 CHAPTER VII. THE LORE OF THE MATERIAL. BEAUTY SPEAKS FOR ITSELF. The true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained and comprehended. When each individual realizes for himself that this thing primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral due, that it should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not as a usurped privilege, many of our social, religious, and political troubles will have permanently passed. But for Carrie, her understanding of the moral significance of money was the popular understanding, nothing more. The old definition, money, something everybody else has and I must get, would have expressed her understanding of it thoroughly. Some of it she now held in her hand. Two soft, green, ten dollar bills, and she felt that she was immensely better off for the having of them. It was something that was power in itself. One of her order of mind would have been content to be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of money, and only the long strain of starvation would have taught her that in some cases it could have no value. Even then she would have had no conception of the relative value of the thing. Her one thought would, undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the inability to use it. And poor girl thrilled as she walked away from Dure. She felt ashamed in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was so dire she was still glad. Now she would have a nice new jacket. Now she would buy a nice pair of pretty buttoned shoes. She would get stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and until already, as in the matter of her prospective salary, she had got beyond in her desires twice the purchasing power of her bills. She conceived a true estimate of Dure. To her, and indeed to all the world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. There was nothing evil in the fellow. He gave her the money out of a good heart, out of a realization of her want. He would not have given the same amount to a poor young man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in the nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl. Femininity affected his feelings. He was the creature of an inborn desire. Yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, My God, Mr., I'm starving. But he would gladly have handed out what was considered the proper portion to give beggars, and thought no more about it. There would have been no speculation, no philosophizing. He had no mental process in him worthy, the dignity of other of those terms. In his good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp, deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved and baffling forces which sometimes play upon man. He would have been as helpless as Carrie, as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if you will, as she. Now in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped told them, as being harmful. He loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief delight. He was vain, he was boastful, he was as diluted by fine clothes as any silly-headed girl. A truly deep-dyed villain could have horn-swoggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty shop-girl. His fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the thoroughly reputable standing of his house. He bobbed about, among men, a veritable bundle of enthusiasm, no power worthy the name of intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in one strain. Madame Sappho would have called him a pig, a Shakespeare would have said, my merry child. Old drinking Aryo thought him a clever, successful businessman. In short, he was as good as his intellect conceived. The best proof that there was something open and commendable about the man was the fact that Cary took the money. No deep sinister soul with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of friendship. The unintellectual are not so helpless. Nature has taught the beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens. It was put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk, the unhooted fear of poisons. He keepeth his creature's whole was not written of beasts alone. Cary was unwise and, therefore, like the sheep in its unwisdom, strong in feeling. The instinct of self-protection strong in all such natures was roused but feebly, if at all, by overtures of dray. When Cary had gone he elicitated himself upon her good opinion. By George it was a shame young girls had been knocked around like that, cold weather coming on and no clothes, tough. He would go around to Fitzgerald and Moyes and get a cigar. It made him feel light afoot as he thought about her. Cary reached home in high, good spirits, which she could scarcely conceal. The possession of the money involved a number of points which perplexed her seriously. How should she buy any clothes when many knew she had no money? She had no sooner entered the flat than this point was settled for her. It could not be done. She could think of no way of explaining. How did you come out? asked many, referring to the day. Cary had none of the small deception, which could feel one thing and say something directly opposed. She would prevaricate, but it would be in the line of her feelings at least. So, instead of complaining, when she felt so good, she said, I have the promise of something. Where? At the Boston store. Is it sure promised, questioned many? Well, I'm to find out to-morrow return, Cary, disliking to draw out a lie any longer than was necessary. Many felt the atmosphere of good feeling which Cary brought with her. She felt now was the time to express to Cary the state of Hanson's feelings about her entire Chicago venture. If you shouldn't get, she paused, troubled, for an easy way. If I don't get something pretty soon, I think I'll go home. Many saw her chance. Sven thinks it might be best winter anyhow. The situation flashed on Cary at once. They were unwilling to keep her any longer out of work. She did not blame many. She did not blame Hanson very much. Now, as she sat there digesting the remarks, she was glad she had Dreway's money. Yes, she said after a few moments. I thought of doing that. She did not explain the thought, however, had aroused all the antagonism of her nature. Columbia City, what was there for her? She knew it's a dull, little round by heart. Here was the great, mysterious city which was still a magnet for her. What she had seen only suggested its possibilities. Now to turn back on it and live the little old life out there, she almost exclaimed against the thought. She had reached home early and went in the front room to think. What else could she do? She could not buy new shoes and wear them here. She would need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. She did not want to borrow of many for that. And yet how could she explain where she even got that money? If she could only get enough to let her out easy. She went over the tangle again and again. Here in the morning, Dreway would expect to see her in a new jacket. And that couldn't be. The Hansons expected her to go home. And she wanted to get away. And yet she did not want to go home. In the light of the way they would look on her getting money without work. The taking of it now seemed dreadful. She began to be ashamed. The whole situation depressed her. It was all so clear when she was with Dreway. Now it was also tangled so hopeless, much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance of aid in her hand which she could not use. Her spirit sank so that it supper many felt that she must have had another hard day. Carrie finally decided that she would give the money back. It was wrong to take it. She would go down in the morning and hunt for work. At noon she would meet Dreway as agreed and tell him. At this decision her heart sank, until she was the old Carrie of distress. Curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling some relief. Even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep away all thought about the matter. And then the twenty dollars seemed a wonderful and delightful thing. Ah, money, money, money! What a thing it was to have, how plenty of it would clear away all these troubles. In the morning she got up and started out a little early. Her decision to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket, after all her troubling over it, made the work question the least shade less terrible. She walked into the wholesale district, but as the thought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank. What a coward she was, she thought to herself. Yet she had applied so often it would be the same old Carrie. She walked on and on and finally did go into one place, with the old result. She came out feeling that luck was against her. It was no use. Without much thinking she reached Dearborn Street. Here was the great fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its long window display, its crowd of shoppers. It readily changed her thoughts. She who was so weary of them. It was here that she had intended to come and get her new things. Now for relief from distress she thought she would go in and see. She would look at the jackets. There is nothing in this world more delightful than the middle state in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by desire, and yet deterred by the conscience or want of decision. When Carrie began wandering around the store amid the fine displays, she was in this mood. Her original experience in this same place had given her a high opinion of its merits. Now she paused at each individual bit of finery, where before she had hurried on. Her woman's heart was warm with desire for them. How she would look in this, how charming that would make her. She came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she noted the dainty concoctions of color and lace there displayed. If she would only make up her mind she could have one of those now. She lingered in the jewellery department. She saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins, the chains. What would she not have given if she could have had them all? She would look fine too if only she had some of these things. The jackets were the greatest attraction. When she entered the store she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall. Still she delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she would like better. She went about among the glass cases and racks where these things were displayed and satisfied herself that the one she thought of was the proper one. All the time she wavered in her mind, now persuading herself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to herself the actual condition. At last a noon hour was dangerously near and she had done nothing. She must go now and return the money. Dre was on the corner when she came up. Hello, he said, where is the jacket and, looking down, the shoes. Carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way, but this swept the whole four-scheme situation by the board. I came to tell you that, that I can't take the money. Oh, that's it, is it? he returned. Well, you come on with me. Let's go over here to partridges. Carrie walked with him, the whole fabric of doubt and impossibility had slipped from her mind. She could not get at the points that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to him. Have you had lunch yet? Of course you haven't. Let's go in here. Andrué turned into one of the very nicely finished restaurants off State Street in Monroe. I mustn't take the money, said Carrie, after they were settled in the cozy corner. Andrué had ordered the lunch. I can't wear those things out there. They wouldn't know where I got them. What do you want to do? he smiled go without them. I think I'll go home, she said, wearily. Oh, come, he said, you've been thinking it over too long. I'll tell you what to do. You say you can't wear them out there. Why don't you rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week? Carrie shook her head. Like all women, she was there to object and be convinced it was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if he could. Why are you going home? he asked. Oh, I can't get anything here. They won't keep you, he remarked intuitively. They can't, said Carrie. I'll tell you what to do, he said. You come with me, I'll take care of you. Carrie heard this passively. The peculiar state which she was in made it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. Dreway