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At Rector’s Drouet had met Mr. G. W. Hurstwood, manager of Fitgerald and Moy’s. He had been pointed out as a very successful and well-known man about town. Hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightly under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and solid, substantial air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes, his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his importance.
For the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suits of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of solid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the latest make and engraving. He knew by name, and could greet personally with a “Well, old fellow,” hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general run of successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to do so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship, which improved from the “How do you do?” addressed to the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attaches, who, by long frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the “Why old man, how are you?” which he addressed to those noted or rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. There was a class however, too rich, too famous, or too successful with whom he could not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying them the deference which would win their good feeling without in the least compromising his own bearing and opinions. There were, in the last place, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yet remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of good-fellowship. These were the kind of men with whom he would converse longest and most seriously. He loved to go out and have a good time once in a while – to go to the races, the theatres, the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs. He kept a horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who were well established in neat house on the North Side near Lincoln Park, and was altogether a very acceptable individual of our great American upper class-the first grade below the luxuriously rich.
Hurstwood liked Douet. The latter’s genial nature and dressy appearance pleased him. He knew that Drouet was only a traveling salesman – and not one of many years at that – but the firm of Barlett, Caryoe & Company was large and prosperous house, and Drouet stood well.
“Why, hello, Charlie, old man,” said Hurstwood, as Drouet came in that evening about eight o’clock. “How goes it?” The room was crowded.
Drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the bar.
“Oh, all right.”
“I haven’t seen you in six weeks. When did you get in?”
“Friday,” said Drouet. “Had a fine trip.”
“Glad of it,” said Hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. “What are you going to take?” he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar.
“Old Pepper,” said Drouet.
“A little of the same for me,” put in Hurstwood.
“How long are you in town this time?” inquired Hurstwood.
“Only until Wednesday. I’m going up to St. Paul.”
“George Evans was in here Saturday and said he saw you in Milwaukee last week.”
“Yes, I saw George,” returned Drouet. “Great old boy, isn’t he? We had quite a time there together.”
The barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and they now poured out the draught as they talked, Drouet filling his to within a third of full, as was considered proper, and Hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer.
“What’s become of Caryoe?” remarked Hurstwood “I haven’t seen him around here in two weeks.”
“Laid up, they say,” exclaimed Drouet. “Say, he’s a gouty old boy!”[22 - Laid up, they say, … Say, he’s a gouty old boy! – Болен, говорят … Старик страдает подагрой!]
“I guess he can’t hurt the business very much, though, with the other members all there.”
“No, he can’t injure that any, I guess.”
Hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable distinctness. He was the picture of fastidious comfort.
“See that a fellow coming in there?” said Hurstwood, glancing at a gentlemen just entering, arrayed in a high hat and Prince Albert coat[23 - high hat and Prince Albert coat – в цилиндре и сюртуке], his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating.
“No, where?” said Drouet.
“There,” said Hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye, “the man with the silk hat.”
“Oh, yes,” said Drouet, now affecting not to see. “Who is he?”
“That’s Jules Wallace, the spiritualist.”
Drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested.
“Doesn’t look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?” said Drouet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Hurstwood. “He’s got the money, all right,” and a little twinkle passed over his eyes.
“I don’t go much on those things, do you?” asked Drouet.
“Well, you never can tell,” said Hurstwood. “There may be something to it. I wouldn’t bother about it myself, though. By the way,” he added, “are you going anywhere to-night?”
“The Hole in the Ground,” said Drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time.
“Well, you’d better be going. It’s half after eight already,” and he drew out his watch.
The crowd was already thinning out considerably, some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all the pleasures – for the type of man there represented, at least – the ladies.
“Yes, I will,” said Drouet.
“Come around after the show. I have something I want to show you,” said Hurstwood.
“Sure,” said Drouet, elated.
“You haven’t anything on hand for the night, have you?” added Hurstwood.
“Not a thing.”
“Well, come round, then.”
“I struck a little peach coming in on the train Friday,” remarked Drouet, by way of parting. “By George, that’s so, I must go and call on her before I go away.”
“Oh, never mind her,” Hurstwood remarked.
“Say, she was a little dandy, I tell you,” went on Drouet confidentially, and trying to impress his friend.
“Twelve o’clock,” said Hurstwood.
“That’s right,” said Drouet, going out.
Thus was Carrie’s name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot[24 - when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot – когда маленькая труженица оплакивала свою жалкую долю], which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her unfolding fate.
Chapter VI
The Machine and the Maiden: A Knight of To-Day
At the flat that evening Carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere. The fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different, increased her knowledge of its character. Minnie, after the good spirits Carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report. Hanson supposed that Carrie would be satisfied.
“Well,” he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and looked at Carrie through the dining-room door, “how did you make out?”
“Oh,” said Carrie, “it’s pretty hard. I don’t like it.”
