Sister Carrie
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SISTER CARRIE
He turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request were of little importance.
«Where would we go?» she asked in much the same manner, rolling her gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree.
«Where do you want to go?» he enquired.
There was something in the tone in which he said this which made her feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation.
«We can't stay in Chicago,» she replied.
He had no thought that this was in her mind – that any removal would be suggested.
«Why not?» he asked softly.
«Oh, because,» she said, «I wouldn't want to.»
He listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant. It had no serious ring to it. The question was not up for immediate decision.
«I would have to give up my position,» he said.
The tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only slight consideration. Carrie thought a little, the while enjoying the pretty scene.
«I wouldn't like to live in Chicago and him here,» she said, thinking of Drouet.
«It's a big town, dearest,» Hurstwood answered. «It would be as good as moving to another part of the country to move to the South Side.»
He had fixed upon that region as an objective point. «Anyhow,» said Carrie, «I shouldn't want to get married as
long as he is here. I wouldn't want to run away.»
The suggestion of marriage struck Hurstwood forcibly. He saw clearly that this was her idea – he felt that it was not to be
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gotten over easily. Bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a moment. He wondered for the life of him how it would all come out. He could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard. When he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. What a thing it was to have her love him, even if it be entangling! She increased in value in his eyes because of her objection. She was something to struggle for, and that was everything. How different from the women who yielded willingly! He swept the thought of them from his mind.
«And you don't know when he'll go away?» asked Hurstwood, quietly.
She shook her head. He sighed.
«You're a determined little miss, aren't you?» he said, after a few moments, looking up into her eyes.
She felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. It was pride at what seemed his admiration – affection for the man who could feel this concerning her.
«No,» she said coyly, «but what can I do?»
Again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the street.
«I wish,» he said pathetically, «you would come to me. I don't like to be away from you this way. What good is there in waiting? You're not any happier, are you?»
«Happier!» she exclaimed softly, «you know better than that.»
«Here we are then,» he went on in the same tone, «wasting our days. If you are not happy, do you think I am? I sit and write to you the biggest part of the time. I'll tell you what, Car-
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rie,» he exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with his eyes, «I can't live without you, and that's all there is to it. Now,» he concluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, «what shall I do?»
This shifting of the burden to her appealed to Carrie. The semblance of the load without the weight touched the woman's heart.
«Can't you wait a little while yet?» she said tenderly. «I'll try and find out when he's going.»
«What good will it do?» he asked, holding the same strain of feeling.
«Well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere.»
She really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields.
Hurstwood did not understand. He was wondering how she was to be persuaded – what appeal would move her to forsake Drouet. He began to wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. He was thinking of some question which would make her tell.
Finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way. It had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part, and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's serious thought.
«Carrie,» he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look which he did not feel, «suppose I were to come to you next week, or this week for that matter – to-night say –
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and tell you I had to go away – that I couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more – would you come with me?» His sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her answer ready before the words were out of his mouth.
«Yes,» she said.
«You wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?» «Not if you couldn't wait.»
He smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two. He had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful. He let it stand.
«Suppose we didn't have time to get married here?» he added, an afterthought striking him.
«If we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey it would be all right.»
«I meant that,» he said. «Yes.»
The morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. He wondered whatever could have put such a thought into his head. Impossible as it was, he could not help smiling at its cleverness. It showed how she loved him. There was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way to win her.
«Well,» he said, jokingly, «I'll come and get you one of these evenings,» and then he laughed.
«I wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me,» Carrie added reflectively.
«I don't want you to,» he said tenderly, taking her hand.
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She was extremely happy now that she understood. She loved him the more for thinking that he would rescue her so. As for him, the marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. He was thinking that with such affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness.
«Let's stroll about,» he said gayly, rising and surveying all the lovely park.
«All right,» said Carrie.
They passed the young Irishman, who looked after them with envious eyes.
«'Tis a foine couple,» he observed to himself. «They must be rich.»
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CHAPTER XVI
A witless aladdin – the gate to the world
In the course of his present stay in Chicago, Drouet paid some slight attention to the secret order to which he belonged. During his last trip he had received a new light on its importance.
«I tell you,» said another drummer to him, «it's a great thing. Look at Hazenstab. He isn't so deuced clever. Of course he's got a good house behind him, but that won't do alone. I tell you it's his degree. He's a way-up Mason, and that goes a long way. He's got a secret sign that stands for something.»
Drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in such matters. So when he got back to Chicago he repaired to his local lodge headquarters.
«I say, Drouet,» said Mr. Harry Quincel, an individual who was very prominent in this local branch of the Elks, «you're the man that can help us out.»