seemed of her own spirit in pleasing. He was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and sympathetic. His voice was the voice of a friend. What can you do back at Columbia City, he went on, rousing, by the words in Carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. There isn't anything down there, Chicago's the place. You can get a nice room here and some clothes, and then you can do something. Carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. There it was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor, an elegant coach with a prancing pair of bays passed by, carrying in its upholster depths a young lady. What will you have if you go back? asked Dreway. There was no subtle undercurrent to the question. He imagined that she would have nothing at all of the things he thought worthwhile. Carrie sat still, looking out. She was wondering what she could do. They would be expecting her to go home this week. Dreway turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy. Why not get yourself a nice little jacket? You've got to have it, I'll loan you the money. You needn't worry about taking it. You can get yourself a nice room by yourself. I won't hurt you. Carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. She felt more than ever the helplessness of her case. If I could only get something to do, she said. Maybe you can, went on Dreway. If you stay here, you can't if you go away. They won't let you stay out there. Now why don't you let me get you a nice room? I won't bother you. You needn't be afraid. Then when you get fixed up, maybe you could get something. He looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. She was a sweet little mortal to him. There was no doubt of that. She seemed to have some power back to her actions. She was not like the common run of storegirls. She wasn't silly. In reality, Carrie had more imagination than he, more taste. It was a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and loneliness. Her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head unconsciously in a dainty way. Do you think I could get something? She asked. Sure, he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. I'll help you. She looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly. Now I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll go over here to partridges, and you'll pick out what you want. Then we'll look around for a room for you. You can leave the things there. Then we'll go to the show tonight. Carrie shook her head. Well, you can go out to the flat, then. That's all right. You don't need to stay in the room. Just take it and leave your things there. She hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over. Let's go over and look at the jackets, he said. Together they went. In the store they found that shine and rustle of new things which immediately laid a hold of Carrie's heart. Under the influence of a good dinner and Druay's radiating presence the schemed proposed seemed feasible. She looked about and picked a jacket like the one she had admired at the fair. When she got it in her hand it seemed so much nicer. The saleswoman helped her on with it, and by accident it fitted perfectly. Druay's face lightened as he saw the improvement. She looked quite smart. That's the thing, he said. Carrie turned before the glass. She could not help feeling pleased as she looked at herself. A warm glow crept into her cheeks. That's the thing, said Druay. Now pay for it. It's nine dollars, said Carrie. That's all right. Take it, said Druay. She reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. The woman asked if she would wear the coat and went off. In a few minutes she was back and the purchase was closed. From partridges they went to a shoe store where Carrie was fitted for shoes. Druay stood by and when he saw how nice they looked, said, wear them. Carrie shook her head, however. She was thinking of returning to the flat. He bought her a purse for one thing and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings. Tomorrow, he said, you come down here and buy yourself a skirt. In all of Carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. The deeper she sank into the entanglement the more she imagined that the thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. Since she had not done these things there was a way out. Druay knew a place in Wabash Avenue where there were rooms. He showed Carrie the outside of these and said, now you're my sister. He carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the selection looking around criticising, opining. Her trunk will be here in a day or two, he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased. When they were alone Druay did not change in the least. He talked in the same general way as if they were out in the street. Carrie left her things. Now, said Druay, why don't you move to-night? Oh, I can't, said Carrie. Why not? I don't want to leave them so. He took that up as they walked along the avenue. It was a warm afternoon. The sun had come out and the wind had died down. As he talked with Carrie he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the flat. Come out of it, he said, they won't care, I'll help you get along. She listened until her misgivings vanished. He would show her about a little and then help her get something. He really imagined that he would. He would be out on the road and she could be working. Now, I'll tell you what you do, he said, you go out there and you get whatever you want and come away. She thought a long time about this. Finally she agreed. He would come out as far as Peoria Street and wait for her. She was to meet him at half past eight. At half past five she reached home and at six her determination was hardened. So you didn't get it, said many, referring to Carrie's story of the Boston store. Carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. No, she answered. I don't think you'd better try any more this fall, said many. Carrie said nothing. When Hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanor. He washed in silence and went off to read his paper. At dinner Carrie felt a little nervous. The strain of her own plans was considerable and the feeling that she was not welcome here was strong. Didn't find anything, eh? said Hanson. No. He turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have her here dwelling in his mind. She would have to go home. That was all. Once she was away there would be no more coming back in the spring. Carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved to know that this condition was ending. They would not care. Hanson particularly would be glad when she went. He would not care what became of her. After dinner she went into the bathroom where they could not disturb her and wrote a little note. Goodbye, many, it read. I'm not going home. I'm going to stay in Chicago a little while and look for work. Don't worry, I'll be all right. In the front room Hanson was reading his paper. As usual she helped many clear away the dishes and straighten up. Then she said, I guess I'll stand down at the door a little while. She could scarcely prevent her voice from trembling. Many remembered Hanson's remonstrance. Sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there, she said. Doesn't he, said Carrie? I won't do it any more after this. She put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in her little bedroom wondering where to slip the note. Finally she put it under Minnie's hairbrush. When she had closed the hall door she paused a moment and wondered what they would think. Some thought of the queerness of her deed affected her. She went slowly down the stairs. She looked back up the lighted step and then affected to stroll up the street. When she reached the corner she quickened her pace. As she was hurrying away Hanson came back to his wife. Is Carrie down at the door again, he asked? Yes, said Minnie. She said she wasn't going to do it any more. He went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began to poke his finger at it. Dreway was on the corner waiting, in good spirits. Hello, Carrie, he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew near him. Got here safe, did you? Well, we'll take a car. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser, Chapter 8, Intimations by Winter, An Ambassador Summoned Among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe, untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. Our civilization is still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by instinct, scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason. On the tiger no responsibility rests. We see him aligned by nature with the forces of life. He is born into their keeping, and without thought he is protected. We see man far removed from the lairs of the jungles. His innate instincts doled by too near an approach to free will, his free will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and afford him perfect guidance. He is becoming too wise to harken always to instincts and desires. He is still too weak to always prevail against them. As a beast the forces of life aligned him with them. As a man he has not yet wholly learned to align himself with the forces. In this intermediate stage he wavers, neither drawn in harmony with nature by his instincts, nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by his own free will. He is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath of passion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, airing with one only to retrieve by the other, falling by one only to rise by the other, a creature of incalculable variability. We have the consolation of knowing that evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light that cannot fail. He will not forever balance, thus between good and evil. When this jangle of free will and instinct shall have been adjusted, when perfect understanding has given the former the power to replace the letter entirely, man will no longer vary. The needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and unwavering to the distant pole of truth. In Cary, as in how many of our worldlings do they not, instinct and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. She followed wither her craving-led. She was as yet more drawn than she drew. When many found the note next morning, after a night of mingled wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow or love, she exclaimed, Well, what do you think of that? What? said Hansen. Sister Cary has gone to live somewhere else. Hansen jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually displayed and looked at the note. The only indication of his thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his tongue, the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse. Where do you suppose she's gone to? said many, thoroughly aroused. I don't know. A touch of cynicism lighting his eye. Now she's gone and done it. Many moved her head in a puzzled way. Uh-oh, she said. She doesn't know what she's done. Well, said Hansen after a while, sticking his hands up before him. What can we do? Many's womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the possibilities in such cases. Oh, she said at last, poor sister Cary. At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at five a.m., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled sleep in her new room, alone. Cary's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in it. She was no sensualist, longing to drow sleepily in the lap of luxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release, wondering whether she would get something to do. Wondering what Dre would do. That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a pair adventure. He could not help what he was going to do. He could not see clearly enough to wish to do differently. He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old pursuing part. He would need to delight himself with Cary as surely as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast. He might suffer the least rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil and sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might have would be rudimentary, you might be sure. The next day he called upon Cary, and she saw him in her chamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul. Ah, he said, What are you looking so blue about? Come