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"Well, when did you go on
the stage, anyhow?" inquired Drouet.
"About three years
ago," said Carrie.
"You don't say so! Well,
sir, this is the first I've heard of it. I knew you would, though. I always said you could act--didn't I?"
Carrie smiled.
"Yes, you did," she
said.
"Well, you do look
great," he said. "I
never saw anybody improve so. You're
taller, aren't you?"
"Me? Oh, a little,
maybe."
He gazed at her dress, then at
her hair, where a becoming hat was set jauntily, then into her eyes, which
she took all occasion to avert. Evidently
he expected to restore their old friendship at once and without
modification.
"Well," he said, seeing
her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and the like, preparatory to
departing, "I want you to come out to dinner with me; won't you? I've
got a friend out here."
"Oh, I can't," said
Carrie. "Not to-night.
I have an early engagement to-morrow."
"Aw, let the engagement go.
Come on. I can get rid
of him. I want to have a good
talk with you."
"No, no," said Carrie;
"I can't. You mustn't ask
me any more. I don't care for a
late dinner."
"Well, come on and have a
talk, then, anyhow."
"Not to-night," she
said, shaking her head. "We'll
have a talk some other time."
As a result of this, she noticed
a shade of thought pass over his face, as if he were beginning to realise
that things were changed. Good-nature
dictated something better than this for one who had always liked her.
"You come around to the
hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of penance for error.
"You can take dinner with me."
"All right," said
Drouet, brightening. "Where
are you stopping?"
"At the Waldorf," she
answered, mentioning the fashionable hostelry then but newly erected.
"What time?"
"Well, come at three,"
said Carrie, pleasantly.
The next day Drouet called, but
it was with no especial delight that Carrie remembered her appointment.
However, seeing him, handsome as ever, after his kind, and most
genially disposed, her doubts as to whether the dinner would be disagreeable
were swept away. He talked as
volubly as ever.
"They put on a lot of lugs
here, don't they?" was his first remark.
"Yes; they do," said
Carrie.
Genial egotist that he was, he
went at once into a detailed account of his own career.
"I'm going to have a
business of my own pretty soon," he observed in one place. "I can get backing for two hundred thousand
dollars."
Carrie listened most
good-naturedly.
"Say," he said,
suddenly; "where is Hurstwood now?"
Carrie flushed a little.
"He's here in New York, I
guess," she said. "I
haven't seen him for some time."
Drouet mused for a moment.
He had not been sure until now that the ex-manager was not an
influential figure in the background. He imagined not; but this assurance
relieved him. It must be that
Carrie had got rid of him--as well she ought, he thought. "A man always
makes a mistake when he does anything like that," he observed.
"Like what?" said
Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.
"Oh, you know," and
Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with his hand.
"No, I don't," she
answered. "What do you
mean?"
"Why that affair in
Chicago--the time he left."
"I don't know what you are
talking about," said Carrie. Could
it be he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?
"Oho!" said Drouet,
incredulously. "You knew
he took ten thousand dollars with him when he left, didn't you?"
"What!" said Carrie.
"You don't mean to say he stole money, do you?"
"Why," said Drouet,
puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn't you?"
"Why, no," said Carrie.
"Of course I didn't."
"Well, that's funny,"
said Drouet. "He did, you
know. It was in all the
papers."
"How much did you say he
took?" said Carrie.
"Ten thousand dollars.
I heard he sent most of it back afterwards, though."
Carrie looked vacantly at the
richly carpeted floor. A new
light was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight.
She remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much.
She also imagined that he took it on her account.
Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated.
Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the
time.
At dinner Drouet, warmed up by
eating and drinking and softened in mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to
her old-time good- natured regard for him.
He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her
life again, high as she was. Ah,
what a prize! he thought. How
beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting,
Carrie was to him the all desirable.
"Do you remember how nervous
you were that night at the Avery?" he asked.
Carrie smiled to think of it.
"I never saw anybody do
better than you did then, Cad," he added ruefully, as he leaned an
elbow on the table; "I thought you and I were going to get along fine
those days."
"You mustn't talk that
way," said Carrie, bringing in the least touch of coldness.
"Won't you let me tell
you----"
"No," she answered,
rising. "Besides, it's
time I was getting ready for the theatre.
I'll have to leave you. Come,
now." "Oh, stay a minute," pleaded Drouet.
"You've got plenty of time."
"No," said Carrie,
gently.
Reluctantly Drouet gave up the
bright table and followed. He
saw her to the elevator and, standing there, said:
"When do I see you
again?"
