different from what she had thought.

He only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way.

"Well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice showing the
quality of fright.

"I'll tell you, Carrie, if you'll be quiet. I want you to come along
with me to another city."

"Oh," said Carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "Let me off. I
don't want to go with you."

She was quite appalled at the man's audacity. This was something which
had never for a moment entered her head. Her one thought now was to get
off and away. If only the flying train could be stopped, the terrible
trick would be amended.

She arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. She knew she
had to do something. Hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her.

"Sit still, Carrie," he said. "Sit still. It won't do you any good
to get up here. Listen to me and I'll tell you what I'll do. Wait a
moment."

She was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. No one saw
this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and they
were attempting to doze.

"I won't," said Carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her
will. "Let me go," she said. "How dare you?" and large tears began to
gather in her eyes.

Hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and ceased
to think of his own situation. He must do something with this girl, or
she would cause him trouble. He tried the art of persuasion with all his
powers aroused.

"Look here now, Carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. I didn't
mean to hurt your feelings. I don't want to do anything to make you feel
bad."

"Oh," sobbed Carrie, "oh, oh--oo--o!"

"There, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. Won't you listen to me?
Listen to me a minute, and I'll tell you why I came to do this thing. I
couldn't help it. I assure you I couldn't. Won't you listen?"

Her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear a word
he said.

"Won't you listen?" he asked.

"No, I won't," said Carrie, flashing up. "I want you to take me out of
this, or I'll tell the conductor. I won't go with you. It's a shame,"
and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression.

Hurstwood listened with some astonishment. He felt that she had just
cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could straighten
this thing out quickly. Shortly the conductor would come through for the
tickets. He wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind. Before everything
he must make her quiet.

"You couldn't get out until the train stops again," said Hurstwood. "It
won't be very long until we reach another station. You can get out then
if you want to. I won't stop you. All I want you to do is to listen a
moment. You'll let me tell you, won't you?"

Carrie seemed not to listen. She only turned her head toward the window,
where outside all was black. The train was speeding with steady grace
across the fields and through patches of wood. The long whistles
came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland crossings were
approached.

Now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares that
had been added at Chicago. He approached Hurstwood, who handed out the
tickets. Poised as she was to act, Carrie made no move. She did not look
about.

When the conductor had gone again Hurstwood felt relieved.

"You're angry at me because I deceived you," he said. "I didn't mean
to, Carrie. As I live I didn't. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stay away
from you after the first time I saw you."

He was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the
board. He wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a
factor in their relationship. The money he had stolen he tried to shut
out of his mind.

"Don't talk to me," said Carrie, "I hate you. I want you to go away from
me. I am going to get out at the very next station."

She was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke.

"All right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? After all you
have said about loving me, you might hear me. I don't want to do you any
harm. I'll give you the money to go back with when you go. I merely want
to tell you, Carrie. You can't stop me from loving you, whatever you may
think."

He looked at her tenderly, but received no reply. "You think I have
deceived you badly, but I haven't. I didn't do it willingly. I'm through
with my wife. She hasn't any claims on me. I'll never see her any more.
That's why I'm here to-night. That's why I came and got you."

"You said Charlie was hurt," said Carrie, savagely. "You deceived me.
You've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to
run away with you."

She was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. He let
her, and she took another seat. Then he followed.

"Don't run away from me, Carrie," he said gently. "Let me explain. If
you will only hear me out you will see where I stand. I tell you my wife
is nothing to me. She hasn't been anything for years or I wouldn't have
ever come near you. I'm going to get a divorce just as soon as I can.
I'll never see her again. I'm done with all that. You're the only person
I want. If I can have you I won't ever think of another woman again."

Carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. It sounded sincere
enough, however, despite all he had done. There was a tenseness in
Hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. She did
not want anything to do with him. He was married, he had deceived
her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. Still there is
something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman,
especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love of
her.

The progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the
solution of this difficult situation. The speeding wheels and
disappearing country put Chicago farther and farther behind. Carrie
could feel that she was being borne a long distance off--that the engine
was making an almost through run to some distant city. She felt at times
as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would come to
her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing--so far was
she from any aid, no matter what she did. All the while Hurstwood was
endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike
home and bring her into sympathy with him.

"I was simply put where I didn't know what else to do."

Carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this.

"When I say you wouldn't come unless I could marry you, I decided to put
everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. I'm going
off now to another city. I want to go to Montreal for a while, and then
anywhere you want to. We'll go and live in New York, if you say."

"I'll not have anything to do with you," said Carrie. "I want to get off
this train. Where are we going?"

"To Detroit," said Hurstwood.

"Oh!" said Carrie, in a burst of anguish. So distant and definite a
point seemed to increase the difficulty.

"Won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great danger
that she would not. "You won't need to do anything but travel with me.
I'll not trouble you in any way. You can see Montreal and New York, and
then if you don't want to stay you can go back. It will be better than
trying to go back to-night."

The first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for Carrie. It
seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if she
tried to carry it out. Montreal and New York! Even now she was speeding
toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. She
thought, but made no sign.

Hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. He redoubled his
ardour.

"Think," he said, "what I've given up. I can't go back to Chicago any
more. I've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't come with
me. You won't go back on me entirely, will you, Carrie?"

"I don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly.

Hurstwood kept silent for a while.

Carrie felt the train to be slowing down. It was the moment to act if
she was to act at all. She stirred uneasily.

"Don't think of going, Carrie," he said. "If you ever cared for me at
all, come along and let's start right. I'll do whatever you say. I'll
marry you, or I'll let you go back. Give yourself time to think it over.
I wouldn't have wanted you to come if I hadn't loved you. I tell you,
Carrie, before God, I can't live without you. I won't!"

There was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed
deeply to her sympathies. It was a dissolving fire which was actuating
him now. He was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in
this, his hour of distress. He clutched her hand nervously and pressed
it with all the force of an appeal.

The train was now all but stopped. It was running by some cars on a side
track. Everything outside was dark and dreary. A few sprinkles on the
window began to indicate that it was raining. Carrie hung in a quandary,
balancing between decision and helplessness. Now the train stopped, and
she was listening to his plea. The engine backed a few feet and all was
still.

She wavered, totally unable to make a move. Minute after minute slipped
by and still she hesitated, he pleading.

"Will you let me come back if I want to?" she asked, as if she now had
the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued.

"Of course," he answered, "you know I will."

Carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. She
began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely.

The train was again in rapid motion. Hurstwood changed the subject.

"Aren't you very tired?" he said.

"No," she answered.

"Won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?"

She shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she was
beginning to notice what she had always felt--his thoughtfulness.

"Oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better."

She shook her head.

"Let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged his
light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head.

"There," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little." He
could have kissed her for her compliance. He took his seat beside her
and thought a moment.

"I believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said.

"So it looks," said Carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the
sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on
frantically through the shadow to a newer world.

The fact that he had in a measure mollified Carrie was a source of
satisfaction to Hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary
relief. Now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his
time to devote to the consideration of his own error.

His condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the
miserable sum he had stolen. He did not want to be a thief. That sum
or any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus
foolishly doffed. It could not give him back his host of friends, his
name, his house and family, nor Carrie, as he had meant to have her.
He was shut out from Chicago--from his easy, comfortable state. He
had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant
evenings. And for what? The more he thought of it the more unbearable it
became. He began to think that he would try and restore himself to his
old state. He would return the miserable thievings of the night and
explain. Perhaps Moy would understand. Perhaps they would forgive him
and let him come back.

By noontime the train rolled into Detroit and he began to feel
exceedingly nervous. The police must be on his track by now. They had
probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives would
be watching for him. He remembered instances in which defaulters had
been captured. Consequently, he breathed heavily and paled somewhat. His
hands felt as if they must have something to do. He simulated interest
in several scenes without which he did not feel. He repeatedly beat his
foot upon the floor.

Carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. She had no idea what it
meant or that it was important.

He wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on through
to Montreal or some Canadian point. Perhaps he could have saved time. He
jumped up and sought the conductor.

"Does any part of this train go to Montreal?" he asked.

"Yes, the next sleeper back does."

He would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to
inquire at the depot.

The train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing.

"I think we had better go right on through to Montreal," he said to
Carrie. "I'll see what the connections are when we get off."

He was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior.
Carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. She was drifting
mentally, unable to say to herself what to do.

The train stopped and Hurstwood led the way out. He looked warily around
him, pretending to look after Carrie. Seeing nothing that indicated
studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office.

"The next train for Montreal leaves when?" he asked.

"In twenty minutes," said the man.

He bought two tickets and Pullman berths. Then he hastened back to
Carrie.

"We go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that Carrie looked
tired and weary.

"I wish I was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily.

"You'll feel better when we reach Montreal," he said.

"I haven't an earthly thing with me," said Carrie; "not even a
handkerchief."

"You can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he
explained. "You can call in a dressmaker."

Now the crier called the train ready and they got on. Hurstwood breathed
a sigh of relief as it started. There was a short run to the river, and
there they were ferried over. They had barely pulled the train off the
ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh.

"It won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his relief.
"We get there the first thing in the morning."

Carrie scarcely deigned to reply.

"I'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "I'm hungry."




To the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is
invariably fascinating. Next to love, it is the one thing which solaces
and delights. Things new are too important to be neglected, and mind,
which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood
of objects. Thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden
from view. There is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite
dramatic expression--"I am going away."

As Carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she
had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she
was without the necessary apparel for travelling. She quite forgot
Hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and
cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. It was an interesting
world to her. Her life had just begun. She did not feel herself defeated
at all. Neither was she blasted in hope. The great city held much.
Possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom--who knows? Perhaps
she would be happy. These thoughts raised her above the level of erring.
She was saved in that she was hopeful.

The following morning the train pulled safely into Montreal and they
stepped down, Hurstwood glad to be out of danger, Carrie wondering at
the novel atmosphere of the northern city. Long before, Hurstwood had
been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had
stopped. As they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it
called anew by a busman.

"We'll go right up and get rooms," he said.

At the clerk's office Hurstwood swung the register about while the clerk
came forward. He was thinking what name he would put down. With the
latter before him he found no time for hesitation. A name he had seen
out of the car window came swiftly to him. It was pleasing enough. With
an easy hand he wrote, "G. W. Murdock and wife." It was the largest
concession to necessity he felt like making. His initials he could not
spare.

When they were shown their room Carrie saw at once that he had secured
her a lovely chamber.

"You have a bath there," said he. "Now you can clean up when you get
ready."

Carrie went over and looked out the window, while Hurstwood looked at
himself in the glass. He felt dusty and unclean. He had no trunk, no
change of linen, not even a hair-brush.

"I'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a hair-brush.
Then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. I'll go for a shave and
come back and get you, and then we'll go out and look for some clothes
for you."

He smiled good-naturedly as he said this.

"All right," said Carrie.

She sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while Hurstwood waited for
the boy, who soon knocked.

"Soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll go now," he said to Carrie, coming toward her and holding out his
hands, but she did not move to take them.

"You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly.

"Oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently.

"Don't you care for me at all?"

She made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window.

"Don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking one of
her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "You once said you did."

"What made you deceive me so?" asked Carrie.

"I couldn't help it," he said, "I wanted you too much."

"You didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking cleanly
home.

"Oh, well, Carrie," he answered, "here I am. It's too late now. Won't
you try and care for me a little?"

He looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her.

She shook her head negatively.

"Let me start all over again. Be my wife from to-day on."

Carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. Now he slipped
his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. He held her quite
close. Instantly there flamed up in his body the all compelling desire.
His affection took an ardent form.

"Let me go," said Carrie, who was folded close to him.

"Won't you love me?" he said. "Won't you be mine from now on?"

Carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. Only a moment before she
had been listening with some complacency, remembering her old affection
for him. He was so handsome, so daring!

Now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which rose
feebly. It mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she was,
began to wane. Something else in her spoke. This man, to whose bosom she
was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved her, and she
was alone. If she did not turn to him--accept of his love--where else
might she go? Her resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong
feeling.

She found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. What magnetism
there was she could never know. His many sins, however, were for the
moment all forgotten.

He pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further
opposition was useless.

"Will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how.

"This very day," he said, with all delight.

Now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon her
regretfully.

"You get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?"

"Yes," she answered.

"I'll be back in three-quarters of an hour."

Carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy.

Below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop. For the
moment, he was in fine feather. His recent victory over Carrie seemed
to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. Life seemed
worth fighting for. This eastward flight from all things customary and
attached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. The storm showed
a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold.

He was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was
fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly. Instantly
his heart sank. "Why, hello, George, old man!" said the voice. "What are
you doing down here?"

Hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend Kenny, the
stock-broker.

"Just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind
working like a key-board of a telephone station. This man evidently did
not know--he had not read the papers.

"Well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said Mr. Kenny
genially. "Stopping here?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the
register.

"Going to be in town long?"

"No, only a day or so."

"Is that so? Had your breakfast?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood, lying blandly. "I'm just going for a shave."

"Won't you come have a drink?"

"Not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "I'll see you later. Are
you stopping here?"

"Yes," said Mr. Kenny, and then, turning the word again added: "How are
things out in Chicago?"

"About the same as usual," said Hurstwood, smiling genially.

"Wife with you?"

"No."

"Well, I must see more of you to-day. I'm just going in here for
breakfast. Come in when you're through."

"I will," said Hurstwood, moving away. The whole conversation was a
trial to him. It seemed to add complications with very word. This man
called up a thousand memories. He represented everything he had left.
Chicago, his wife, the elegant resort--all these were in his greeting
and inquiries. And here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer
with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. All
at once the Chicago papers would arrive. The local papers would have
accounts in them this very day. He forgot his triumph with Carrie in the
possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's eyes, a
safe-breaker. He could have groaned as he went into the barber shop. He
decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel.

Accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear,
and hastened toward the stairs. He would get Carrie and go out by the
ladies' entrance. They would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous
place.

Across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. He was
of a commonplace Irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with
a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician's.
This individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he
surveyed the ex-manager keenly.

Hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type.
Instinctively he felt that the man was a detective--that he was being
watched. He hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind
was a world of thoughts. What would happen now? What could these people
do? He began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. He did not
understand them absolutely. Perhaps he could be arrested. Oh, if Carrie
should find out! Montreal was too warm for him. He began to long to be
out of it.

Carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. She looked
refreshed--more delightful than ever, but reserved. Since he had gone
she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. Love was not
blazing in her heart. He felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. He
could not take her in his arms; he did not even try. Something about her
forbade it. In part his opinion was the result of his own experiences
and reflections below stairs.

"You're ready, are you?" he said kindly.

"Yes," she answered.

"We'll go out for breakfast. This place down here doesn't appeal to me
very much."

"All right," said Carrie.

They went out, and at the corner the commonplace Irish individual was
standing, eyeing him. Hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing that
he knew of this chap's presence. The insolence in the fellow's eye was
galling. Still they passed, and he explained to Carrie concerning the
city. Another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here they
entered.

"What a queer town this is," said Carrie, who marvelled at it solely
because it was not like Chicago.

"It Isn't as lively as Chicago," said Hurstwood. "Don't you like it?"

"No," said Carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great
Western city.

"Well, it isn't as interesting," said Hurstwood.

"What's here?" asked Carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this
town.

"Nothing much," returned Hurstwood. "It's quite a resort. There's some
pretty scenery about here."

Carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. There was much about her
situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation.

"We won't stay here long," said Hurstwood, who was now really glad
to note her dissatisfaction. "You pick out your clothes as soon as
breakfast is over and we'll run down to New York soon. You'll like that.
It's a lot more like a city than any place outside Chicago."

He was really planning to slip out and away. He would see what these
detectives would do--what move his employers at Chicago would make--then
he would slip away--down to New York, where it was easy to hide. He knew
enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of
mystification were infinite.

The more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became.
He saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. The firm
would probably employ detectives to watch him--Pinkerton men or agents
of Mooney and Boland. They might arrest him the moment he tried to leave
Canada. So he might be compelled to remain here months, and in what a
state!