on out to breakfast. You want to get your other clothes today. Cary looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large eyes. I wish I could get something to do, she said. You'll get that all right, said Dre. What's the use worrying right now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won't hurt you. I know you won't, she remarked, half truthfully. Got on the new shoes, haven't you? Stick them out. George, they look fine. Put on your jacket. Cary obeyed. Say, that fits like a tea, don't it? he remarked, feeling the set of it at the waist, and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. What you need now is a new skirt. Let's go to breakfast. Cary put on her hat. Where are the gloves, he inquired. Here, she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer. Now come on, he said. Thus the first hour of misgivings was swept away. It went this way on every occasion. Dre did not leave her much alone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her hours with sight-seeing. At Carson Pearies he bought her a nice skirt and shirt-waste. With his money she purchased the little necessities of toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was pretty, yes, indeed. How nice her hat set, and weren't her eyes pretty. She caught her little red lip with her teeth, and felt her first thrill of power. Dre was so good. They went to see the Mikado one evening, an opera which was hilariously popular at the time. Before going they made off for the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a considerable distance from Kerry's room. It was blowing up cold, and out of her window Kerry could see the western sky, still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in mid-air, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December, days at home. She paused and rung her little hands. What's the matter, said Dre? Oh, I don't know, she said, her lip trembling. He sent something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her arm. Come on, he said gently, you'll be all right. She turned to slip on her jacket. Better wear that boa about your throat tonight. They walked north on Wabash to Adam Street, and then west. The lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue. The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped in and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six o'clock throng bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up about the ears. Houts were pulled down. Little shopgirls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing. It was a spectacle of warm blooded humanity. Suddenly a pair of eyes met Cary's in recognition. They were looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were faded and loose hanging, their jackets old, their general makeup shabby. Cary recognized the glance and the girl. She was one of those who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked. Cary felt as if some great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old machine came back. She actually started. Joy hadn't noticed until Cary bumped into a pedestrian. You must be thinking, he said. They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle, please carry immensely. The color and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain imaginings about place and power, about far off lands and magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare. Wait a minute, said Adrué, holding her back in the showy foyer, where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips. Let's see. Sixty-seven, the coach-collar was saying, his voice lifted in a sort of euphonious cry. Sixty-seven. Isn't it fine, said Cary? Great, said Drué. He was as much affected by this show of finery and gayity as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight. As they were moving out, he whispered down to her, you look lovely. They were right where the coach-collar was swinging open a coach door and ushering in two ladies. You stick to me, and we'll have a coach, left Drué. Cary scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-dinner lunch. Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Cary's head, but there was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar things. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the still small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. If the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory thing. Now bless me, says such a mind, I have done my duty. When, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old unbreakable trick once again. Cary had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied occurrences, the fine invisible passion, which was emanating from droi, the food, the still, unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. She was again the victim of the city's hypnotic influence. Well, said droi at last, we had better be going. They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently met. Cary could not help but feel the vibration of force which followed, which indeed was his gaze. He had a way of touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He touched it now as he spoke of going. They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section was now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a few open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out of Wabash Avenue they strolled. Droi still poured forth his volume of small information. He had Cary's arm in his and held it closely as he explained. Once in a while, after some witticism, he would look down and his eyes would meet hers. At last they came to the steps and Cary stood up on the first one, her head now coming even with his own. He took her hand and held it genially. He looked steadily at her, as she glanced about, warmly musing. At about that hour, many was soundly sleeping after a long evening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward position under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves, and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she and Cary were somewhere beside an old coal mine. She could see the tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. There was a deep pit into which they were looking. They could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. An old basket used for descending was hanging there, fastened by a worn rope. Let's get in, said Cary. Oh no, said many. Yes, come on, said Cary. She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest, she had swung over and was going down. Cary, she called, Cary, come back. But Cary was far down now and the shadows had swallowed her completely. She moved her arm. Now the mystic scenery merged clearly, and the place was by water she had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something that reached far out. And at the end of this was Cary. They looked about, and now the thing was sinking and many heard the low sip of the encroaching water. Come on, Cary, she called. But Cary was reaching farther out. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call her. Cary, she called, Cary. But her own voice sounded far away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came away suffering as though she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly sad than she had ever been in her life. It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes, one with another. The last one made her cry out, for Cary was slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and she had seen her falling. Many, what's the matter here? Wake up! said Hanson, disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder. What? What's the matter? said many drowsily. Wake up, he said, and turn over, you're talking in your sleep. A week or so later, Dreway strolled into Fritz Gerald and Moise, spruce in dress and manor. Hello, Charlie, said Hearstwood, looking out from his office door. Dreway strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. When do you go out on the road again, he inquired. Pretty soon, said Dreway. Haven't seen much of you this trip, said Hearstwood. Well, I've been busy, said Dreway. They talked some few minutes on general topics. Say, said Dreway, as if struck by a sudden idea, I want you to come out some evening. Out where, inquired Hearstwood. Out to my house, of course, said Dreway, smiling. Hearstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Dreway in his wise way, and then with the demeanor of a gentleman said, certainly, glad to. We'll have a nice game of yooker. May I bring a nice bottle of sec? asked Hearstwood. Certainly, said Dreway, I'll introduce you. End of Chapter 8, recording by Colin Spittler, Three Oaks, Michigan. Chapter 9 of Sister Carrie. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colin Spittler. Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 9. Convention's Own Tenderbox. The Eye That Is Green. Hearstwood's residence on the north side, near Lincoln Park, was a brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet deep. There was also a small rear yard walled in by the fences of the neighbors and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap. The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia and his son and daughter, George Jr. and Jessica. There were, besides these, a maid servant represented from time to time by girls of various extraction, for Mrs. Hearstwood was not always easy to please. George, I let Mary go yesterday, was not an unfrequent salutation at the dinner table. All right, was his only reply. He had long since weiried of discussing the rancorous subject. A lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing more calculated to make strong and just the nature's cradle and nourished within it. Those who have never experienced such a beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in lovely music. The mystic cords which bind and thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know. Hearstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this home spirit. It lacked that toleration in regard without which the home is nothing. There was fine furniture arranged as soothingly as the artistic perception of the occupants warranted. There were soft rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble carving of some unknown Venus by some unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes gathered from heaven-known's wear, but generally sold by the large furniture houses along with everything else that goes to make the perfectly appointed house. In the dining rooms stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters and other utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which could not be questioned. Here was something Hearstwood knew about. He had studied the subject for years in his business. He had no little satisfaction in telling each merry, shortly after she arrived, something of what the art of the thing required. He was not guerrillas by any means. On the contrary, there was a fine reserve in his manner toward the entire domestic economy of his life, which was all that is comprehended by the popular term gentlemanly. He would not argue. He would not talk freely. In his manner was something of the dogmatist. What he could not correct, he would ignore. There was a tendency in him to walk away from the impossible thing. There was a time when he had been considerably enamored of his Jessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in his success. Now, however, in her 17th year, Jessica had developed a certain amount of reserve and independence, which was not inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. She was in the high school and had notions of life, which were decidedly those of a patrician. She liked nice clothes and urged for them constantly. Thoughts of love and elegant individual establishments were running in her head. She met girls at the high school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had standing locally as partners or owners of solid businesses. These girls gave themselves the airs befitting the thriving domestic establishments from whence they issued. They were the only ones of the school about whom Jessica concerned herself. Young Hirschwood Jr. was in his 20th year and was already connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. He contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. He had some ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not, as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. He came in and went out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few words to his mother occasionally, relating some little incident to his father, but for the most part confining himself to those generalities with which most conversation concerns itself. He was not laying bare his desires for anyone to see. He did not find anyone in the house who particularly cared to see. Mrs. Hirschwood was the type of woman who has ever endeavored to shine, and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior capability in this direction elsewhere. Her knowledge of life extended to that little conventional round of society, of which she was not, but long to be, a member. She was not without realization already that this thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. For her daughter, she hoped better things. Through Jessica, she might rise a little. Through George Jr.'s possible success, she might draw herself to the privilege of pointing proudly. Even Hirschwood was doing well enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures should prosper. His property holdings as yet were rather small, but his income was pleasing, and his position with Fitzgerald and Moy was fixed. Both these gentlemen were unpleasant and rather informal terms with him. The atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent to all. It worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which were of the same caliber. I'm going to Fox Lake tomorrow, announced George Jr. at the dinner table one Friday evening. What's going on up there, queried Mrs. Hirschwood. Eddie Farway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up and see how it works. How much did it cost him, asked his mother. Oh, over two thousand dollars, he says it's a dandy. Old Farway must be making money, put in Hirschwood. He is, I guess. Jack told me they were shipping Vega Cura to Australia now. Said they sent a whole box to Cape Town last week. Just think of that, said Mrs. Hirschwood, and only four years ago they had that basement in Madison Street. Jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring in Roby Street. Just think of that, said Jessica. On this particular occasion, Hirschwood wished to leave early. I guess I'll be going downtown, he remarked rising. Aren't we going to McVickers Monday? Question, Mrs. Hirschwood, without rising. Yes, he said indifferently. They went on dining while he went upstairs for his hat and coat. Presently, the door clicked. I guess Papa's gone, said Jessica. The latter's school news was of a particular stripe. They're going to give a performance in the lyceum upstairs, she reported one day, and I'm going to be in it. Are you, said her mother? Yes, and I'll have to have a new dress. Some of the nicest girls in the school are going to be in it. Miss Palmer is going to take the part of Portia. Is she, said Mrs. Hirschwood. They've got that Martha Griswold in it again. She thinks she can act. Her family doesn't amount to anything, does it? Said Mrs. Hirschwood, sympathetically. They haven't anything, have they? No, returned Jessica. They're poor as church mice. She distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty. What do you think, she remarked to her mother one evening. That Herbert Crane tried to make friends with me. Who is he, my dear, inquired Mrs. Hirschwood. Oh, no one said Jessica, pursing her pretty lips. He's just a student there. He hasn't anything. The other half of this picture came when young Blyford, son of Blyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. Mrs. Hirschwood was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking chair reading, and happened to look out at the time. Who was that with you, Jessica? She inquired as Jessica came upstairs. It's Mr. Blyford, Mama, she replied. Is it, said Mrs. Hirschwood. Yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him, explained Jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs. All right, my dear, said Mrs. Hirschwood, don't be gone long. As the two went down the street, she glanced interestingly out of the window. It was a most satisfactory spectacle, indeed, most satisfactory. In this atmosphere, Hirschwood had moved for a number of years, not thinking deeply concerning it. His was not the order of nature to trouble for something better, unless the better was immediately and sharply contrasted. As it was, he received and gave, irritated sometimes by the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at times by some show of finery which supposedly made for dignity and social distinction. The life of the resort which he managed was his life. There he spent most of his time. When he went home evenings, the house looked nice. With rare exceptions, the meals were acceptable, being the kind that an ordinary servant can arrange. In part, he was interested in the talk of his son and daughter, who always looked well. The vanity of Mrs. Hirschwood caused her to keep her person rather showily arrayed, but to Hirschwood, this was much better than plainness. There was no love lost between them. There was no great feeling of dissatisfaction. Her opinion on any subject was not startling. They did not talk enough together to come to the argument of any one point. In the accepted and popular phrase, she had her ideas and he had his. Once in a while he would meet a woman whose youth, sprightliness and humor, would make his wife seem rather deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which such an encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social position and a certain manner of policy. He could not complicate his home life because it might affect his relations with his employers. They wanted no scandals. A man to hold his position must have a dignified manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. Therefore he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in the public ways in the afternoon or on Sunday, it was with his wife and sometimes his children. He would visit the local resorts or those nearby in Wisconsin and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling about conventional places doing conventional things. He knew the need of it. When someone of the many middle class individuals whom he knew who had money would get into trouble, he would shake his head. It didn't do to talk about those things. If it came up for discussion among such friends as with him passed for close, he would deprecate the folly of things. It was all right to do it. All men do those things. But why wasn't he careful? A man can't be too careful. He lost sympathy for the man that made a mistake and was found out. On this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife about, time which would have been worrisome indeed if it had not been for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which did not depend upon her presence or absence. He watched her with considerable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way and men looked at her. She was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and this combination he knew quite well might produce a tragedy in a woman of her home position. Owing to his order of mind, his confidence in the sex was not great. His wife never possessed the virtues which would win the confidence and admiration of a man of his nature. As long as she loved him vigorously, he could see how confidence could be. But when that was no longer the binding chain, well, something might happen. During the last year or two, the expenses of the family seemed a large thing. Jessica wanted fine clothes and Mrs. Hurstwood not to be outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel. Hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured. Jessica must have a new dress this month, said Mrs. Hurstwood one morning. Hurstwood was arraigning himself in one of his perfection vests before the glass at the time. I thought she just bought one, he said. That was just something for evening wear, returned his wife complacently. It seems to me, returned Hurstwood, that she's spending a good deal for dresses of late. Well, she's going out more, concluded his wife, but the tone of his voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard there before. He was not a man who traveled much, but when he did, he had been a custom to take her along. On one occasion recently a local aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit Philadelphia, a junket that was to last ten days. Hurstwood had been invited. Nobody knows us down there, said one, a gentleman whose face was a slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. He always wore a silk hat of most imposing proportions. We can have a good time. His left eye moved with the semblance of a wink. You want to come along, George? The next day Hurstwood announced his intention to his wife. I'm going away, Julia, he said, for a few days. Where, she asked, looking up to Philadelphia on business. She looked at him consciously, expecting something else. I'll have to leave you behind this time. All right, she replied, but he could see that she was thinking that it was a curious thing. Before he went, she asked him a few more questions, and that irritated him. He began to feel that she was a disagreeable attachment. On this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over he was sorry to get back. He was not willingly a pervericator, and hated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. The whole incident was glossed over with January marks, but Mrs. Hurstwood gave the subject considerable thought. She drove out more, dressed better, and attended theaters freely to make up for it. Such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home life. It ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional opinion. With the lapse of time it must necessarily become drier and drier, must eventually be tender, easily lighted, and destroyed. End of Chapter 9, recording by Colin Spittler, Three Oaks Michigan. Chapter 10 of Sister Kerry. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kerry Bradfield. Sister Kerry, by Theodore Dreiser. Chapter 10. The Council of Winter, Fortune's Ambassador Calls. In the light of the world's attitude toward women and her duties, the nature of Kerry's mental state deserves consideration. Actions such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. Society possesses a conventional standard whereby it judges all things. All men should be good, all women virtuous. Wherefore, villain, hast thou failed. For all the liberal analysis of Spencer and our modern naturalistic philosophers, we have been an infantile perception of morals. There is more in the subject than mere conformity to a law of evolution. It is yet deeper than conformity to things of Earth alone. It is more involved than we as yet perceive. Answer, first, why the heart thrills. Explain wherefore some plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying. Make clear the rose's subtle alchemy, evolving its ready lamp in light and rain. In the essence of these facts lie the first principles of morals. Oh, Thadra, how delicious is my conquest. Ah, thought Kerry, with mournful misgivings, what is it I have lost? Before this world-old proposition we stand serious, interested, confused, endeavoring to evolve the true theory of morals, the true answer to what is right. In the view of a certain stratum of society, Kerry was comfortably established. In the eyes of the starvelling, beaten by every wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a Halcyon harbor. Druah had taken three rooms furnished in Ogden Place, facing Union Park on the west side. That was a little green carpeted breathing spot, than which today there is nothing more beautiful in Chicago. It afforded a vista pleasant to contemplate. The best room looked out upon the lawn of the park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered. Over the bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry wind, rose the steeple of the Union Park Congregational Church, and far off the towers of several others. The rooms were comfortably enough furnished. There was a good Brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and representing large jardiniers filled with gorgeous, impossible flowers. There was a large, pure glass mirror between the two windows. A large, soft, green, plush covered couch occupied one corner, and several rocking chairs were set