"Oh, some time,
possibly," said Carrie. "I'll
be here all summer. Good-night!"
The elevator door was open.
"Good-night!" said
Drouet, as she rustled in.
Then he strolled sadly down the
hall, all his old longing revived, because she was now so far off.
The merry frou-frou of the place spoke all of her.
He thought himself hardly dealt with.
Carrie, however, had other thoughts.
That night it was that she passed
Hurstwood, waiting at the Casino, without observing him.
The next night, walking to the
theatre, she encountered him face to face.
He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if he
had to send in word. At first
she did not recognise the shabby, baggy figure.
He frightened her, edging so close, a seemingly hungry stranger.
"Carrie," he half
whispered, "can I have a few words with you?"
She turned and recognised him on
the instant. If there ever had
lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. Still, she
remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the money.
"Why, George," she
said; "what's the matter with you?"
"I've been sick," he
answered. "I've just got
out of the hospital. For God's
sake, let me have a little money, will you?"
"Of course," said
Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to maintain her composure.
"But what's the matter with you, anyhow?"
She was opening her purse, and
now pulled out all the bills in it--a five and two twos.
"I've been sick, I told
you," he said, peevishly, almost resenting her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a source.
"Here," she said.
"It's all I have with me."
"All right," he
answered, softly. "I'll
give it back to you some day."
Carrie looked at him, while
pedestrians stared at her. She
felt the strain of publicity. So
did Hurstwood.
"Why don't you tell me
what's the matter with you?" she asked, hardly knowing what to do.
"Where are you living?"
"Oh, I've got a room down in
the Bowery," he answered. "There's
no use trying to tell you here. I'm all right now."
He seemed in a way to resent her
kindly inquiries--so much better had fate dealt with her.
"Better go on in," he
said. "I'm much obliged,
but I won't bother you any more."
She tried to answer, but he
turned away and shuffled off toward the east.
For days this apparition was a
drag on her soul before it began to wear partially away.
Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen by her.
His attentions seemed out of place.
"I'm out," was her
reply to the boy.
So peculiar, indeed, was her
lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she was becoming an interesting figure
in the public eye-- she was so quiet and reserved.
Not long after the management
decided to transfer the show to London.
A second summer season did not seem to promise well here.
"How would you like to try
subduing London?" asked her manager, one afternoon.
"It might be just the other
way," said Carrie.
"I think we'll go in
June," he answered.
In the hurry of departure,
Hurstwood was forgotten. Both
he and Drouet were left to discover that she was gone.
The latter called once, and exclaimed at the news.
Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of his moustache.
At last he reached a conclusion--the old days had gone for good.
"She isn't so much," he
said; but in his heart of hearts he did not believe this.
Hurstwood shifted by curious
means through a long summer and fall. A
small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the
park, carried him over more days. Resorting
to those peculiar charities, several of which, in the press of hungry
search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest.
Toward the dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in
a new play; but he was not aware of it.
For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the fire sign,
announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of
amusements. Drouet saw it, but did not venture in.
About this time Ames returned to
New York. He had made a little
success in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street.
Of course, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was
nothing responsive between them. He thought she was still united to Hurstwood, until otherwise
informed. Not knowing the facts
then, he did not profess to understand, and refrained from comment.
With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new
play, and expressed himself accordingly.
"She ought not to be in
comedy," he said. "I
think she could do better than that."
One afternoon they met at the
Vances' accidentally, and began a very friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the one- time keen interest in him
was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because at that time he had
represented something which she did not have; but this she did not
understand. Success had given
her the momentary feeling that she was now blessed with much of which he
would approve. As a matter of
fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. He thought she could have done better, by far.
"You didn't go into
comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering her interest in that
form of art.
"No," she answered;
"I haven't, so far."
He looked at her in such a
peculiar way that she realised she had failed.
It moved her to add: "I want to, though."
"I should think you
would," he said. "You
have the sort of disposition that would do well in comedy-drama."
It surprised her that he should
speak of disposition. Was she,
then, so clearly in his mind?
"Why?" she asked.
"Well," he said,
"I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your nature."
Carrie smiled and coloured
slightly. He was so innocently
frank with her that she drew nearer in friendship.
The old call of the ideal was sounding.
"I don't know," she
answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all concealment.
"I saw your play," he
remarked. "It's very
good."
"I'm glad you liked
it."
"Very good, indeed," he
said, "for a comedy."
This is all that was said at the
time, owing to an interruption, but later they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring at the
floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard work had given his face the look of one who is weary.
It was not for Carrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her.
"All alone?" she said.