It was after the business meeting and things were going socially with a hum. Drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score of individuals whom he knew.
«What are you up to?» he inquired genially, turning a smiling face upon his secret brother.
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«We're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from today, and we want to know if you don't know some young lady who could take a part – it's an easy part.»
«Sure,» said Drouet, «what is it?» He did not trouble to remember that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. His innate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply.
«Well, now, I'll tell you what we are trying to do,» went on Mr. Quincel. «We are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge. There isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we thought we would raise it by a little entertainment.»
«Sure,» interrupted Drouet, «that's a good idea.»
«Several of the boys around here have got talent. There's Harry Burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. Mac Lewis is all right at heavy dramatics. Did you ever hear him recite 'Over the Hills'?»
«Never did.»
«Well, I tell you, he does it fine.»
«And you want me to get some woman to take a part?» questioned Drouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. «What are you going to play?»
«'Under the Gaslight,'» said Mr. Quincel, mentioning Augustin Daly's famous production, which had worn from a great public success down to an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome accessories cut out and the dramatis personae reduced to the smallest possible number.
Drouet had seen this play some time in the past.
«That's it,» he said; «that's a fine play. It will go all right. You ought to make a lot of money out of that.»
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«We think we'll do very well,» Mr. Quincel replied. «Don't you forget now,» he concluded, Drouet showing signs of restlessness; «some young woman to take the part of Laura.»
«Sure, I'll attend to it.»
He moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment Mr. Quincel had ceased talking. He had not even thought to ask the time or place.
Drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt of a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the following Friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady's address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her.
«Now, who the deuce do I know?» asked the drummer reflectively, scratching his rosy ear. «I don't know any one that knows anything about amateur theatricals.»
He went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of her home on the West Side, and promised himself that as he came out that evening he would see her. When, however, he started west on the car he forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item in the «Evening News» – a small three-line affair under the head of Secret Society Notes – which stated the Custer Lodge of the Order of Elks would give a theatrical performance in Avery Hall on the 16th, when «Under the Gaslight» would be produced.
«George!» exclaimed Drouet, «I forgot that.» «What?» inquired Carrie.
They were at their little table in the room which might have been used for a kitchen, where Carrie occasionally served
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a meal. Tonight the fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread with a pleasing repast.
«Why, my lodge entertainment. They're going to give a play, and they wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part.»
«What is it they're going to play?» «'Under the Gaslight.'»
«When?»
«On the 16th.»
«Well, why don't you?» asked Carrie. «I don't know any one,» he replied. Suddenly he looked up.
«Say,» he said, «how would you like to take the part?» «Me?» said Carrie. «I can't act.»
«How do you know?» questioned Drouet reflectively. «Because,» answered Carrie, «I never did.»
Nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. Her eyes brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies it was the art of the stage. True to his nature, Drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out.
«That's nothing. You can act all you have to down there.» «No, I can't,» said Carrie weakly, very much drawn toward
the proposition and yet fearful.
«Yes, you can. Now, why don't you do it? They need some one, and it will be lots of fun for you.»
«Oh, no, it won't,» said Carrie seriously.
«You'd like that. I know you would. I've seen you dancing around here and giving imitations and that's why I asked you. You're clever enough, all right.»
«No, I'm not,» said Carrie shyly.
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«Now, I'll tell you what you do. You go down and see about it. It'll be fun for you. The rest of the company isn't going to be any good. They haven't any experience. What do they know about theatricals?»
He frowned as he thought of their ignorance. «Hand me the coffee,» he added.
«I don't believe I could act, Charlie,» Carrie went on pettishly. «You don't think I could, do you?»
«Sure. Out o' sight. I bet you make a hit. Now you want to go, I know you do. I knew it when I came home. That's why I asked you.»
«What is the play, did you say?» «'Under the Gaslight.'»
«What part would they want me to take?» «Oh, one of the heroines – I don't know.» «What sort of a play is it?»
«Well,» said Drouet, whose memory for such things was not the best, «it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks – a man and a woman that live in the slums. She had some money or something and they wanted to get it. I don't know now how it did go exactly.»
«Don't you know what part I would have to take?»
«No, I don't, to tell the truth.» He thought a moment. «Yes, I do, too. Laura, that's the thing – you're to be Laura.»
«And you can't remember what the part is like?»
«To save me, Cad, I can't,» he answered. «I ought to, too; I've seen the play enough. There's a girl in it that was stolen when she was an infant – was picked off the street or something – and she's the one that's hounded by the two old criminals I was telling you about.» He stopped with a mouthful of
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