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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.
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