"I was listening to the
music."
"I'll be back in a
moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in the inventor.
Now he looked up in her face, for
she was standing a moment, while he sat.
"Isn't that a pathetic
strain?" he inquired, listening.
"Oh, very," she
returned, also catching it, now that her attention was called.
"Sit down," he added,
offering her the chair beside him.
They listened a few moments in
silence, touched by the same feeling, only hers reached her through the
heart. Music still charmed her
as in the old days.
"I don't know what it is
about music," she started to say, moved by the inexplicable longings
which surged within her; "but it always makes me feel as if I wanted
something--I----"
"Yes," he replied;
"I know how you feel."
Suddenly he turned to considering
the peculiarity of her disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly.
"You ought not to be
melancholy," he said.
He thought a while, and then went
off into a seemingly alien observation which, however, accorded with their
feelings.
"The world is full of
desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we can occupy but one at a time.
It doesn't do us any good to wring our hands over the far-off
things."
The music ceased and he arose,
taking a standing position before her, as if to rest himself.
"Why don't you get into some
good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. He was looking directly at her
now, studying her face. Her
large, sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of
his judgment.
"Perhaps I shall," she
returned.
"That's your field," he
added.
"Do you think so?"
"Yes," he said; "I
do. I don't suppose you're
aware of it, but there is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you
for that sort of work."
Carrie thrilled to be taken so
seriously. For the moment,
loneliness deserted her. Here
was praise which was keen and analytical.
"It's in your eyes and
mouth," he went on abstractedly. "I
remember thinking, the first time I saw you, that there was something
peculiar about your mouth. I
thought you were about to cry."
"How odd," said Carrie,
warm with delight. This was
what her heart craved.
"Then I noticed that that
was your natural look, and to-night I saw it again.
There's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face much
this same character. It's in
the depth of them, I think."
Carrie looked straight into his
face, wholly aroused.
"You probably are not aware
of it," he added.
She looked away, pleased that he
should speak thus, longing to be equal to this feeling written upon her
countenance. It unlocked the
door to a new desire. She had cause to ponder over this until they met
again--several weeks or more. It
showed her she was drifting away from the old ideal which had filled her in
the dressing-rooms of the Avery stage and thereafter, for a long time. Why had she lost it?
"I know why you should be a
success," he said, another time, "if you had a more dramatic part.
I've studied it out----"
"What is it?" said
Carrie.
"Well," he said, as one
pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in your face is one that comes
out in different things. You
get the same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you
deeply. It's a thing the world
likes to see, because it's a natural expression of its longing."
Carrie gazed without exactly
getting the import of what he meant.
"The world is always
struggling to express itself," he went on. "Most people are not
capable of voicing their feelings. They
depend upon others. That is
what genius is for. One man
expresses their desires for them in music; another one in poetry; another
one in a play. Sometimes nature
does it in a face--it makes the face representative of all desire.
That's what has happened in your case."
He looked at her with so much of
the import of the thing in his eyes that she caught it. At least, she got the idea that her look was something which
represented the world's longing. She
took it to heart as a creditable thing, until he added:
"That puts a burden of duty
on you. It so happens that you
have this thing. It is no
credit to you--that is, I mean, you might not have had it.
You paid nothing to get it. But
now that you have it, you must do something with it."
"What?" asked Carrie.
"I should say, turn to the
dramatic field. You have so
much sympathy and such a melodious voice.
Make them valuable to others. It
will make your powers endure."
Carrie did not understand this
last. All the rest showed her
that her comedy success was little or nothing.
"What do you mean?" she
asked.
"Why, just this.
You have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in your nature.
You can lose it, you know. If
you turn away from it and live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast
enough. The look will leave
your eyes. Your mouth will
change. Your power to act will disappear.
You may think they won't, but they will.
Nature takes care of that."
He was so interested in
forwarding all good causes that he sometimes became enthusiastic, giving
vent to these preachments. Something in Carrie appealed to him. He wanted to stir her up.
"I know," she said,
absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect.
"If I were you," he
said, "I'd change."
The effect of this was like
roiling helpless waters. Carrie
troubled over it in her rocking-chair for days.
"I don't believe I'll stay
in comedy so very much longer," she eventually remarked to Lola.
"Oh, why not?" said the
latter.
"I think," she said,
"I can do better in a serious play."
"What put that idea in your
head?"
"Oh, nothing," she
answered; "I've always thought so."
Still, she did nothing--grieving.
It was a long way to this better thing--or seemed so--and comfort was
about her; hence the inactivity and longing.
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