Back at the hotel Hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the
morning papers. He wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed
had spread. So he told Carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went
to secure and scan the dailies. No familiar or suspicious faces were
about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so he sought the
main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a window there, looked
them over. Very little was given to his crime, but it was there,
several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders,
accidents, marriages, and other news. He wished, half sadly, that he
could undo it all. Every moment of his time in this far-off abode of
safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake. There
could have been an easier way out if he had only known.

He left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep them
out of the hands of Carrie.

"Well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. She was engaged in looking
out of the window.

"Oh, all right," she answered.

He came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a
knock came at their door.

"Maybe it's one of my parcels," said Carrie.

Hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual whom he
had so thoroughly suspected.

"You're Mr. Hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume of
affected shrewdness and assurance.

"Yes," said Hurstwood calmly. He knew the type so thoroughly that some
of his old familiar indifference to it returned. Such men as these were
of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. He stepped out and closed
the door.

"Well, you know what I am here for, don't you?" said the man
confidentially.

"I can guess," said Hurstwood softly.

"Well, do you intend to try and keep the money?"

"That's my affair," said Hurstwood grimly.

"You can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly.

"Look here, my man," said Hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't
understand anything about this case, and I can't explain to you.
Whatever I intend to do I'll do without advice from the outside. You'll
have to excuse me." "Well, now, there's no use of your talking that
way," said the man, "when you're in the hands of the police. We can make
a lot of trouble for you if we want to. You're not registered right in
this house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't
know you're here yet. You might as well be reasonable."

"What do you want to know?" asked Hurstwood.

"Whether you're going to send back that money or not."

Hurstwood paused and studied the floor.

"There's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last. "There's
no use of your asking me. I'm no fool, you know. I know just what you
can do and what you can't. You can create a lot of trouble if you want
to. I know that all right, but it won't help you to get the money. Now,
I've made up my mind what to do. I've already written Fitzgerald and
Moy, so there's nothing I can say. You wait until you hear more from
them."

All the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door,
down the corridor, out of the hearing of Carrie. They were now near the
end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour.

"You won't give it up?" said the man.

The words irritated Hurstwood greatly. Hot blood poured into his brain.
Many thoughts formulated themselves. He was no thief. He didn't want the
money. If he could only explain to Fitzgerald and Moy, maybe it would be
all right again.

"See here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. I
respect your power all right, but I'll have to deal with the people who
know."

"Well, you can't get out of Canada with it," said the man.

"I don't want to get out," said Hurstwood. "When I get ready there'll be
nothing to stop me for."

He turned back, and the detective watched him closely. It seemed an
intolerable thing. Still he went on and into the room.

"Who was it?" asked Carrie.

"A friend of mine from Chicago."

The whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did
after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a deep
gloom and moral revulsion in Hurstwood. What hurt him most was the fact
that he was being pursued as a thief. He began to see the nature of that
social injustice which sees but one side--often but a single point in
a long tragedy. All the newspapers noted but one thing, his taking the
money. How and wherefore were but indifferently dealt with. All the
complications which led up to it were unknown. He was accused without
being understood.

Sitting in his room with Carrie the same day, he decided to send the
money back. He would write Fitzgerald and Moy, explain all, and then
send it by express. Maybe they would forgive him. Perhaps they would
ask him back. He would make good the false statement he had made about
writing them. Then he would leave this peculiar town.

For an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. He
wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. He finally narrowed it
down to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining friends,
had found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the money
out, had accidentally closed it. This act he regretted very much. He was
sorry he had put them to so much trouble. He would undo what he could by
sending the money back--the major portion of it. The remainder he would
pay up as soon as he could. Was there any possibility of his being
restored? This he only hinted at.

The troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very
construction of this letter. For the nonce he forgot what a painful
thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him. He
forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and that
if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the jagged line
of separation and reunion would always show. He was always forgetting
something--his wife, Carrie, his need of money, present situation, or
something--and so did not reason clearly. Nevertheless, he sent the
letter, waiting a reply before sending the money.

Meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with Carrie, getting what
joy out of it he could.

Out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open
windows. Sparrows were twittering. There were laughter and song in the
air. Hurstwood could not keep his eyes from Carrie. She seemed the
one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. Oh, if she would only love him
wholly--only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which
he had seen her in the little park in Chicago--how happy he would be!
It would repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. He would
not care.

"Carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are you
going to stay with me from now on?"

She looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of
the look upon his face forced itself upon her. It was love now, keen
and strong--love enhanced by difficulty and worry. She could not help
smiling.

"Let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "Don't make me worry
any more. I'll be true to you. We'll go to New York and get a nice flat.
I'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. Won't you be mine?"

Carrie listened quite solemnly. There was no great passion in her, but
the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance of
affection. She felt rather sorry for him--a sorrow born of what had only
recently been a great admiration. True love she had never felt for him.
She would have known as much if she could have analysed her feelings,
but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great feeling broke
down the barriers between them.

"You'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, nodding her head.

He gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks.

"You must marry me, though," she said. "I'll get a license to-day," he
answered.

"How?" she asked.

"Under a new name," he answered. "I'll take a new name and live a new
life. From now on I'm Murdock."

"Oh, don't take that name," said Carrie.

"Why not?" he said.

"I don't like it."

"Well, what shall I take?" he asked.

"Oh, anything, only don't take that."

He thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said:

"How would Wheeler do?"

"That's all right," said Carrie.

"Well, then, Wheeler," he said. "I'll get the license this afternoon."

They were married by a Baptist minister, the first divine they found
convenient.

At last the Chicago firm answered. It was by Mr. Moy's dictation. He
was astonished that Hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had come
about as it had. If the money were returned, they would not trouble
to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. As for his
returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had not
quite decided what the effect of it would be. They would think it over
and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and so on.

The sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted
the money with the least trouble possible. Hurstwood read his doom.
He decided to pay $9,500 to the agent whom they said they would send,
keeping $1,300 for his own use. He telegraphed his acquiescence,
explained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day,
took a certificate of payment, and told Carrie to pack her trunk. He was
slightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to make
it, but eventually restored himself. He feared that even yet he might be
seized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements, but it was
scarcely possible. He ordered Carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he
had it sent by express to New York. No one seemed to be observing him,
but he left at night. He was greatly agitated lest at the first station
across the border or at the depot in New York there should be waiting
for him an officer of the law.

Carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into
the latter city in the morning. The round green hills sentinelling the
broad, expansive bosom of the Hudson held her attention by their beauty
as the train followed the line of the stream. She had heard of the
Hudson River, the great city of New York, and now she looked out,
filling her mind with the wonder of it.

As the train turned east at Spuyten Duyvil and followed the east bank of
the Harlem River, Hurstwood nervously called her attention to the
fact that they were on the edge of the city. After her experience with
Chicago, she expected long lines of cars--a great highway of tracks--and
noted the difference. The sight of a few boats in the Harlem and more
in the East River tickled her young heart. It was the first sign of the
great sea. Next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and
then the train plunged into the tunnel.

"Grand Central Station!" called the trainman, as, after a few minutes of
darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. Hurstwood arose and gathered up
his small grip. He was screwed up to the highest tension. With Carrie
he waited at the door and then dismounted. No one approached him, but
he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the street entrance.
So excited was he that he forgot all about Carrie, who fell behind,
wondering at his self-absorption. As he passed through the depot proper
the strain reached its climax and began to wane. All at once he was on
the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. He heaved a great breath
and turned, remembering Carrie.

"I thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said.

"I was trying to remember which car takes us to the Gilsey," he
answered.

Carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene.

"How large is New York?" she asked.

"Oh a million or more," said Hurstwood.

He looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way.

For the first time in years the thought that he must count these little
expenses flashed through his mind. It was a disagreeable thing.

He decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a flat.
Accordingly he told Carrie, and she agreed.

"We'll look to-day, if you want to," she said.

Suddenly he thought of his experience in Montreal. At the more important
hotels he would be certain to meet Chicagoans whom he knew. He stood up
and spoke to the driver.

"Take me to the Belford," he said, knowing it to be less frequented by
those whom he knew. Then he sat down.

"Where is the residence part?" asked Carrie, who did not take the tall
five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families.

"Everywhere," said Hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. "There are
no lawns in New York. All these are houses."

"Well, then, I don't like it," said Carrie, who was coming to have a few
opinions of her own.