about. Some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-a-brac, and the tail of contents is told. In the bedroom off the front room was Carrie's trunk, bought by Druah, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of clothing, more than she had ever possessed before, and of very becoming designs. There was a third room for possible use as a kitchen, where Druah had Carrie establish a little portable gas stove for the preparation of small lunches, oysters, Welsh rare bits, and the like, of which he was exceedingly fond. And lastly, a bath. The whole place was cozy in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers, possessing also a small grate set with an asbestos back, a method of cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. By her industry and natural love of order which now developed, the place maintained an air pleasing in the extreme. Here then was Carrie established in a pleasant fashion, free of certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have been a new and different individual. She looked into her glass and saw a prettier Carrie than she had seen before. She looked into her mind, a mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse. Between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to believe. My butchera little beauty, Druah, was want to explain to her. She would look at him with large, pleased eyes. You know it, don't you? He would continue. Oh, I don't know, she would reply, feeling delight in the fact that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself. Her conscience, however, was not a Druah interested to praise. There she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded, excused. It was no just and sapient counselor in its last analysis. It was only an average little conscience, a thing which represented the world, her past environment, habit, convention, in a confused way. With it, the voice of the people was truly the voice of God. Oh, thou failure, said the voice. Why, she questioned. Look at those about, came the whispered answer. Look at those who are good. How would they scorn to do what you have done? Look at the good girls. How will they draw away from such as you, when they know you have been weak? You had not tried before you failed. It was when Carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that she would be listening to this. It would come infrequently when something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too apparent, when Druah was not there. It was somewhat clear in utterance at first, but never wholly convincing. There was always an answer. Always the December days threatened. She was alone. She was desirable. She was fearful of the whistling wind. The voice of want made answer for her. Once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that somber garb of gray, wrapped in which it goes about its labors during the long winter. Its endless buildings look gray. Its sky and its streets assume a somber hue. The scattered leafless trees and wind-blown dust and paper, but add to the general solemnity of color. There seems to be something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long narrow thoroughfares, productive of rueful thoughts. Not poets alone, nor artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all refinement feel this, but dogs and all men. These feel as much as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression. The sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dre-horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. It strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate. If it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade and pleasure-selling amusements, if the various merchants failed to make the customary display within and without their establishments, if our streets were not strong with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays upon the heart, how dispiriting are the days during which the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. We are more dependent among these things than is often thought. We are insects produced by heat and pass without it. In the drag of such a gray day, the secret voice would reassert itself, feebly and more feebly. Such mental conflict was not always uppermost. Carrie was not by any means a gloomy soul. More, she had not the mind to get firm hold upon a definite truth. When she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of ill logic which thought upon the subject created, she would turn away entirely. Druah all the time was conducting himself in a model way for one of his sort. He took her about a great deal, spent money upon her, and when he traveled took her with him. There were times when she would be alone for two or three days while he made the shorter circuits of his business, but as a rule she saw a great deal of him. Say, Carrie, he said one morning, shortly after they had so established themselves. I've invited my friend Hurstwood to come out some day and spend the evening with us. Who is he? Asked Carrie doubtfully. Oh, he's a nice man. He's manager of Fitzgerald and Moyes. What's that? Said Carrie. The finest resort in town. It's a way up swell place. Carrie puzzled the moment. She was wondering what Druah had told him, what her attitude would be. That's all right, said Druah, feeling her thought. He doesn't know anything. You are Mrs. Druah now. There was something about this which struck Carrie as slightly inconsiderate. She could see that Druah did not have the keenest sensibilities. Why don't we get married? She inquired, thinking of the valuable promises he had made. Well, we will, he said, just as soon as I get this little deal of mine closed up. He was referring to some property which he said he had and which required so much attention, adjustment, and whatnot that somehow or other it interfered with his free moral personal actions. Just as soon as I get back from my Denver trip in January, we'll do it. Carrie accepted this as basis for hope. It was a sort of sav to her conscience, a pleasant way out. Under the circumstances things would be righted, her actions would be justified. She really was not enamored of Druah. She was more clever than he. In a dim way she was beginning to see where he lacked. If it had not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and judge him in a way, she would have been worse off than she was. She would have adored him. She would have been utterly wretched in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his interest, of being swept away and left without an anchorage. As it was, she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him completely. But later feeling at ease and waiting, she was not exactly sure what she thought of him, what she wanted to do. When Hearst would call she met a man who was more clever than Druah in a hundred ways, he paid that peculiar deference to women, which every member of the sex appreciates. He was not over-odd, he was not over-bold. His great charm was attentiveness. Schooled in winning those birds of a fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavoring to prove agreeable to someone who charmed him. In a pretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever, he found his greatest incentive. He was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression that he wished to be of service only, to do something which would make the lady more pleased. Druah had ability in this line himself when the game was worth the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish which Hearst would possessed. He was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life, too assured. He succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the art of love. He failed dismally where the woman was slightly experienced and possessed innate refinement. In the case of Kerry he found a woman who was all of the latter, but none of the former. He was lucky in the fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap as it were. A few years later with a little more experience the slightest tide of success and he had not been able to approach Kerry at all. You ought to have a piano here, Druah, said Hearst would smiling at Kerry on the evening in question so that your wife could play. Druah had not thought of that. So we ought, he observed readily. Oh, I don't play, ventured Kerry. It isn't very difficult return Hearst would. You could do very well in a few weeks. He was in the best form for entertaining this evening. His clothes were particularly new and rich in appearance. The coat lapel stood out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. The vest was of a rich scotch plaid set with a double row of round mother of pearl buttons. His cravat was a shiny combination of silk and threads, not loud, not inconspicuous. What he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly as that which Druah had on. But Kerry could see the elegance of the material. Hearst would shoes were of soft black calf, polished only to a dull shine. Druah wore patent leather, but Kerry could not help feeling that there was a distinction in favor of the soft leather where all else was so rich. She noticed these things almost unconsciously. They were things which would naturally flow from the situation. She was used to Druah's appearance. Suppose we have a little game of Euker suggested Hearst would, after a light round of conversation. He was rather dexterous in avoiding everything that would suggest he knew anything of Kerry's past. He kept away from personalities altogether and confined himself to those things which did not concern individuals at all. By his manner he put Kerry at her ease. And by his deference and pleasantries he amused her. He pretended to be seriously interested in all she said. I don't know how to play, said Kerry. Charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty. He observed to Druah most affably. Between us, though, he went on. We can show you. By his tact he made Druah feel that he admired his choice. There was something in his manner that showed he was pleased to be there. Druah felt really closer to him than ever before. It gave him more respect for Kerry. Her appearance came into a new light under Hearstwood's appreciation. The situation livened considerably. Now let me see, said Hearstwood, looking over Kerry's shoulder deferentially. What have you? He studied for a moment. That's rather good, he said. You're lucky. Now I'll show you how to trounce your husband. You take my advice. Here, said Druah, if you two are going to scheme together, I won't stand a ghost of a show. Hearstwood's a regular sharp. No, it's your wife. She brings me luck. Why shouldn't she win? Kerry looked gratefully at Hearstwood and smiled at Druah. The former took the air of a mere friend. He was simply there to enjoy himself. Anything that Kerry did was pleasing to him. Nothing more. There, he said, holding back one of his own good cards and giving Kerry a chance to take a trick. I count that clever playing for a beginner. The latter left gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. It was if she were invincible when Hearstwood helped her. He did not look at her often. When he did, it was with a mild light in his eye. Not a shade was there of anything saved geniality and kindness. He took back the shifty clever gleam and replaced it with one of innocence. Kerry could not guess but that it was pleasure with him in the immediate thing. She felt that he considered she was doing a great deal. It is unfair to let such playing go without earning something, he said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket of his coat. Let's play for dimes. All right, said Druah, fishing for bills. Hearstwood was quicker. His fingers were full of new ten cent pieces. Here we are, he said, supplying each one with a little stack. Oh, this is gambling, he smiled. Kerry, it's bad. No, said Druah, only fun. If you never play for more than that, you will go to heaven. Don't you moralize, said Hearstwood to Kerry gently, until you see what becomes of the money. Druah smiled. If your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is. Druah laughed loud. There was such an ingratiating tone about Hearstwood's voice. The insinuation was so perceptible that even Kerry got the humor of it. When do you leave? said Hearstwood to Druah. On Wednesday, he replied, it's rather hard to have your husband running about like that, isn't it? said Hearstwood, addressing Kerry. She's going along with me this time, said Druah. You must both go with me to the theater before you go. Certainly, said Druah. Kerry? I'd like it ever so much, she replied. Hearstwood did his best to see that Kerry won the money. He rejoiced in her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and put them in her extended hand. They spread a little lunch, at which he served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact and going. Now, he said, addressing first Kerry and then Druah with his eyes. You must be ready at seven-thirty. I'll come and get you. They went with him to the door, and there was his cab waiting, its red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow. Now, he observed to Druah with a tone of good fellowship. When you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little. It will break up her loneliness. Sure, said Druah, quite pleased at the attention shown. You're so kind, observed Kerry. Not at all, said Hirstwood. I would want your husband to do as much for me. He smiled and went lightly away. Kerry was thoroughly impressed. She had never come in contact with such grace. As for Druah, he was equally pleased. There's a nice man, he remarked to Kerry as they returned to their cozy chamber, a good friend of mine too. He seems to be, said Kerry. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Kerry Bradfield, St. Louis, Missouri Chapter 11 of Sister Kerry This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Kerry Bradfield Sister Kerry by Theodore Dreiser Chapter 11 The Persuasion of Fashion Feeling Guards or Its Own Kerry was an apt student of Fortune's ways, of Fortune's superficialities. Seeing a thing, she would immediately set to inquiring how she would look properly related to it. Be it known that this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. The greatest minds are not so afflicted. And, on the contrary, the lowest order of mind is not so disturbed. Fine close to her were a vast persuasion. They spoke tenderly and Jesuitically for themselves. When she came with an earshot of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear, the voice of the so-called inanimate, who shall translate for us the language of the stones? My dear, said the lace collar she secured from partridges, I fit you beautifully, don't give me up. Ah, such little feet, said the leather of the soft new shoes, how effectively I cover them, what a pity they should ever want my aid. Once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream of giving them up, the method by which they came might intrude itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it, but she would not give them up. Put on the old clothes, that torn pair of shoes was called to her by her conscience in vain. She could possibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back. The thought of hard work and the narrow round of suffering would, under the last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil her appearance, be old clothes and poor appearing, never. Druah heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. It is so easy to do this when the thing of mind is in the line of what we desire. In his hearty way he insisted upon her good looks. He looked at her admiringly and she took it at its full value. Under the circumstances she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do. She picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. Druah had a habit characteristic of his kind of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. He had just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge, not of intellect but of clothes. He saw how they set their little feet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they swung their bodies. A dainty self-conscious swaying of the hips by a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper. He would turn and followed the disappearing vision with his eyes. He would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him. He loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. At this their own shrine he knelt with them an ardent devotee. Did you see that woman who went by just now? He said to Carey on the first day they took a walk together. Fine stepper, wasn't she? Carey looked and observed the grace commended. Yes, she is, she returned cheerfully. A little suggestion of possible defect in herself awakening in her mind. If that was so fine she must look at it more closely. Instinctively she felt a desire to imitate it. Surely she could do that too. When one of her mind sees many things emphasized and re-emphasized and admired she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly. Drew was not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. He could not see that it would be better to make her feel that she was competing with herself, not others better than herself. He would not have done it with an older wiser woman but in Carey he saw only the novice. Less clever than she he was naturally unable to comprehend her sensibility. He went on educating and wounding her a thing rather foolish and one whose admiration for his people and victim was apt to grow. Carey took the instructions affably. She saw what Drew liked in a vague way she saw where he was weak. It lessens a woman's opinion of a man when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly and generously distributed. She sees but one object of supreme compliment in this world and that is herself. If a man is to succeed with many women he must be all in all to each. In her own apartments Carey saw things which were lessens in the same school. In the same house with her lived an official of one of the theaters Mr. Frank A. Hale, manager of the standard and his wife a pleasing looking brunette of thirty-five. They were people of a sort very common in America today who live respectively from hand to mouth. Hale received a salary of forty-five dollars a week. His wife quite attractive affected the feeling of youth and objected to that sort of home life which means the care of a house and the raising of a family. Like Drew and Carey they also occupied three rooms on the floor above. Not long after she arrived Mrs. Hale established social relations with her and together they went about. For a long time this was her only companionship and the gossip of the manager's wife formed the medium through which she saw the world. Such trivialities such praises of wealth such conventional expressions of morals as sifted through this passive creature's mind fell upon Carey and for the while confused her. On the other hand her own feelings were a corrective influence. The constant drag to something better was not to be denied. By those things which addressed the heart was she steadily recalled. In the apartments across the hall were a young girl and her mother. They were from Evansville, Indiana the wife and daughter of a railroad treasurer. The daughter was here to study music the mother to keep her company. Carey did not make their acquaintance but she saw the daughter coming in and going out. A few times she had seen her at the piano in the parlor and not infrequently had heard her play. This young woman was particularly dressy for her station and wore a jeweled ring or two which flashed upon her white fingers as she played. Now Carey was affected by music. Her nervous composition responded to certain strains much as certain strings of a harp vibrate when a corresponding key of a piano is struck. She was delicately molded in sentiment and answered with vague reminations to certain wistful chords. They awoke longings for things which she did not have. They caused her to cling closer to things she possessed. One short song the young lady played in a most soulful and tender mood. Carey heard it through the open door from the parlor below. It was at that hour between afternoon and night when, for the idol, the wanderer, things are apt to take on a wistful aspect. The mind wanders forth on far journeys and returns with sheaves of withered and departed joys. Carey sat at her window looking out. Jura had been away since ten in the morning. She had amused herself with a walk a book by Bertha M. Clay which Jura had left there though she did not wholly enjoy the latter and by changing her dress for the evening. Now she sat looking out across the park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety in life can be under such circumstances. As she contemplated her new state the strain from the parlor below stole upward. With it her thoughts became colored and enmeshed. She reverted to the things which were best and saddest within the small limit of her experience. She became for the moment a repentant. While she was in this mood Jura came in bringing with him an entirely different atmosphere. It was dusk and Carey had neglected to light the lamp. The fire in the grate too had burned below. Where are you, Cad? He said using a pet name he had given her. Here she answered. There was something delicate and lonely in her voice but he could not hear it. He had not the poetry in him that would seek a woman out under such circumstances and console her for the tragedy of life. Instead he struck a match and lighted the gas. Hello! he exclaimed. You've been crying. Her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears. Shaw he said you don't want to do that. He took her hand feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was probably lack of his presence which had made her lonely. Come on now he went on. It's all right. Let's waltz a little to that music. He could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. It made clear to Kerry that he could not sympathize with her. She could not have framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made clear the difference between them but she felt it. It was his first great mistake. What Jura said about the girl's grace as she tripped out evenings accompanied by her mother caused Kerry to perceive the nature and value of those little modest ways which women adopt when they would presume to be something. She looked in the mirror and pursed up her lips accompanying it with a little toss of the head as she had seen the railroad treasurer's daughter do. She caught up her skirts with an easy swing for had not Jura remarked that in her and several others and Kerry was naturally imitative. She began to get the hang of those little things which the pretty woman who has vanity invariably adopts. In short her knowledge of grace doubled and with it her appearance changed. She became a girl of considerable taste. Jura noticed this. He saw the new bow in her hair and the new way of arranging her locks which she had affected one morning. You look fine that way cad. He said. Do I? She replied sweetly. It made her try for other effects that self-same day. She used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by her attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful carriage. How much influence the presence of that young woman in the same house had upon her it would be difficult to say. But because of all these things when Hirstwood called he had found a young woman who was much more than the carry to whom Jura had first spoken. The primary defects of dress and manner had passed. She was pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity born of uncertainty, and with a something childlike in her large eyes which captured the fancy of this starched and conventional poser among men. It was the ancient attraction of the fresh for the stale. If there was a touch of appreciation left in him for the bloom and unsophistication which is the charm of youth, it rekindled now. He looked into her pretty face and felt the subtle waves of young life radiating therefrom. In that large, clear eye he could see nothing that his blasé nature could understand his guile. The little vanity, if he could have perceived it there, would have touched him as a pleasant thing. I wonder, he said, as he wrote away in his cab, how Jura came to win her. He gave her credit for feeling superior to Jura at the first glance. The cab plopped along between the far receding lines of gas lamps on either hand. He folded his loved hands and saw only the lighted chamber in Carrie's face. He was pondering over the delight of youthful beauty. I'll have a bouquet for her, he thought. Jura won't mind. He never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for himself. He troubled himself not at all about Jura's priority. He