When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her
dressing-room had been changed.
“You are to use this room, Miss Madenda,” said one of the stage
lackeys.
No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop
shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious
chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She
breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical
than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and body
were having their say.
Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental
appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested,
and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her
enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore
all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her equals and
superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: “How
friendly we have always been.” Only the star comedian whose part had
been so deeply injured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not
kiss the hand that smote him.
Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realised the meaning of the
applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty of
something—perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her in
the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were
not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or
haughty—to be other than she had been. After the performances she rode
to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided.
Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to
her lips—bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary
had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began
to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers—whom she did not know from
Adam—having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed
himself politely in.
“You will excuse me for intruding,” he said; “but have you been
thinking of changing your apartments?”
“I hadn’t thought of it,” returned Carrie.
“Well, I am connected with the Wellington—the new hotel on Broadway.
You have probably seen notices of it in the papers.”
Carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and most
imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid
restaurant.
“Just so,” went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of
familiarity. “We have some very elegant rooms at present which we would
like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you
intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in every
detail—hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for
every floor, elevators, and all that. You know what our restaurant is.”
Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to
be a millionaire.
“What are your rates?” she inquired.
“Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our
regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day.”
“Mercy!” interrupted Carrie. “I couldn’t pay any such rate as that.”
“I know how you feel about it,” exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. “But
just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every
other hotel we make special ones however. Possibly you have not thought
about it, but your name is worth something to us.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.
“Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A
well-known actress like yourself,” and he bowed politely, while Carrie
flushed, “draws attention to the hotel, and—although you may not
believe it—patrons.”
“Oh, yes,” returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious
proposition in her mind.
“Now,” continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating
one of his polished shoes upon the floor, “I want to arrange, if
possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not
trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything
will do for the summer—a mere figure—anything that you think you could
afford to pay.”
Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.
“You can come to-day or to-morrow—the earlier the better—and we will
give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms—the very best we
have.”
“You’re very kind,” said Carrie, touched by the agent’s extreme
affability. “I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what
is right, however. I shouldn’t want to——”
“You need not trouble about that at all,” interrupted Mr. Withers. “We
can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three
dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you have
to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or month,
just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms
would cost if charged for at our regular rates.”
The speaker paused.
“Suppose you come and look at the rooms,” he added.
“I’d be glad to,” said Carrie, “but I have a rehearsal this morning.”
“I did not mean at once,” he returned. “Any time will do. Would this
afternoon be inconvenient?”
“Not at all,” said Carrie.
Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.
“I have a room-mate,” she added, “who will have to go wherever I do. I
forgot about that.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mr. Withers, blandly. “It is for you to say whom
you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit
yourself.”
He bowed and backed toward the door.
“At four, then, we may expect you?”
“Yes,” said Carrie.
“I will be there to show you,” and so Mr. Withers withdrew.
After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola.
“Did they really?” exclaimed the latter, thinking of the Wellington as
a group of managers. “Isn’t that fine? Oh, jolly! It’s so swell. That’s
where we dined that night we went with those two Cushing boys. Don’t
you know?”
“I remember,” said Carrie.
“Oh, it’s as fine as it can be.”
“We’d better be going up there,” observed Carrie later in the
afternoon.
The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and
bath—a suite on the parlour floor. They were done in chocolate and dark
red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down into
busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed
there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel
beds, white ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the
third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade
of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some
dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities.
Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan
footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Such accommodations would
ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week.
“Oh, lovely!” exclaimed Lola, walking about.
“It is comfortable,” said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and
looking down into crowded Broadway.
The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large,
blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and
commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and
incandescent lights arranged in three places.
“Do you find these satisfactory?” observed Mr. Withers.
“Oh, very,” answered Carrie.
“Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are
ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door.”
Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbled
lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often
dreamed of occupying.
“I guess we’d better move right away, don’t you think so?” she observed
to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street.
“Oh, by all means,” said the latter.
The next day her trunks left for the new abode.
Dressing, after the matinée on Wednesday, a knock came at her
dressing-room door.
Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of
surprise.
“Tell her I’ll be right out,” she said softly. Then, looking at the
card, added: “Mrs. Vance.”
“Why, you little sinner,” the latter exclaimed, as she saw Carrie
coming toward her across the now vacant stage. “How in the world did
this happen?”
Carrie laughed merrily. There was no trace of embarrassment in her
friend’s manner. You would have thought that the long separation had
come about accidentally.
“I don’t know,” returned Carrie, warming, in spite of her first
troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron.
“Well, you know, I saw your picture in the Sunday paper, but your name
threw me off. I thought it must be you or somebody that looked just
like you, and I said: ‘Well, now, I will go right down there and see.’
I was never more surprised in my life. How are you, anyway?”
“Oh, very well,” returned Carrie. “How have you been?”
“Fine. But aren’t you a success! Dear, oh! All the papers talking about
you. I should think you would be just too proud to breathe. I was
almost afraid to come back here this afternoon.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Carrie, blushing. “You know I’d be glad to see
you.”
“Well, anyhow, here you are. Can’t you come up and take dinner with me
now? Where are you stopping?”
“At the Wellington,” said Carrie, who permitted herself a touch of
pride in the acknowledgment.
“Oh, are you?” exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without
its proper effect.
Tactfully, Mrs. Vance avoided the subject of Hurstwood, of whom she
could not help thinking. No doubt Carrie had left him. That much she
surmised.
“Oh, I don’t think I can,” said Carrie, “to-night. I have so little
time. I must be back here by 7.30. Won’t you come and dine with me?”
“I’d be delighted, but I can’t to-night,” said Mrs. Vance studying
Carrie’s fine appearance. The latter’s good fortune made her seem more
than ever worthy and delightful in the other’s eyes. “I promised
faithfully to be home at six.” Glancing at the small gold watch pinned
to her bosom, she added: “I must be going, too. Tell me when you’re
coming up, if at all.”
“Why, any time you like,” said Carrie.
“Well, to-morrow then. I’m living at the Chelsea now.”
“Moved again?” exclaimed Carrie, laughing.
“Yes. You know I can’t stay six months in one place. I just have to
move. Remember now—half-past five.”
“I won’t forget,” said Carrie, casting a glance at her as she went
away. Then it came to her that she was as good as this woman
now—perhaps better. Something in the other’s solicitude and interest
made her feel as if she were the one to condescend.
Now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman
at the Casino. This was a feature which had rapidly developed since
Monday. What they contained she well knew. _Mash notes_ were old
affairs in their mildest form. She remembered having received her first
one far back in Columbia City. Since then, as a chorus girl, she had
received others—gentlemen who prayed for an engagement. They were
common sport between her and Lola, who received some also. They both
frequently made light of them.
Now, however, they came thick and fast. Gentlemen with fortunes did not
hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of
virtues, that they had their horses and carriages. Thus one:
“I have a million in my own right. I could give you every luxury.
There isn’t anything you could ask for that you couldn’t have. I
say this, not because I want to speak of my money, but because I
love you and wish to gratify your every desire. It is love that
prompts me to write. Will you not give me one half-hour in which
to plead my cause?”
Such of these letters as came while Carrie was still in the Seventeenth
Street place were read with more interest—though never delight—than
those which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters
at the Wellington. Even there her vanity—or that self-appreciation
which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity—was not sufficiently
cloyed to make these things wearisome. Adulation, being new in any
form, pleased her. Only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish
between her old condition and her new one. She had not had fame or
money before. Now they had come. She had not had adulation and
affectionate propositions before. Now they had come. Wherefore? She
smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so much more
attractive. In the least way it incited her to coolness and
indifference.
“Do look here,” she remarked to Lola. “See what this man says: ‘If you
will only deign to grant me one half-hour,’” she repeated, with an
imitation of languor. “The idea. Aren’t men silly?”
“He must have lots of money, the way he talks,” observed Lola. “That’s
what they all say,” said Carrie, innocently.