Whatever a man like Hurstwood could be in Chicago, it is very evident
that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like New York. In
Chicago, whose population still ranged about 500,000, millionaires were
not numerous. The rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to drown
all moderate incomes in obscurity. The attention of the inhabitants
was not so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic,
social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man from
view. In Chicago the two roads to distinction were politics and trade.
In New York the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and each had been
diligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous.
The sea was already full of whales. A common fish must needs disappear
wholly from view--remain unseen. In other words, Hurstwood was nothing.

There is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which, though
not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the world.
The great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the small.
This atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. Walk among the magnificent
residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops, restaurants,
resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the wines; drink
of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious content, of the
glances which gleam like light from defiant spears; feel the quality
of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of strides born of
place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of the high
and mighty. Little use to argue that of such is not the kingdom of
greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and the human
heart views this as the one desirable realm which it must attain, so
long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of greatness. So long,
also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its desperate results in
the soul of man. It is like a chemical reagent. One day of it, like one
drop of the other, will so affect and discolour the views, the aims, the
desire of the mind, that it will thereafter remain forever dyed. A day
of it to the untried mind is like opium to the untried body. A craving
is set up which, if gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and
death. Aye! dreams unfulfilled--gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which
beckon and lead, beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve
their power and restore us blind to nature's heart.

A man of Hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the illusions
and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the strength of hope
which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth. Such an atmosphere
could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of eighteen, but in so far
as they were excited, the lack of hope made them proportionately bitter.
He could not fail to notice the signs of affluence and luxury on every
hand. He had been to New York before and knew the resources of its
folly. In part it was an awesome place to him, for here gathered all
that he most respected on this earth--wealth, place, and fame. The
majority of the celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day
as manager hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. The most
inviting stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and
individuals here. He knew it to be true that unconsciously he was
brushing elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or
five hundred thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than
comfortably in so wealthy a place. Fashion and pomp required more ample
sums, so that the poor man was nowhere. All this he realised, now quite
sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled of
his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the battle
for place and comfort all over again. He was not old, but he was not so
dull but that he could feel he soon would be. Of a sudden, then, this
show of fine clothes, place, and power took on peculiar significance. It
was emphasised by contrast with his own distressing state.

And it was distressing. He soon found that freedom from fear of arrest
was not the sine qua non of his existence. That danger dissolved, the
next necessity became the grievous thing. The paltry sum of thirteen
hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of rent, clothing,
food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle little calculated
to induce peace of mind in one who had been accustomed to spend five
times that sum in the course of a year. He thought upon the subject
rather actively the first few days he was in New York, and decided
that he must act quickly. As a consequence, he consulted the business
opportunities advertised in the morning papers and began investigations
on his own account.

That was not before he had become settled, however. Carrie and he went
looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in Seventy-eighth Street
near Amsterdam Avenue. It was a five-story building, and their flat was
on the third floor. Owing to the fact that the street was not yet built
up solidly, it was possible to see east to the green tops of the trees
in Central Park and west to the broad waters of the Hudson, a glimpse
of which was to be had out of the west windows. For the privilege of six
rooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they were compelled to pay
thirty-five dollars a month--an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a
home at the time. Carrie noticed the difference between the size of the
rooms here and in Chicago and mentioned it.

"You'll not find anything better, dear," said Hurstwood, "unless you
go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any of
these conveniences."

Carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright
wood-work. It was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat,
which was a great advantage. The stationary range, hot and cold water,
dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her
very much. She had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take great
satisfaction in these things.

Hurstwood made arrangements with one of the instalment houses whereby
they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and
ten dollars a month. He then had a little plate, bearing the name G. W.
Wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. It sounded
exceedingly odd to Carrie to be called Mrs. Wheeler by the janitor, but
in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as her own.

These house details settled, Hurstwood visited some of the advertised
opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing down-town
bar. After the palatial resort in Adams Street, he could not stomach the
commonplace saloons which he found advertised. He lost a number of days
looking up these and finding them disagreeable. He did, however, gain
considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence of
Tammany Hall and the value of standing in with the police. The most
profitable and flourishing places he found to be those which conducted
anything but a legitimate business, such as that controlled by
Fitzgerald and Moy. Elegant back rooms and private drinking booths on
the second floor were usually adjuncts of very profitable places. He
saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts shone with large diamonds,
and whose clothes were properly cut, that the liquor business here,
as elsewhere, yielded the same golden profit. At last he found an
individual who had a resort in Warren Street, which seemed an excellent
venture. It was fairly well-appearing and susceptible of improvement.
The owner claimed the business to be excellent, and it certainly looked
so.

"We deal with a very good class of people," he told Hurstwood.
"Merchants, salesmen, and professionals. It's a well-dressed class. No
bums. We don't allow 'em in the place."

Hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the trade for
a while.

"It's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked.

"You can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor trade," said
the owner. "This is only one of the two places I have. The other is down
in Nassau Street. I can't tend to them both alone. If I had some one who
knew the business thoroughly I wouldn't mind sharing with him in this
one and letting him manage it."

"I've had experience enough," said Hurstwood blandly, but he felt a
little diffident about referring to Fitzgerald and Moy.

"Well, you can suit yourself, Mr. Wheeler," said the proprietor.

He only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and good-will,
and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial ability on
the part of the one who should come in. There was no property involved,
because the owner of the saloon merely rented from an estate.

The offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with Hurstwood
whether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one
hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in
order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. It was
not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted, to
hesitate. It looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month now.
By judicious management and improvement, it might be made to pay more.
Accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made over his
thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day.

His first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to Carrie
that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. Time, however,
introduced food for reflection. He found his partner to be very
disagreeable. Frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him
surly. This was the last thing which Hurstwood was used to in business.
Besides, the business varied. It was nothing like the class of patronage
which he had enjoyed in Chicago. He found that it would take a long time
to make friends. These people hurried in and out without seeking the
pleasures of friendship. It was no gathering or lounging place. Whole
days and weeks passed without one such hearty greeting as he had been
wont to enjoy every day in Chicago.

For another thing, Hurstwood missed the celebrities--those well-dressed,
elite individuals who lend grace to the average bars and bring news
from far-off and exclusive circles. He did not see one such in a month.
Evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally read in the
evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he knew--whom
he had drunk a glass with many a time. They would visit a bar like
Fitzgerald and Moy's in Chicago, or the Hoffman House, uptown, but he
knew that he would never see them down here. Again, the business did not
pay as well as he thought. It increased a little, but he found he would
have to watch his household expenses, which was humiliating.

In the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night, as
he did, and find Carrie. He managed to run up and take dinner with her
between six and seven, and to remain home until nine o'clock in the
morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time, and he began to
feel the drag of his duties.

The first month had scarcely passed before Carrie said in a very natural
way: "I think I'll go down this week and buy a dress.'

"What kind?" said Hurstwood.

"Oh, something for street wear."

"All right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that it
would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. Nothing was said
about it the next day, but the following morning he asked:

"Have you done anything about your dress?"

"Not yet," said Carrie.

He paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said:

"Would you mind putting it off a few days?"

"No," replied Carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks. She
had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before.
"Why?"

"Well, I'll tell you," said Hurstwood. "This investment of mine is
taking a lot of money just now. I expect to get it all back shortly, but
just at present I am running close."

"Oh!" answered Carrie. "Why, certainly, dear. Why didn't you tell me
before?"

"It wasn't necessary," said Hurstwood.

For all her acquiescence, there was something about the way Hurstwood
spoke which reminded Carrie of Drouet and his little deal which he was
always about to put through. It was only the thought of a second, but it
was a beginning. It was something new in her thinking of Hurstwood.

Other things followed from time to time, little things of the same
sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full
revelation. Carrie was not dull by any means. Two persons cannot long
dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another.
The mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether
he voluntarily confesses them or not. Trouble gets in the air and
contributes gloom, which speaks for itself. Hurstwood dressed as nicely
as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in Canada. Carrie
noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was
anything but large. She noticed, also, that he did not suggest many
amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about his
business. This was not the easy Hurstwood of Chicago--not the liberal,
opulent Hurstwood she had known. The change was too obvious to escape
detection.

In time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she
was not in his confidence. He was evidently secretive and kept his own
counsel. She found herself asking him questions about little things.
This is a disagreeable state to a woman. Great love makes it seem
reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. Where great
love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is
reached.