was merely floating those gossamer threads of thought, which, like the spiders, he hoped would lay hold somewhere. He did not know, he could not guess what the result would be. A few weeks later Jura, in his pair of granations, encountered one of his well-dressed lady acquaintances in Chicago on his return from a short trip to Omaha. He had intended to hurry out to Ogden Place in surprise Carrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversation and soon modified his original intention. Let's go to dinner, he said, little wrecking any chance meeting which might trouble his way. Certainly, said his companion. They visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. It was five in the afternoon when they met, it was seven thirty before the last bone was picked. Jura was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his face was expanding into a smile when Hurstwood's eye caught his own. The latter had come in with several friends and seen Jura and some woman, not Carrie, drew his own conclusion. Ah, the rascal, he thought, and then with a touch of righteous sympathy, that's pretty hard on the little girl. Jura jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught Hurstwood's eye. He felt but very little misgiving until he saw that Hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see. Then some of the latter's impression forced itself upon him. He thought of Carrie and their last meeting. By George he would have to explain this to Hurstwood. Such a chance half-hour with an old friend must not have anything more attached to it than it really warranted. For the first time he was troubled. Here was a moral complication of which he could not possibly get the ends. Hurstwood would laugh at him for being a fickle boy. He would laugh with Hurstwood, Carrie would never hear. His present companion at the table would never know. And yet he could not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it. There was some faint stigma attached and he was not guilty. He broke up the dinner by becoming dull and saw his companion on her car. Then he went home. He hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames thought Hurstwood to himself. He thinks I think he cares for the girl out there. He ought not to think I'm knocking around since I have just introduced him out there, thought Druah. I saw you, Hurstwood said genially. The next time Druah drifted into his polished resort from which he could not stay away. He raised his forefinger indicatively as parents do to children. An old acquaintance of mine that I ran into just as I was coming up from the station explained Druah, she used to be quite a beauty. Still attracts a little, eh? returned the other, affecting to jest. Oh no, said Druah. Just couldn't escape her this time. How long are you here? asked Hurstwood. Only a few days. You must bring the girl down and take dinner with me, he said. I'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there. I'll get a box for Joe Jefferson. Not me, answered the drummer. Sure, I'll come. This pleased Hurstwood immensely. He gave Druah no credit for any feelings toward Curie whatever. He envied him, and now as he looked at the well-dressed jolly salesman whom he so much liked, the gleam of the rival glowed in his eye. He began to size up Druah from the standpoints of wit and fascination. He began to look to see where he was weak. There was no disputing that whatever he might think of him as a good fellow, he felt a certain amount of contempt for him as a lover. He could hoodwink him, all right. Why, if he would just let Curie see one such little incident as that of Thursday, it would settle the matter. He ran on in thought, almost exulting. The while he laughed and chatted and Druah felt nothing. He had no power of analyzing the glance in the atmosphere of a man like Hearstwood. He stood and smiled and accepted the invitation, while his friend examined him with the eye of a hawk. The object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of either. She was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newer conditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs from either quarter. One evening Druah found her dressing herself before the glass. Cad, he said, catching her, I believe you're getting vain. Nothing of the kind, she returned, smiling. Well, you're mighty pretty, he went on, slipping his arm around her. Put on that navy blue dress of yours, and I'll take you to the show. Oh, I've promised Mrs. Hale to go with her to the exposition tonight. She returned apologetically. You did, eh? He said, studying the situation abstractedly. I wouldn't care to go to that myself. Well, I don't know, answered Carrie, puzzling, but not offering to break her promise in his favor. Just then a knock came at their door, and the maid servant handed a letter in. He says there's an answer expected, she explained. It's from Hurstwood, Cedrura, noting the superscription as he tore it open. You are to come down and see Joe Jefferson with me tonight, it ran in part. It's my turn as we agreed the other day. All other bets are off. Well, what do you say to this, Cedrura innocently, while Carrie's mind bubbled with favorable replies? You had better decide, Charlie, she said reservedly. I guess we had better go if you can break that engagement upstairs, said Cedrura. Oh, I can, returned Carrie without thinking. Cedrura selected writing paper while Carrie went to change her dress. She hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to her most. Shall I wear my hair as I did yesterday? She asked, as she came out with several articles of apparel pending. Sure, he returned pleasantly. She was relieved to see that he felt nothing. She did not credit her willingness to go to any fascination Hurstwood held for her. It seemed that the combination of Hurstwood, Dura, and herself was more agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. She arrayed herself most carefully, and they started off, extending excuses upstairs. I say, said Hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, we are exceedingly charming this evening. Carrie fluttered under his approving glance. Now then, he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre. If ever there was dressiness, it was here, it was the personification of the old term spick-and-span. Did you ever see Jefferson? He questioned as he leaned toward Carrie in the box. I never did, she returned. He's delightful, delightful, he went on, giving the commonplace rendition of approval, which such men know. He sent Dura after a program, and then discourse to Carrie concerning Jefferson as he had heard of him. The former was pleased beyond expression, and was really hypnotized by the environment, the trappings of the box, the elegance of her companion. Several times their eyes accidentally met, and then there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before experienced. She could not for the moment explain it, for in the next glance or the next move of the hand, there was seeming indifference, mingled only with the kindest attention. Dura shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in comparison. Hurst would entertain them both, and now it was driven into Carrie's mind that here was a superior man, she instinctively felt that he was stronger and higher, and yet with all so simple. By the end of the third act she was sure that Dura was only a kindly soul but otherwise defective. He sank every moment in her estimation by the strong comparison. I have had such a nice time, said Carrie, when it was all over and they were coming out. Yes indeed, added Dura, who was not in the least aware that a battle had been fought in his defense's weekend. He was like the Emperor of China who set glorying in himself, unaware that his fairest provinces were being rested from him. Well, you have saved me a dreary evening, returned Hurst would, good night. He took Carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from one to the other. I'm so tired, said Carrie, leaning back in the car when Dura began to talk. Well, you rest a little while I smoke, he said, rising, and then he foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game as it stood. Mrs. Hurst would was not aware of any of her husband's moral defections, though she might readily have suspected his tendencies which she well understood. She was a woman upon whose action under provocation you could never count. Hurst would, for one, had not the slightest idea of what she would do under certain circumstances. He had never seen her thoroughly aroused. In fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a passion. She had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were airing. She was too calculating to jeopardize any advantage she might gain in the way of information by fruitless clamor. Her wrath would never wreak itself in one fell blow. She would wait and brood, studying the details and adding to them until her power might be commensurate with her desire for revenge. At the same time she would not delay to inflict any injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her revenge and still leave him uncertain, as to the source of the evil. She was a cold, self-centered woman, with many a thought of her own which never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye. Hirstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not actually perceive it. He dwelt with her in peace in some satisfaction. He did not fear her in the least. There was no cause for it. She still took a faint pride in him, which was augmented by her desire to have her social integrity maintained. She was secretly somewhat pleased by the fact that much of her husband's property was in her name, a precaution which Hirstwood had taken when his home interests were somewhat more alluring than at present. His wife had not the slightest reason to feel that anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet the shadows which run before gave her a thought of the good of it now and then. She was in a position to become refractory with considerable advantage, and Hirstwood conducted himself circumspectly because he felt that he could not be sure of anything once she became dissatisfied. It so happened that on the night when Hirstwood, Carrie and Druette were in the box at McVickers, George Jr. was in the sixth row of the parquet with the daughter of H.B. Carmichael, the third partner of a wholesale dry goods house of that city. Hirstwood did not see his son, for he sat as was his want as far back as possible, leaving himself just partially visible when he bent forward to those within the first six rows in question. It was his want to sit this way in every theater, to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible, where it would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise. He never moved, but what, if there was any danger of his conduct being misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him and counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity. The next morning at breakfast, his son said, I saw you, Governor, last night. Were you at McVickers? said Hirstwood, with the best grace in the world. Yes, said young George. Who with? Ms. Carmichael. Mrs. Hirstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual look into the theater which was referred to. How was the play? she inquired. Very good, returned Hirstwood. Only it's the same old thing, Rip Wendwinkel. Whom did you go with? queered his wife, with assumed indifference. Charlie Duret and his wife, they are friends of Moyes visiting here. Owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such disclosure as this would ordinarily create no difficulty, his wife took it for granted that his situation called for certain social movements in which she might not be included. But of late he had pleaded office duty on several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any evening entertainment. He had done so in regard to the very evening in question, only the morning before. I thought you were going to be busy, she remarked very carefully. So I was, he exclaimed. I couldn't help the interruption, but I made up for it afterward by working until two. This settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a residue of opinion that was not satisfactory. There was no time at which the claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily pushed. For years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial devotion and found her company dull. Now that a new light shone upon the horizon, this older luminary paled in the west. He was satisfied to turn his face away entirely, and any call to look back was irksome. She, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything less than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship, though the spirit might be wanting. We are coming downtown this afternoon, she remarked a few days later. I want you to come over to Kinsley's and meet Mr. Phillips and his wife. They are stopping at the Tremont, and we are going to show them around a little. After the occurrence of Wednesday he could not refuse, though the Phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could make them. He agreed, but it was with short grace. He was angry when he left the house. I'll put a stop to this, he thought. I'm not going to be bothered fooling around with visitors when I have work to do. Not long after this Mrs. Hurswood came up with a similar proposition. Only it was to a matinee this time. My dear, he returned, I haven't time, I'm too busy. You'll find time to go with other people though, she replied with considerable irritation. Nothing of the kind, he answered. I can't avoid business relations, and that's all there is to it. Well, never mind, she exclaimed. Her lips tightened. The feeling of mutual antagonism was increased. On the other hand, his interest in Jourette's little shop girl grew in an almost evenly balanced proportion. That young lady, under the stress of her situation, and the tutelage of her new friend changed effectively. She had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks emancipation. The glow of a more showy life was not lost upon her. She did not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of desire. Mrs. Hale's extended her ranks upon the subjects of wealth and position taught her to distinguish between degrees of wealth. Mrs. Hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was fine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and lawns which she could not afford. On the north side had been erected a number of elegant mansions along what is now known as the North Shore Drive. The present Lake Wall of Stone and Granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid out. The intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the houses were thoroughly new and imposing. When the winter season had passed and the first fine days of the early spring appeared, Mrs. Hale secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited Carrie. They rode first through Lincoln Park and on far out towards Evanston, turning back at four and arriving at the north end of the shore drive at about five o'clock. At this time of year the days are still comparatively short and the shadows of the evening were beginning to settle down upon the great city. Lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which seems almost watery and translucent to the eye. There was a softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh as well as to the soul. Carrie felt that it was a lovely day. She was ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. As they drove along the smooth pavement and occasional carriage-past she saw one stop and the footmen dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. Across the broad lawns now first freshening into green she saw lamps faintly glowing upon rich interiors. Now it was but a chair, now a table, now an ornate corner that met her eye, but it appealed to her as almost nothing else could. Such childish fancies as she had had of fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back. She imagined that across these richly carved entranceways, where the globed and crystal lamp shone upon panel doors set with stained and designed panes of glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire. She was perfectly certain that here was happiness. If she could but stroll up yon broad walk cross that rich entranceway, which to her was of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to possession and command, oh, how quickly would sadness flee, how in an instant would the heartache end? She gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of the unrestful was whispering in her ear. If we could have such a home as that, said Mrs. Hale sadly, how delightful it would be. And yet they do say, said Carey, that no one is ever happy. She had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grape-less fox. I notice, said Mrs. Hale, that they all try mighty hard, though, to take their misery in a mansion. When she came to her own rooms, Carey saw their comparative insignificance. She was not so dull, but that she could perceive they were but three small rooms in a moderately well furnished boarding-house. She was not contrasting it now with what she had had, but what she had so recently seen. The glow of the palatial doors was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears. What, after all, was druet? What was she? At her window she thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the Lamplit Park toward the Lamplit Houses on Warren and Ashland Avenues. She was too wrought up to Carey to go down to eat, too pensive to do ought, but rock and sing. Some old tunes crept to her lips, and as she sang them, her heart sank. She longed and longed and longed. It was now for the old cottage-room in Columbia City, now the mansion upon the shore-drive, now the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene. She was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying. Finally it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the lip. She hummed and hummed as the moments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be. While Carey was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought up the intelligence that Mr. Hurstwood was in the parlor, asking to see Mr. and Mrs. Druett. I guess he doesn't know that Charlie is out of town, thought Carey. She had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another, principally by the strong impression he had made. She was quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror and went below. Hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. He hadn't heard that Druett was out of town. He was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics that would interest Carey. It was surprising, the ease with which he conducted a conversation. He was like every man who has had the advantage of practice, and knows he has sympathy. He knew that Carey listened to him pleasurably, and without the least effort he fell into a train of observation which absorbed her fancy. He drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such a degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. He confined himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and pleasures. He had been here and there. He had seen this and that. Somehow he made Carey wish to see similar things, and all the while kept her aware of himself. She could not shut out the consciousness of his individuality and presence for a moment. He would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. He would draw out with the easiest grace her approval. Once he touched her hand for emphasis, and she only smiled. He seemed to radiate an atmosphere which suffused her being. He was never dull for a minute, and seemed to make her clever. At least she brightened under his influence until all her best side was exhibited. She felt that she was more clever with him than with others. At least he seemed to find so much in her to applaud. There was not the slightest touch of patronage. Druette was full of it. There had been something so personal, so subtle in each meeting between them, both when Druette was present and when he was absent, that Carey could not speak of it without feeling a sense of difficulty. She was no talker. She could never arrange her thoughts in fluent order. It was always a matter of feeling with her, strong and deep. Each time there had been no sentence of importance which she could relate. And as for the glances and sensations, what woman would reveal them? Such things had never been between her and Druette. As a matter of fact, they could never be. She had been dominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces of relief which Druette represented at an opportune moment when she yielded to him. Now she was persuaded by secret current feelings which Druette had never understood. Herswood's glance was as effective as the spoken words of a lover and more. They called for no immediate decision and could not be answered. People in general attach too much importance to words. They are under the illusion that talking affects great results. As a matter of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. They but dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which lie behind. When the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart listens. In this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices of the things which he represented, how suave was the counsel of his appearance, how feelingly did his superior state speak for itself. The growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand. She did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible. She did not need to worry over what other people would say, what she herself would say, because it had no tangibility. She was being pleaded with, persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet there were no words to prove it. Such conversation, as was indulged in, held the same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident which it is used to cover. Have you ever seen the houses along the lakeshore on the north side? asked Hirstwood. Why, I was just over there this afternoon. Mrs. Hale and I, aren't they beautiful? They're very fine, he answered. Oh, me, said Carrie Pensively. I wish I could live in such a place. You're not happy, said Hirstwood slowly after a pause. He had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. He assumed that he had struck a deep chord. Now was a slight chance to say a word on his own behalf. He leaned over quietly and continued his steady gaze. He felt the critical character of the period. She endeavored to stir, but it was useless. The whole strength of the man's nature was working. He had a good cause to urge him on. He looked and looked. And the longer the situation lasted, the more difficult it became. The little shop girl was getting into deep water. She was letting her few supports float away from her. Oh, she said at last. You mustn't look at me like that. I can't help it, he answered. She relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him strength. You are not satisfied with life, are you? No, she answered weakly. He saw that he was the master of the situation. He felt it. He reached over and touched her hand. You mustn't, she exclaimed, jumping up. I didn't intend to, he answered easily. She did not run away as she might have done. She did not terminate the interview. But he drifted off into a pleasant field of thought with the readyest grace. Not long after, he rose to go, and she felt that he was in power. You mustn't feel bad, he said kindly. Things will straighten out in the course of time. She made no answer because she could think of nothing to say. We're good friends, aren't we? He said, extending his hand. Yes, she answered. Not a word, then, until I see you again. He retained a hold of her hand. I can't promise, she said doubtfully. You must be more generous than that, he said, in such a simple way that she was touched. Let's not talk about it any more, she returned. All right, he said, brightening. He went down the steps and into his cab. Carrie closed the door and ascended into her room. She undid her broad lace collar before the mirror, and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently bought. I'm getting terrible, she said, honestly affected by a feeling of trouble and shame. I don't seem to do anything right. She unloosed her hair after a time and let it hang in loose, brown waves. Her mind was going over the events of the evening. I don't know, she murmured at last, what I can do. Well, said Hirstwood as he drove away. She likes me all right. That I know. The aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his office, an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years. End of Chapter 12