There was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she was both weary and disappointed.
“What sort of work is it?” he asked, lingering a moment as he turned upon his heel to go into the bathroom.
“Running a machine,” answered Carrie.
To Carrie, the one relief of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception, a bright supper table, and some one to say: “Oh, well stand it a little while. You will get something better,” put now this was ashes. She began to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and say nothing. She knew that she was to pay four dollar for her board and room, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round living with these people.
She had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her day, that Drouet might come. Now, when she saw how unreceptive these two people were, she hoped he would not. She did not know exactly what she would do or how she would explain to Drouet, if he came. After supper she changed her clothes. When she was trimly dressed she was rather a sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. Her face expressed the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt. She wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little with Minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at the foot of the stairs. If Drouet came, she could meet him there. Her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as she put on her hat to go below.
The life of the streets contained for a long time to interest Carrie. She never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars were going or what their enjoyments were. Her imagination trod a very narrow round, always winding up at points which concerned money, looks, clothes or enjoyment. She would have a far-off thought of Columbia City now and then, or an irritating rush of feeling concerning her experiences of the present day, but, on the whole, the little world about her enlisted her whole attention.
During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or two nights she found herself too tried to walk home, and expended car fare. She was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her back. She went to bed one night before Hanson.
Transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or maidens. It requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to continue even a natural growth. It would have been better if her acclimatization had been more gradual – less rigid. She would have done better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more of the city which she constantly troubled to know about.
On the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella. Minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. There was the kind of vanity in Carrie that troubled at this. She went to one of the great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a quarter of her small store to pay for it.
“What did you do that for, Carrie?” asked Minnie, when she saw it.
“Oh, I need one,” said Carrie.
“You foolish girl.”
Carrie resented this, though she did not reply. She was not going to be a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either.
One the first Saturday night Carrie paid her board, four dollars. Minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how to explain to Hanson if she took less. That worthy gave up just four dollar less toward the household expenses with a smile of satisfaction. He contemplated increasing his Building and Loan payments. As for Carrie, she studied over the problem of finding clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week. She brooded over this until she was in a state of mental rebellion.
“I’m going up the street for a walk,” she said after supper.
“Not alone, are you?” asked Hanson.
“Yes,” returned Carrie.
“I wouldn’t,” said Minnie.
“I want to see something,” said Carrie, and by the tone she put into the last word they realized for the first time she was not pleased with them.
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Hanson, when she went into the front room to get her hat.
“I don’t know,” said Minnie.
“Well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone.”
Carrie did not go very far, after all. She returned and stood in the door.
There came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept over the city. It scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed long, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about the streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. Carrie now felt the problem of winter clothes. What was she to do? She had no winter jacket, no hat, no shoes. It was difficult to speak to Minnie about this, but at last she summoned the courage.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about clothes,” she said one evening when they were together. “I need a hat.”
Minnie looked serious.
“Why don’t you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?” she suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of Carrie’s money would create.
“I’d like to for a week or so, if you don’t mind,” ventured Carrie.
“Could you pay two dollars?” asked Minnie.
Carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and liberal now that she saw a way out. She was elated and began figuring at once. She needed a hat first of all. How Minnie explained to Hanson she never knew. He said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions.
The new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. It blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when Carrie was still without a jacket. She came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind struck her. In the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made it worse. That day her bones ached and she felt light-headed. Towards evening she felt very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry. Minnie noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie. “I feel real bad.”
She hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed sick. The next morning she was thoroughly feverish.
Minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour. Hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. When she got up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was lost. The winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was out of work.
“I don’t know,” said Carrie; “I’ll go down Monday and see if I can’t get something.”
If anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trail than the last. Her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. Her last money she had spent for a hat. For three days she wandered about, utterly dispirited. The attitude of the flat was fast becoming unbearable. She hated to think of going back there each evening. Hanson was so cold. She knew it could not last much longer. Shortly she would have to give up and go home.
On the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten cents for lunch from Minnie. She had applied in the cheapest kind of places without success. She even answered for a waitress in a small restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an experienced girl. She moved through the thick throng of strangers, utterly subdued in spirit. Suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned her about.
“Well, well!” said a voice. In the first glance she beheld Drouet. He was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. He was the essence of sunshine and good-humour.
“Why, how are you, Carrie?” he said. “You’re a daisy. Where have you been?”
Carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality.
“I’ve been out home,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “I saw you across the street there. I thought it was you. I was just coming out to your place.”
How are you, anywhere?”
“I’m all right,” said Carrie, smiling.
Drouet looked her over and saw something different.
“Well,” he said, “I want to talk to you. You’re not going anywhere in particular, are you?”
“Not just now,” said Carrie.
“Let’s go up here and have something to eat. George! but I’m glad to see you again.”
She felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after and cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air of holding back.