As for Hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the difficulties
of a changed condition. He was too shrewd not to realise the tremendous
mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had done well in getting
where he was, and yet he could not help contrasting his present state
with his former, hour after hour, and day after day.

Besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends, ever
since one such encounter which he made shortly after his arrival in the
city. It was in Broadway that he saw a man approaching him whom he
knew. There was no time for simulating non-recognition. The exchange of
glances had been too sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent.
So the friend, a buyer for one of the Chicago wholesale houses, felt,
perforce, the necessity of stopping.

"How are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture of
feeling and a lack of plausible interest.

"Very well," said Hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "How is it with you?"

"All right; I'm down here doing a little buying. Are you located here
now?"

"Yes," said Hurstwood, "I have a place down in Warren Street."

"Is that so?" said the friend. "Glad to hear it. I'll come down and see
you."

"Do," said Hurstwood.

"So long," said the other, smiling affably and going on.

"He never asked for my number," thought Hurstwood; "he wouldn't think
of coming." He wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and hoped
sincerely he would meet no one else.

These things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. His one hope was
that things would change for the better in a money way.

He had Carrie. His furniture was being paid for. He was maintaining his
position. As for Carrie, the amusements he could give her would have
to do for the present. He could probably keep up his pretensions
sufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would
be well. He failed therein to take account of the frailties of human
nature--the difficulties of matrimonial life. Carrie was young. With
him and with her varying mental states were common. At any moment the
extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table. This
often happens in the best regulated families. Little things brought out
on such occasions need great love to obliterate them afterward. Where
that is not, both parties count two and two and make a problem after a
while.



The effect of the city and his own situation on Hurstwood was paralleled
in the case of Carrie, who accepted the things which fortune provided
with the most genial good-nature. New York, despite her first expression
of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. Its clear atmosphere,
more populous thoroughfares, and peculiar indifference struck her
forcibly. She had never seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon
enlisted her affection. The new furniture made an excellent showing,
the sideboard which Hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly. The
furniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called parlour,
or front room, was installed a piano, because Carrie said she would like
to learn to play. She kept a servant and developed rapidly in household
tactics and information. For the first time in her life she felt
settled, and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived
of it. Her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. For a long while she
concerned herself over the arrangement of New York flats, and wondered
at ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and
indifferent to each other. She also marvelled at the whistles of the
hundreds of vessels in the harbour--the long, low cries of the Sound
steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. The mere fact that these
things spoke from the sea made them wonderful. She looked much at what
she could see of the Hudson from her west windows and of the great city
building up rapidly on either hand. It was much to ponder over, and
sufficed to entertain her for more than a year without becoming stale.

For another thing, Hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his
affection for her. Troubled as he was, he never exposed his difficulties
to her. He carried himself with the same self-important air, took his
new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in Carrie's proclivities
and successes. Each evening he arrived promptly to dinner, and found the
little dining-room a most inviting spectacle. In a way, the smallness
of the room added to its luxury. It looked full and replete. The
white-covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a
four-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red shade.
Between Carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out all right, and
canned goods did the rest for a while. Carrie studied the art of making
biscuit, and soon reached the stage where she could show a plate of
light, palatable morsels for her labour.

In this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. Winter came,
and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the attending of
theatres was not much talked of. Hurstwood made great efforts to meet
all expenditures without a show of feeling one way or the other.
He pretended that he was reinvesting his money in strengthening the
business for greater ends in the future. He contented himself with
a very moderate allowance of personal apparel, and rarely suggested
anything for Carrie. Thus the first winter passed.

In the second year, the business which Hurstwood managed did increase
somewhat. He got out of it regularly the $150 per month which he had
anticipated. Unfortunately, by this time Carrie had reached certain
conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances.

Being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and aggressive
nature, Carrie accepted the situation. Her state seemed satisfactory
enough. Once in a while they would go to a theatre together,
occasionally in season to the beaches and different points about the
city, but they picked up no acquaintances. Hurstwood naturally abandoned
his show of fine manners with her and modified his attitude to one
of easy familiarity. There were no misunderstandings, no apparent
differences of opinion. In fact, without money or visiting friends,
he led a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor comment. Carrie
rather sympathised with his efforts and thought nothing upon her lack
of entertainment such as she had enjoyed in Chicago. New York as a
corporate entity and her flat temporarily seemed sufficient.

However, as Hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began to
pick up acquaintances. He also began to allow himself more clothes.
He convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him, but
allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. The first time
he did this he sent a message saying that he would be detained. Carrie
ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again. The second time,
also, he sent word, but at the last moment. The third time he forgot
entirely and explained afterwards. These events were months apart, each.

"Where were you, George?" asked Carrie, after the first absence.

"Tied up at the office," he said genially. "There were some accounts I
had to straighten."

"I'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "I was fixing to
have such a nice dinner."

The second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the feeling
about it in Carrie's mind was a little bit out of the ordinary.

"I couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the evening, "I
was so busy."

"Couldn't you have sent me word?" asked Carrie.

"I meant to," he said, "but you know I forgot it until it was too late
to do any good."

"And I had such a good dinner!" said Carrie.

Now, it so happened that from his observations of Carrie he began to
imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. He really
thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was finding its
natural channel in household duties. Notwithstanding the fact that he
had observed her act in Chicago, and that during the past year he had
only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him by conditions
which he made, and that she had not gained any friends or associates, he
drew this peculiar conclusion. With it came a feeling of satisfaction
in having a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction worked
its natural result. That is, since he imagined he saw her satisfied,
he felt called upon to give only that which contributed to such
satisfaction. He supplied the furniture, the decorations, the food, and
the necessary clothing. Thoughts of entertaining her, leading her out
into the shine and show of life, grew less and less. He felt attracted
to the outer world, but did not think she would care to go along. Once
he went to the theatre alone. Another time he joined a couple of his
new friends at an evening game of poker. Since his money-feathers were
beginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about. All this, however,
in a much less imposing way than had been his wont in Chicago. He
avoided the gay places where he would be apt to meet those who had known
him. Now, Carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. She was
not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. Not loving him
greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. In fact, she was
not jealous at all. Hurstwood was pleased with her placid manner, when
he should have duly considered it. When he did not come home it did
not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. She gave him credit for
having the usual allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop,
friends to consult with. She was perfectly willing that he should enjoy
himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. Her
state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. All she did observe was
that Hurstwood was somewhat different.

Some time in the second year of their residence in Seventy-eighth Street
the flat across the hall from Carrie became vacant, and into it moved
a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom Carrie
afterwards became acquainted. This was brought about solely by the
arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by
the dumb-waiter. This useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the
like were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down,
was used by both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened
into it from each flat.

If the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor
at the same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the
dumb-waiter doors. One morning, when Carrie went to remove her paper,
the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age,
was there for a like purpose. She was in a night-robe and dressing-gown,
with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty and
good-natured that Carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. The
newcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient.
Carrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling
stirred in the mind of the other, who admired Carrie's innocent face.

"That's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said Carrie to
Hurstwood at the breakfast table.

"Who are they?" asked Hurstwood.

"I don't know," said Carrie. "The name on the bell is Vance. Some one
over there plays beautifully. I guess it must be she."

"Well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next to in
this town, can you?" said Hurstwood, expressing the customary New York
opinion about neighbours.

"Just think," said Carrie, "I have been in this house with nine other
families for over a year and I don't know a soul. These people have been
here over a month and I haven't seen any one before this morning."

"It's just as well," said Hurstwood. "You never know who you're going to
get in with. Some of these people are pretty bad company."

"I expect so," said Carrie, agreeably.

The conversation turned to other things, and Carrie thought no more upon
the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to market, she
encountered Mrs. Vance coming in. The latter recognised her and nodded,
for which Carrie returned a smile. This settled the probability of
acquaintanceship. If there had been no faint recognition on this
occasion, there would have been no future association.

Carrie saw no more of Mrs. Vance for several weeks, but she heard her
play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the flats,
and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the brilliance
of their rendition. She could play only moderately herself, and such
variety as Mrs. Vance exercised bordered, for Carrie, upon the verge of
great art. Everything she had seen and heard thus far--the merest scraps
and shadows--indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and
in comfortable circumstances. So Carrie was ready for any extension of
the friendship which might follow.

One day Carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the kitchen,
pressed the button which caused the front door of the general entrance
on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. When Carrie waited at
her own door on the third floor to see who it might be coming up to call
on her, Mrs. Vance appeared.

"I hope you'll excuse me," she said. "I went out a while ago and forgot
my outside key, so I thought I'd ring your bell."

This was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever
they had forgotten their outside keys. They did not apologise for it,
however.

"Certainly," said Carrie. "I'm glad you did. I do the same thing
sometimes."

"Isn't it just delightful weather?" said Mrs. Vance, pausing for a
moment.

Thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was
well launched, and in the young Mrs. Vance Carrie found an agreeable
companion.

On several occasions Carrie visited her and was visited. Both flats were
good to look upon, though that of the Vances tended somewhat more to the
luxurious.

"I want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said Mrs.
Vance, not long after their intimacy began. "He wants to meet you. You
play cards, don't you?"

"A little," said Carrie.

"Well, we'll have a game of cards. If your husband comes home bring him
over."

"He's not coming to dinner to-night," said Carrie.

"Well, when he does come we'll call him in."

Carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly Vance, an individual
a few years younger than Hurstwood, and who owed his seemingly
comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to his good
looks. He thought well of Carrie upon the first glance and laid himself
out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and talking to her
about New York and its pleasures. Mrs. Vance played some upon the piano,
and at last Hurstwood came.

"I am very glad to meet you," he said to Mrs. Vance when Carrie
introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated
Carrie. "Did you think your wife had run away?" said Mr. Vance,
extending his hand upon introduction.

"I didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," said
Hurstwood.

He now turned his attention to Mrs. Vance, and in a flash Carrie saw
again what she for some time had subconsciously missed in Hurstwood--the
adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. She also saw that she
was not well dressed--not nearly as well dressed--as Mrs. Vance. These
were not vague ideas any longer. Her situation was cleared up for her.
She felt that her life was becoming stale, and therein she felt cause
for gloom. The old helpful, urging melancholy was restored. The desirous
Carrie was whispered to concerning her possibilities.

There were no immediate results to this awakening, for Carrie had little
power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable of
getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily borne
along. Hurstwood noticed nothing. He had been unconscious of the marked
contrasts which Carrie had observed.

He did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in her
eyes. Worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of the flat and
seek the company of Mrs. Vance, who liked her exceedingly.

"Let's go to the matinee this afternoon," said Mrs. Vance, who had
stepped across into Carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft
pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. Hurstwood and
Vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before.

"All right," said Carrie, noticing the air of the petted and
well-groomed woman in Mrs. Vance's general appearance. She looked as
though she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "What shall we
see?"

"Oh, I do want to see Nat Goodwin," said Mrs. Vance. "I do think he is
the jolliest actor. The papers say this is such a good play."

"What time will we have to start?" asked Carrie.

"Let's go at once and walk down Broadway from Thirty-fourth Street,"
said Mrs. Vance. "It's such an interesting walk. He's at the Madison
Square."

"I'll be glad to go," said Carrie. "How much will we have to pay for
seats?"

"Not more than a dollar," said Mrs. Vance.

The latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly arrayed
in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match. Carrie had
gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman pained her by
contrast. She seemed to have so many dainty little things which Carrie
had not. There were trinkets of gold, an elegant green leather purse set
with her initials, a fancy handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design, and
the like. Carrie felt that she needed more and better clothes to compare
with this woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick Mrs.
Vance for her raiment alone. It was a trying, though rather unjust
thought, for Carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure, and
had grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of
her colour of beauty. There was some difference in the clothing of the
two, both of quality and age, but this difference was not especially
noticeable. It served, however, to augment Carrie's dissatisfaction with
her state.

The walk down Broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable features
of the city. There gathered, before the matinee and afterwards, not only
all the pretty women who love a showy parade, but the men who love to
gaze upon and admire them. It was a very imposing procession of pretty
faces and fine clothes. Women appeared in their very best hats, shoes,
and gloves, and walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or
theatres strung along from Fourteenth to Thirty-fourth Streets. Equally
the men paraded with the very latest they could afford. A tailor might
have secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and
colours, a hatter on hats. It was literally true that if a lover of
fine clothes secured a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on
Broadway. So true and well understood was this fact, that several years
later a popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the
afternoon parade on matinee days, and entitled "What Right Has He on
Broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-halls of
the city.

In all her stay in the city, Carrie had never heard of this showy
parade; had never even been on Broadway when it was taking place. On the
other hand, it was a familiar thing to Mrs. Vance, who not only knew of
it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely to see and be
seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any tendency to fall
short in dressiness by contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion
of the town.

Carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car at
Thirty-fourth Street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely company
which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. She noticed suddenly
that Mrs. Vance's manner had rather stiffened under the gaze of handsome
men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances were not modified by any
rules of propriety. To stare seemed the proper and natural thing. Carrie
found herself stared at and ogled. Men in flawless top-coats, high hats,
and silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often into
conscious eyes. Ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding
affected smiles and perfume. Carrie noticed among them the sprinkling
of goodness and the heavy percentage of vice. The rouged and powdered
cheeks and lips, the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous
eye, were common enough. With a start she awoke to find that she was
in fashion's crowd, on parade in a show place--and such a show place!
Jewellers' windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency.
Florist shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners--all followed in
rapid succession. The street was full of coaches. Pompous doormen
in immense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of
expensive salesrooms. Coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue
jackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were
shopping inside. The whole street bore the flavour of riches and show,
and Carrie felt that she was not of it. She could not, for the life
of her, assume the attitude and smartness of Mrs. Vance, who, in her
beauty, was all assurance. She could only imagine that it must be
evident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two.
It cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here
again until she looked better. At the same time she longed to feel the
delight of parading here as an equal. Ah, then she would be happy!



Such feelings as were generated in Carrie by this walk put her in an
exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the play.
The actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his popularity by
presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which sufficient sorrow was
introduced to lend contrast and relief to humour. For Carrie, as we well
know, the stage had a great attraction. She had never forgotten her one
histrionic achievement in Chicago. It dwelt in her mind and occupied her
consciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-chair
and her latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her state. Never
could she witness a play without having her own ability vividly brought
to consciousness. Some scenes made her long to be a part of them--to
give expression to the feelings which she, in the place of the character
represented, would feel. Almost invariably she would carry the vivid
imaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. She
lived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her
daily life.

It was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's core
by actualities. To-day a low song of longing had been set singing in her
heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen. Oh, these
women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong, who were
they? Whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the astonishingly coloured
buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold? Where were these lovely
creatures housed? Amid what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated
walls, elaborate tapestries did they move? Where were their rich
apartments, loaded with all that money could provide? In what stables
champed these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages?
Where lounged the richly groomed footmen? Oh, the mansions, the lights,
the perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! New York must be filled
with such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures
could not be. Some hothouses held them. It ached her to know that she
was not one of them--that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not
come true. She wondered at her own solitude these two years past--her
indifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had
expected.

The play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which charmingly
overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love and jealousy
amid gilded surroundings. Such bon-mots are ever enticing to those who
have all their days longed for such material surroundings and have never
had them gratified. They have the charm of showing suffering under ideal
conditions. Who would not grieve upon a gilded chair? Who would not
suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried
servants? Grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing.
Carrie longed to be of it. She wanted to take her sufferings, whatever
they were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate them
under such charming conditions upon the stage. So affected was her
mind by what she had seen, that the play now seemed an extraordinarily
beautiful thing. She was soon lost in the world it represented, and
wished that she might never return. Between the acts she studied the
galaxy of matinee attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a
new idea of the possibilities of New York. She was sure she had not seen
it all--that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight.

Going out, the same Broadway taught her a sharper lesson. The scene she
had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its height. Such
a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. It clinched her
convictions concerning her state. She had not lived, could not lay claim
to having lived, until something of this had come into her own life.
Women were spending money like water; she could see that in every
elegant shop she passed. Flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal
things in which the elegant dames were interested. And she--she had
scarcely enough pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times
a month.

That night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. It was not
what the rest of the world was enjoying. She saw the servant working at
dinner with an indifferent eye. In her mind were running scenes of the
play. Particularly she remembered one beautiful actress--the sweetheart
who had been wooed and won. The grace of this woman had won Carrie's
heart. Her dresses had been all that art could suggest, her sufferings
had been so real. The anguish which she had portrayed Carrie could feel.
It was done as she was sure she could do it. There were places in which
she could even do better. Hence she repeated the lines to herself. Oh,
if she could only have such a part, how broad would be her life! She,
too, could act appealingly.

When Hurstwood came, Carrie was moody. She was sitting, rocking and
thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations broken in
upon; so she said little or nothing.

"What's the matter, Carrie?" said Hurstwood after a time, noticing her
quiet, almost moody state.

"Nothing," said Carrie. "I don't feel very well tonight."

"Not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close.

"Oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "I just don't feel very good."

"That's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest
after his slight bending over. "I was thinking we might go to a show
to-night."

"I don't want to go," said Carrie, annoyed that her fine visions should
have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "I've been to the
matinee this afternoon."

"Oh, you have?" said Hurstwood. "What was it?"

"A Gold Mine."

"How was it?"

"Pretty good," said Carrie.

"And you don't want to go again to night?"

"I don't think I do," she said.

Nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the dinner
table, she changed her mind. A little food in the stomach does wonders.
She went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered her equanimity.
The great awakening blow had, however, been delivered. As often as she
might recover from these discontented thoughts now, they would occur
again. Time and repetition--ah, the wonder of it! The dropping water and
the solid stone--how utterly it yields at last!

Not long after this matinee experience--perhaps a month--Mrs. Vance
invited Carrie to an evening at the theatre with them. She heard Carrie
say that Hurstwood was not coming home to dinner.

"Why don't you come with us? Don't get dinner for yourself. We're going
down to Sherry's for dinner and then over to the Lyceum. Come along with
us."

"I think I will," answered Carrie.

She began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past
five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding Delmonico's for
position in society. In this dressing Carrie showed the influence of
her association with the dashing Mrs. Vance. She had constantly had her
attention called by the latter to novelties in everything which pertains
to a woman's apparel.

"Are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "Have you seen the new
gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases out of a
large selection.

"The next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said Mrs. Vance, "get
button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. They're all the rage
this fall."

"I will," said Carrie.

"Oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at Altman's? They have
some of the loveliest patterns. I saw one there that I know would look
stunning on you. I said so when I saw it."

Carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they
were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common between
pretty women. Mrs. Vance liked Carrie's stable good-nature so well that
she really took pleasure in suggesting to her the latest things.

"Why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're
selling at Lord & Taylor's?" she said one day. "They're the circular
style, and they're going to be worn from now on. A dark blue one would
look so nice on you."

Carrie listened with eager ears. These things never came up between her
and Hurstwood. Nevertheless, she began to suggest one thing and another,
which Hurstwood agreed to without any expression of opinion. He noticed
the new tendency on Carrie's part, and finally, hearing much of Mrs.
Vance and her delightful ways, suspected whence the change came. He was
not inclined to offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that
Carrie's wants were expanding. This did not appeal to him exactly, but
he cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood. Still, there
was something in the details of the transactions which caused Carrie
to feel that her requests were not a delight to him. He did not enthuse
over the purchases. This led her to believe that neglect was creeping
in, and so another small wedge was entered.

Nevertheless, one of the results of Mrs. Vance's suggestions was the
fact that on this occasion Carrie was dressed somewhat to her own
satisfaction. She had on her best, but there was comfort in the thought
that if she must confine herself to a best, it was neat and fitting. She
looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and Mrs. Vance praised her,
which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a noticeable brightness
into her large eyes. It was threatening rain, and Mr. Vance, at his
wife's request, had called a coach. "Your husband isn't coming?"
suggested Mr. Vance, as he met Carrie in his little parlour.

"No; he said he wouldn't be home for dinner."

"Better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. He might
turn up."

"I will," said Carrie, who had not thought of it before.

"Tell him we'll be at Sherry's until eight o'clock. He knows, though I
guess."

Carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note,
gloves on. When she returned a newcomer was in the Vance flat.

"Mrs. Wheeler, let me introduce Mr. Ames, a cousin of mine," said Mrs.
Vance. "He's going along with us, aren't you, Bob?"

"I'm very glad to meet you," said Ames, bowing politely to Carrie.

The latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart figure.
She also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking, and young, but
nothing more.

"Mr. Ames is just down in New York for a few days," put in Vance, "and
we're trying to show him around a little."

"Oh, are you?" said Carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer.

"Yes; I am just on here from Indianapolis for a week or so," said young
Ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while Mrs. Vance
completed the last touches of her toilet.

"I guess you find New York quite a thing to see, don't you?" said
Carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence.

"It is rather large to get around in a week," answered Ames, pleasantly.

He was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free of
affectation. It seemed to Carrie he was as yet only overcoming the last
traces of the bashfulness of youth. He did not seem apt at conversation,
but he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly courageous. Carrie
felt as if it were not going to be hard to talk to him.

"Well, I guess we're ready now. The coach is outside."

"Come on, people," said Mrs. Vance, coming in smiling. "Bob, you'll have
to look after Mrs. Wheeler."

"I'll try to," said Bob smiling, and edging closer to Carrie. "You won't
need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort of ingratiating
and help-me-out kind of way.

"Not very, I hope," said Carrie.

They descended the stairs, Mrs. Vance offering suggestions, and climbed
into the open coach.

"All right," said Vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance
rolled away.

"What is it we're going to see?" asked Ames.

"Sothern," said Vance, "in 'Lord Chumley.'"

"Oh, he is so good!" said Mrs. Vance. "He's just the funniest man."

"I notice the papers praise it," said Ames.

"I haven't any doubt," put in Vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very much."

Ames had taken a seat beside Carrie, and accordingly he felt it his
bounden duty to pay her some attention. He was interested to find her so
young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a respectful interest.
There was nothing of the dashing lady's man about him. He had respect
for the married state, and thought only of some pretty marriageable
girls in Indianapolis.

"Are you a born New Yorker?" asked Ames of Carrie.

"Oh, no; I've only been here for two years."

"Oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow."

"I don't seem to have," answered Carrie. "It's about as strange to me as
when I first came here."

"You're not from the West, are you?"

"Yes. I'm from Wisconsin," she answered.

"Well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here so
very long. I hear of lots of Indiana people in my line who are here."

"What is your line?" asked Carrie.

"I'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth.

Carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional
interruptions from the Vances. Several times it became general and
partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached.

Carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking in the
streets which they were following. Coaches were numerous, pedestrians
many, and in Fifty-ninth Street the street cars were crowded. At
Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue a blaze of lights from several new
hotels which bordered the Plaza Square gave a suggestion of sumptuous
hotel life. Fifth Avenue, the home of the wealthy, was noticeably
crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress. At Sherry's an
imposing doorman opened the coach door and helped them out. Young Ames
held Carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps. They entered
the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting
themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room.

In all Carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. In the
whole time she had been in New York Hurstwood's modified state had
not permitted his bringing her to such a place. There was an almost
indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that this
was the proper thing. Here was the place where the matter of expense
limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class. Carrie
had read of it often in the "Morning" and "Evening World." She had seen
notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at Sherry's. The Misses
So-and-so would give a party on Wednesday evening at Sherry's. Young Mr.
So-and-So would entertain a party of friends at a private luncheon on
the sixteenth, at Sherry's. The common run of conventional, perfunctory
notices of the doings of society, which she could scarcely refrain from
scanning each day, had given her a distinct idea of the gorgeousness
and luxury of this wonderful temple of gastronomy. Now, at last, she was
really in it. She had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large
and portly doorman. She had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and
portly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care
of canes, overcoats, and the like. Here was the splendid dining-chamber,
all decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. Ah, how fortunate was
Mrs. Vance; young, beautiful, and well off--at least, sufficiently so to
come here in a coach. What a wonderful thing it was to be rich.

Vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were seated
parties of two, three, four, five, or six. The air of assurance and
dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the novitiate.
Incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow in polished glasses,
and the shine of gilt upon the walls, combined into one tone of light
which it requires minutes of complacent observation to separate and take
particular note of. The white shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright
costumes of the ladies, diamonds, jewels, fine feathers--all were
exceedingly noticeable.

Carrie walked with an air equal to that of Mrs. Vance, and accepted the
seat which the head waiter provided for her. She was keenly aware of
all the little things that were done--the little genuflections and
attentions of the waiters and head waiter which Americans pay for. The
air with which the latter pulled out each chair, and the wave of the
hand with which he motioned them to be seated, were worth several
dollars in themselves.

Once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and
unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy Americans, which is the
wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over. The
large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an army,
sidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure a ridiculous
impossibility--an order of soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen
kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the
half-dozen; entrees, fish, and meats at prices which would house one
over night in an average hotel. One dollar fifty and two dollars seemed
to be the most common figures upon this most tastefully printed bill of
fare.

Carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring chicken
carried her back to that other bill of fare and far different occasion
when, for the first time, she sat with Drouet in a good restaurant in
Chicago. It was only momentary--a sad note as out of an old song--and
then it was gone. But in that flash was seen the other Carrie--poor,
hungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and all Chicago a cold and closed
world, from which she only wandered because she could not find work.

On the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg blue,
set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate mouldings of
fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic comfort. On the
ceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt, leading to a centre
where spread a cluster of lights--incandescent globes mingled with
glittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. The floor was of
a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every direction were
mirrors--tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors--reflecting and
re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred times.

The tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint
of Sherry upon the napery, the name of Tiffany upon the silverware, the
name of Haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the small,
red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on garments
and faces, made them seem remarkable. Each waiter added an air of
exclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed, scraped,
touched, and trifled with things. The exclusively personal attention
which he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to one side,
elbows akimbo, saying: "Soup--green turtle, yes. One portion, yes.
Oysters--certainly--half-dozen--yes. Asparagus. Olives--yes."

It would be the same with each one, only Vance essayed to order for all,
inviting counsel and suggestions. Carrie studied the company with open
eyes. So this was high life in New York. It was so that the rich spent
their days and evenings. Her poor little mind could not rise above
applying each scene to all society. Every fine lady must be in the crowd
on Broadway in the afternoon, in the theatre at the matinee, in the
coaches and dining-halls at night. It must be glow and shine everywhere,
with coaches waiting, and footmen attending, and she was out of it all.
In two long years she had never even been in such a place as this.

Vance was in his element here, as Hurstwood would have been in former
days. He ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side dishes,
and had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down beside the
table in a wicker basket.

Ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an
interesting profile to Carrie. His forehead was high, his nose rather
large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. He had a good, wide,
well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted slightly on one
side. He seemed to have the least touch of boyishness to Carrie, and yet
he was a man full grown.

"Do you know," he said, turning back to Carrie, after his reflection,
"I sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so much money this
way."

Carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at his
seriousness. He seemed to be thinking about something over which she had
never pondered.

"Do you?" she answered, interestedly.

"Yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are worth. They
put on so much show."

"I don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said Mrs.
Vance.

"It doesn't do any harm," said Vance, who was still studying the bill of
fare, though he had ordered.

Ames was looking away again, and Carrie was again looking at his
forehead. To her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. As he
studied the crowd his eye was mild.

"Look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to
Carrie, and nodding in a direction.

"Where?" said Carrie, following his eyes.

"Over there in the corner--way over. Do you see that brooch?"

"Isn't it large?" said Carrie.

"One of the largest clusters of jewels I have ever seen," said Ames.

"It is, isn't it?" said Carrie. She felt as if she would like to be
agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps
preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was better
educated than she was--that his mind was better. He seemed to look it,
and the saving grace in Carrie was that she could understand that people
could be wiser. She had seen a number of people in her life who reminded
her of what she had vaguely come to think of as scholars. This strong
young man beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold
of things which she did not quite understand, but approved of. It was
fine to be so, as a man, she thought.

The conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the
time--"Moulding a Maiden," by Albert Ross. Mrs. Vance had read it. Vance
had seen it discussed in some of the papers.

"A man can make quite a strike writing a book," said Vance. "I notice
this fellow Ross is very much talked about." He was looking at Carrie as
he spoke.

"I hadn't heard of him," said Carrie, honestly.

"Oh, I have," said Mrs. Vance. "He's written lots of things. This last
story is pretty good."

"He doesn't amount to much," said Ames.

Carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle.

"His stuff is nearly as bad as 'Dora Thorne,'" concluded Ames.

Carrie felt this as a personal reproof. She read "Dora Thorne," or had
a great deal in the past. It seemed only fair to her, but she supposed
that people thought it very fine. Now this clear-eyed, fine-headed
youth, who looked something like a student to her, made fun of it. It
was poor to him, not worth reading. She looked down, and for the first
time felt the pain of not understanding.

Yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way Ames spoke.
He had very little of that in him. Carrie felt that it was just kindly
thought of a high order--the right thing to think, and wondered what
else was right, according to him. He seemed to notice that she listened
and rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talked mostly to
her.

As the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they
were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little
attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation
upon the diner, Ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of
Indianapolis in an intelligent way. He really had a very bright mind,
which was finding its chief development in electrical knowledge. His
sympathies for other forms of information, however, and for types of
people, were quick and warm. The red glow on his head gave it a sandy
tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. Carrie noticed all these things
as he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young. This man was far
ahead of her. He seemed wiser than Hurstwood, saner and brighter than
Drouet. He seemed innocent and clean, and she thought that he was
exceedingly pleasant. She noticed, also, that his interest in her was a
far-off one. She was not in his life, nor any of the things that touched
his life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things, they appealed to
her.

"I shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner proceeded and
the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich enough to spend
my money this way."

"Oh, wouldn't you?" said Carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing
itself distinctly upon her for the first time.

"No," he said. "What good would it do? A man doesn't need this sort of
thing to be happy."

Carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight
with her.

"He probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone. He's
so strong."

Mr. and Mrs. Vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these
impressive things by Ames came at odd moments. They were sufficient,
however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself
upon Carrie without words. There was something in him, or the world he
moved in, which appealed to her. He reminded her of scenes she had seen
on the stage--the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she
knew not what. He had taken away some of the bitterness of the contrast
between this life and her life, and all by a certain calm indifference
which concerned only him.

As they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and
then they were off again, and so to the show.

During the acts Carrie found herself listening to him very attentively.
He mentioned things in the play which she most approved of--things which
swayed her deeply.

"Don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once.

"Yes, I do," he said, "to be a good one. I think the theatre a great
thing."

Just this little approval set Carrie's heart bounding. Ah, if she could
only be an actress--a good one! This man was wise--he knew--and he
approved of it. If she were a fine actress, such men as he would approve
of her. She felt that he was good to speak as he had, although it did
not concern her at all. She did not know why she felt this way.

At the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going
back with them.

"Oh, aren't you?" said Carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling.

"Oh, no," he said; "I'm stopping right around here in Thirty-third
Street."

Carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development shocked
her. She had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening, but she had
thought there was a half-hour more. Oh, the half-hours, the minutes of
the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into them!

She said good-bye with feigned indifference. What matter could it make?
Still, the coach seemed lorn.

When she went into her own flat she had this to think about. She did not
know whether she would ever see this man any more. What difference could
it make--what difference could it make?

Hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. His clothes were
scattered loosely about. Carrie came to the door and saw him, then
retreated. She did not want to go in yet a while. She wanted to think.
It was disagreeable to her.

Back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. Her little
hands were folded tightly as she thought. Through a fog of longing and
conflicting desires she was beginning to see. Oh, ye legions of hope and
pity--of sorrow and pain! She was rocking, and beginning to see.

 Hurstwood is now spending his night's at a small hotel and returning to the office during the day. He finally realizes that his wife has beaten him, and so he sends her the money via a messenger boy. The only reply he gets is that "it was high time" . Dejected, he also wonders why Carrie has not written either. The next Monday he receives a letter from his wife's lawyers requesting his presence in their offices. He ignores the letter for two days, but on Wednesday they send another note explaining that they will file suit against him for divorce and alimony if he does show up by the next day. Hurstwood can only shake his head. Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32

