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.
It was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from the
side of the flat’s success. He was irritated a shade because it could
not have come about in the throw of fortune for Carrie to be pleased.
Minnie worked with less elation than she had just before Carrie
arrived. The sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing
now that Carrie had reported her discontent. 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,” but 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 dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that
it would be an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people.
Minnie was no companion for her sister—she was too old. Her thoughts
were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. If Hanson had any
pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. He seemed to do
all his mental operations without the aid of physical expression. He
was as still as a deserted chamber. Carrie, on the other hand, had the
blood of youth and some imagination. Her day of love and the mysteries
of courtship were still ahead. She could think of things she would like
to do, of clothes she would like to wear, and of places she would like
to visit. These were the things upon which her mind ran, and it was
like meeting with opposition at every turn to find no one here to call
forth or respond to her feelings.
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.
“Carrie doesn’t seem to like her place very well,” said Minnie to her
husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the
dining-room a few minutes.
“She ought to keep it for a time, anyhow,” said Hanson. “Has she gone
downstairs?”
“Yes,” said Minnie.
“I’d tell her to keep it if I were you. She might be here weeks without
getting another one.”
Minnie said she would, and Hanson read his paper.
“If I were you,” he said a little later, “I wouldn’t let her stand in
the door down there. It don’t look good.”
“I’ll tell her,” said Minnie.
The life of the streets continued 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.
The first floor of the building, of which Hanson’s flat was the third,
was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing there,
Hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. She was not aware of his
presence until he was quite near her.
“I’m after bread,” was all he said as he passed.
The contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. While Hanson really
came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would see what
Carrie was doing. No sooner did he draw near her with that in mind than
she felt it. Of course, she had no understanding of what put it into
her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade of real
antipathy to him. She knew now that she did not like him. He was
suspicious.
A thought will colour a world for us. The flow of Carrie’s meditations
had been disturbed, and Hanson had not long gone upstairs before she
followed. She had realised with the lapse of the quarter hours that
Drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a little resentful, a
little as if she had been forsaken—was not good enough. She went
upstairs, where everything was silent. Minnie was sewing by a lamp at
the table. Hanson had already turned in for the night. In her weariness
and disappointment Carrie did no more than announce that she was going
to bed.
“Yes, you’d better,” returned Minnie. “You’ve got to get up early, you
know.”
The morning was no better. Hanson was just going out the door as Carrie
came from her room. Minnie tried to talk with her during breakfast, but
there was not much of interest which they could mutually discuss. As on
the previous morning, Carrie walked down town, for she began to realise
now that her four-fifty would not even allow her car fare after she
paid her board. This seemed a miserable arrangement. But the morning
light swept away the first misgivings of the day, as morning light is
ever wont to do.
At the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome as the
preceding, but considerably less novel. The head foreman, on his round,
stopped by her machine.
“Where did you come from?” he inquired.
“Mr. Brown hired me,” she replied.
“Oh, he did, eh!” and then, “See that you keep things going.”
The machine girls impressed her even less favourably. They seemed
satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense “common.” Carrie had more
imagination than they. She was not used to slang. Her instinct in the
matter of dress was naturally better. She disliked to listen to the
girl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience.
“I’m going to quit this,” she heard her remark to her neighbour. “What
with the stipend and being up late, it’s too much for me health.”
They were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and
exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. She saw
that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed accordingly.
“Hello,” remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at noon.
“You’re a daisy.” He really expected to hear the common “Aw! go chase
yourself!” in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by Carrie’s
silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning.
That night at the flat she was even more lonely—the dull situation was
becoming harder to endure. She could see that the Hansons seldom or
never had any company. Standing at the street door looking out, she
ventured to walk out a little way. Her easy gait and idle manner
attracted attention of an offensive but common sort. She was slightly
taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man of thirty, who in
passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned back, and said:
“Out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?”
Carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient thought
to reply: “Why, I don’t know you,” backing away as she did so.
“Oh, that don’t matter,” said the other affably.
She bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her own
door quite out of breath. There was something in the man’s look which
frightened her.
During the remainder of the week it was very much the same. One or two
nights she found herself too tired 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.
On 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
dollars 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 realised 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. The next day they went out to Garfield Park, but it did not
please her. She did not look well enough. In the shop next day she
heard the highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial
amusements. They had been happy. On several days it rained and she used
up car fare. One night she got thoroughly soaked, going to catch the
car at Van Buren Street. All that evening she sat alone in the front
room looking out upon the street, where the lights were reflected on
the wet pavements, thinking. She had imagination enough to be moody.
On Saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty cents
in despair. The speaking acquaintanceship which she formed with some of
the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that they had more of
their earnings to use for themselves than she did. They had young men
of the kind whom she, since her experience with Drouet, felt above, who
took them about. She came to thoroughly dislike the light-headed young
fellows of the shop. Not one of them had a show of refinement. She saw
only their workday side.
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 trial 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, anyhow?”
“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.
“Well,” he said, as he took her arm—and there was an exuberance of
good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her
heart.
They went through Monroe Street to the old Windsor dining-room, which
was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine and
substantial service. Drouet selected a table close by the window, where
the busy rout of the street could be seen. He loved the changing
panorama of the street—to see and be seen as he dined.
“Now,” he said, getting Carrie and himself comfortably settled, “what
will you have?”
Carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed her
without really considering it. She was very hungry, and the things she
saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her attention.
“Half broiled spring chicken—seventy-five. Sirloin steak with
mushrooms—one twenty-five.” She had dimly heard of these things, but it
seemed strange to be called to order from the list.
“I’ll fix this,” exclaimed Drouet. “Sst! waiter.”
That officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro,
approached, and inclined his ear.
“Sirloin with mushrooms,” said Drouet. “Stuffed tomatoes.”
“Yassah,” assented the negro, nodding his head.
“Hashed brown potatoes.”
“Yassah.”
“Asparagus.”
“Yassah.”
“And a pot of coffee.”
Drouet turned to Carrie. “I haven’t had a thing since breakfast. Just
got in from Rock Island. I was going off to dine when I saw you.”
Carrie smiled and smiled.
“What have you been doing?” he went on. “Tell me all about yourself.
How is your sister?”
“She’s well,” returned Carrie, answering the last query.
He looked at her hard.
“Say,” he said, “you haven’t been sick, have you?”
Carrie nodded.
“Well, now, that’s a blooming shame, isn’t it? You don’t look very
well. I thought you looked a little pale. What have you been doing?”
“Working,” said Carrie.
“You don’t say so! At what?”
She told him.
“Rhodes, Morgenthau and Scott—why, I know that house over here on Fifth
Avenue, isn’t it? They’re a close-fisted concern. What made you go
there?”
“I couldn’t get anything else,” said Carrie frankly.
“Well, that’s an outrage,” said Drouet. “You oughtn’t to be working for
those people. Have the factory right back of the store, don’t they?”
“Yes,” said Carrie.
“That isn’t a good house,” said Drouet. “You don’t want to work at
anything like that, anyhow.”
He chatted on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things
about himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the
waiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes
which had been ordered. Drouet fairly shone in the matter of serving.
He appeared to great advantage behind the white napery and silver
platters of the table and displaying his arms with a knife and fork. As
he cut the meat his rings almost spoke. His new suit creaked as he
stretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pour the coffee. He
helped Carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed the warmth of his
spirit to her body until she was a new girl. He was a splendid fellow
in the true popular understanding of the term, and captivated Carrie
completely.
That little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way. She
felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the view
of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. Ah, what
was it not to have money! What a thing it was to be able to come in
here and dine! Drouet must be fortunate. He rode on trains, dressed in
such nice clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine places. He
seemed quite a figure of a man, and she wondered at his friendship and
regard for her.
“So you lost your place because you got sick, eh?” he said. “What are
you going to do now?”
“Look around,” she said, a thought of the need that hung outside this
fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her eyes.
“Oh, no,” said Drouet, “that won’t do. How long have you been looking?”
“Four days,” she answered.
“Think of that!” he said, addressing some problematical individual.
“You oughtn’t to be doing anything like that. These girls,” and he
waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls, “don’t get anything.
Why, you can’t live on it, can you?”
He was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. When he had
scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. Carrie was
really very pretty. Even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure was
evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. Drouet looked at
her and his thoughts reached home. She felt his admiration. It was
powerfully backed by his liberality and good-humour. She felt that she
liked him—that she could continue to like him ever so much. There was
something even richer than that, running as a hidden strain, in her
mind. Every little while her eyes would meet his, and by that means the
interchanging current of feeling would be fully connected.
“Why don’t you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?” he said,
hitching his chair closer. The table was not very wide.
“Oh, I can’t,” she said.
“What are you going to do to-night?”
“Nothing,” she answered, a little drearily.
“You don’t like out there where you are, do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“What are you going to do if you don’t get work?”
“Go back home, I guess.”
There was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. Somehow, the
influence he was exerting was powerful. They came to an understanding
of each other without words—he of her situation, she of the fact that
he realised it. “No,” he said, “you can’t make it!” genuine sympathy
filling his mind for the time. “Let me help you. You take some of my
money.”
“Oh, no!” she said, leaning back.
“What are you going to do?” he said.
She sat meditating, merely shaking her head.
He looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. There were some loose
bills in his vest pocket—greenbacks. They were soft and noiseless, and
he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in his hand.
“Come on,” he said, “I’ll see you through all right. Get yourself some
clothes.”
It was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now she
realised how bad off she was. In his crude way he had struck the
key-note. Her lips trembled a little.
She had her hand out on the table before her. They were quite alone in
their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it.
“Aw, come, Carrie,” he said, “what can you do alone? Let me help you.”
He pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. At this he
held it fast, and she no longer protested. Then he slipped the
greenbacks he had into her palm, and when she began to protest, he
whispered:
“I’ll loan it to you—that’s all right. I’ll loan it to you.”
He made her take it. She felt bound to him by a strange tie of
affection now. They went out, and he walked with her far out south
toward Polk Street, talking.
“You don’t want to live with those people?” he said in one place,
abstractedly. Carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression.
“Come down and meet me to-morrow,” he said, “and we’ll go to the
matinée. Will you?”
Carrie protested a while, but acquiesced.
“You’re not doing anything. Get yourself a nice pair of shoes and a
jacket.”
She scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would trouble her
when he was gone. In his presence, she was of his own hopeful,
easy-way-out mood.
“Don’t you bother about those people out there,” he said at parting.
“I’ll help you.”
Carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out before
her to draw off trouble. The money she had accepted was two soft,
green, handsome ten-dollar bills.