“Why don’t you see him,” suggested Lola, “and hear what he has to say?”
“Indeed I won’t,” said Carrie. “I know what he’d say. I don’t want to
meet anybody that way.”
Lola looked at her with big, merry eyes.
“He couldn’t hurt you,” she returned. “You might have some fun with
him.”
Carrie shook her head.
“You’re awfully queer,” returned the little, blue-eyed soldier.
Thus crowded fortune. For this whole week, though her large salary had
not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted her.
Without money—or the requisite sum, at least—she enjoyed the luxuries
which money could buy. For her the doors of fine places seemed to open
quite without the asking. These palatial chambers, how marvellously
they came to her. The elegant apartments of Mrs. Vance in the
Chelsea—these were hers. Men sent flowers, love notes, offers of
fortune. And still her dreams ran riot. The one hundred and fifty! the
one hundred and fifty! What a door to an Aladdin’s cave it seemed to
be. Each day, her head almost turned by developments, her fancies of
what her fortune must be, with ample money, grew and multiplied. She
conceived of delights which were not—saw lights of joy that never were
on land or sea. Then, at last, after a world of anticipation, came her
first installment of one hundred and fifty dollars.
It was paid to her in greenbacks—three twenties, six tens, and six
fives. Thus collected it made a very convenient roll. It was
accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it.
“Ah, yes,” said the latter, when she applied; “Miss Madenda—one hundred
and fifty dollars. Quite a success the show seems to have made.”
“Yes, indeed,” returned Carrie.
Right after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and
she heard the changed tone of address.
“How much?” said the same cashier, sharply. One, such as she had only
recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. It took her back to
the few weeks in which she had collected—or rather had received—almost
with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week from a lordly foreman
in a shoe factory—a man who, in distributing the envelopes, had the
manner of a prince doling out favours to a servile group of
petitioners. She knew that out in Chicago this very day the same
factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girls working in long
lines at clattering machines; that at noon they would eat a miserable
lunch in a half-hour; that Saturday they would gather, as they had when
she was one of them, and accept the small pay for work a hundred times
harder than she was now doing. Oh, it was so easy now! The world was so
rosy and bright. She felt so thrilled that she must needs walk back to
the hotel to think, wondering what she should do.
It does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing the
desires are in the realm of affection. With her one hundred and fifty
in hand, Carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. In itself,
as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look upon, it
was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed. Her hotel
bill did not require its use. Her clothes had for some time been wholly
satisfactory. Another day or two and she would receive another hundred
and fifty. It began to appear as if this were not so startlingly
necessary to maintain her present state. If she wanted to do anything
better or move higher she must have more—a great deal more.
Now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which
shine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display the
folly of celebrities, and divert the public. He liked Carrie, and said
so, publicly—adding, however, that she was merely pretty, good-natured,
and lucky. This cut like a knife. The “Herald,” getting up an
entertainment for the benefit of its free ice fund, did her the honour
to beg her to appear along with celebrities for nothing. She was
visited by a young author, who had a play which he thought she could
produce. Alas, she could not judge. It hurt her to think it. Then she
found she must put her money in the bank for safety, and so moving,
finally reached the place where it struck her that the door to life’s
perfect enjoyment was not open.
Gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. Nothing was
going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was the
star. Fifth Avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their
mansions. Madison Avenue was little better. Broadway was full of
loafing thespians in search of next season’s engagements. The whole
city was quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. Hence the
feeling that there was little to do.
“I don’t know,” she said to Lola one day, sitting at one of the windows
which looked down into Broadway, “I get lonely; don’t you?”
“No,” said Lola, “not very often. You won’t go anywhere. That’s what’s
the matter with you.”
“Where can I go?”
“Why, there’re lots of places,” returned Lola, who was thinking of her
own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. “You won’t go with
anybody.”
“I don’t want to go with these people who write to me. I know what kind
they are.”
“You oughtn’t to be lonely,” said Lola, thinking of Carrie’s success.
“There’re lots would give their ears to be in your shoes.”
Carrie looked out again at the passing crowd.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary.