Sister Carrie 29 страница

Suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door. Before Hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk and disappeared in the stage door. He thought he saw Carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. He waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have been Carrie and turned away.

“Lord, ” he said, hastening out of the street into which the more fortunate were pouring, “I've got to get something. ”

At that hour, when Broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway—a spot which is also intersected by Fifth Avenue. This was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons. Fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every hand. Cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. Couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. On Fifth Avenue were loungers—a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some club-men passing from one smoking-room to another. Across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafes and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. All about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration—the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways.

This unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the God which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. The form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. It consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself. Taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. For a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an everfascinating scene. On the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as “captain, ” in a friendly way. An urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. All others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement.

As the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. Here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestedly near. A slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. Another came down Fifth Avenue to the corner of Twenty-sixth Street, took a general survey, and hobbled off again. Two or three noticeable Bowery types edged along the Fifth Avenue side of Madison Square, but did not venture over. The soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling.

As nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed. The atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. The air, too, was colder. On every hand curious figures were moving—watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter—a dozen in all. Presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. It crossed Broadway from out the shadow of Twenty-sixth Street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting figure. There was something shamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. Then suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt.

The captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting. The newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts. The other simply motioned to-ward the edge of the walk.

“Stand over there, ” he said.

By this the spell was broken. Even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. They did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet.

“Gold, ain't it? ”

“I'm glad winter's over. ”

“Looks as though it might rain. ”

The motley company had increased to ten. One or two knew each other and conversed. Others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out. They were peevish, crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet.

There would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. Counting sufficient to begin, he came forward.

“Beds, eh, all of you? ”

There was a general shuffle and murmur of approval.

“Well, line up here. I'll see what I can do. I haven't a cent myself. ”

They fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. One might see, now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. There was a wooden leg in the line. Hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a second-hand Hester Street basement collection. Trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. In the glare of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. A few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. Some one in the line began to talk.

“Silence! ” exclaimed the captain. “Now, then, gentlemen, these men are without beds. They have to have some place to sleep tonight. They can't lie out in the streets. I need twelve cents to put one of them to bed. Who will give it to me? ”

No reply.

“Well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. Twelve cents isn't so very much for one man. ”

“Here's fifteen, ” exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes. “It's all I can afford. ”

“All right. Now I have fifteen. Step out of the line, ” and seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone.

Coming back, he resumed his place and began again.

“I have three cents left. These men must be put to bed somehow. There are”—counting—”one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. Nine cents more will put the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. I go right along and look after that myself. Who will give me nine cents? ”

One of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece.

“Now, I have eight cents. Four more will give this man a bed. Come, gentlemen. We are going very slow this evening. You all have good beds. How about these? ”

“Here you are, ” remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand.

“That, ” said the captain, looking at the coin, “pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one. Who will give me seven cents more? ”

“I will, ” said a voice.

Coming down Sixth Avenue this evening, Hurstwood chanced to cross east through Twenty-sixth Street toward Third Avenue. He was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary, and defeated. How should he get at Carrie now? It would be eleven before the show was over. If she came in a coach, she would go away in one. He would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances. Worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. He had no food and no bed.

When he neared Broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. However, in crossing the street toward Madison Square Park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. In the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his own kind—the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. He wondered what it could be and turned back.

There was the captain curtly pleading as before. He heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: “These men must have a bed. ” Before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. What use to contend? He was weary to-night. It was a simple way out of one difficulty, at least. To-morrow, maybe, he would do better.

Back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent. The strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability. Politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there. Cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters. Vague and rambling observations were made in reply.

There were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse.

Standing tells. Hurstwood became more weary waiting. He thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. At last his turn came. The man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success. He was now first, and already the captain was talking for him.

“Twelve cents, gentlemen—twelve cents puts this man to bed. He wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go. ”

Hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. Hunger and weakness had made a coward of him.

“Here you are, ” said a stranger, handing money to the captain.

Now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. “Line up over there, ” he said.

Once there, Hurstwood breathed easier. He felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. Others seemed to feel like himself about this.

“Captain's a great feller, ain't he? ” said the man ahead—a little, woebegone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune.

“Yes, ” said Hurstwood, indifferently.

“Huh! there's a lot back there yet, ” said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading.

“Yes. Must be over a hundred to-night, ” said another.

“Look at the guy in the cab, ” observed a third.

A cab had stopped. Some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line. There was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. Even the crowd gaped in awe.

“That fixes up nine men for the night, ” said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him. “Line up over there. Now, then, there are only seven. I need twelve cents. ”

Money came slowly. In the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meagre handful. Fifth Avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare. Broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. Only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding.

The captain remained stolid and determined. He talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail.

“Come; I can't stay out here all night. These men are getting tired and cold. Some one give me four cents. ”

There came a time when he said nothing at all. Money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line. Then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground.

The theatres let out. Fire signs disappeared. A clock struck eleven. Another half-hour and he was down to the last two men.

“Come, now, ” he exclaimed to several curious observers; “eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night. Eighteen cents. I have six. Somebody give me the money. Remember, I have to go over to Brooklyn yet to-night. Before that I have to take these men down and put them to bed. Eighteen cents. ”

No one responded. He walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly: “Eighteen cents. ” It seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had. Hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak.

At last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down Fifth Avenue, accompanied by her escort. Hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of Carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner.

While he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over. He came, holding a bill in his fingers, all elegant and graceful.

“Here you are, ” he said.

“Thanks, ” said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants. “Now we have some for to-morrow night, ” he added.

Therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went.

“One hundred and thirty-seven, ” he announced. “Now, boys, line up. Right dress there. We won't be much longer about this. Steady, now. ”

He placed himself at the head and called out “Forward. ” Hurstwood moved with the line. Across Fifth Avenue, through Madison Square by the winding paths, east on Twenty-third Street, and down Third Avenue wound the long, serpentine company. Midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. Chatting policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before. On Third Avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to Eighth Street, where there was a lodginghouse, closed, apparently, for the night. They were expected, however.

Outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. Then doors swung open and they were invited in with a “Steady, now. ”

Some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for keys. Toiling up the creaky stairs, Hurstwood looked back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude. Then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night.

“I can't stand much of this, ” said Hurstwood, whose legs ached him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him. “I've got to eat, or I'll die. ”

Chapter XLVI

STIRRING TROUBLED WATERS

Playing in New York one evening on this her return, Carrie was putting the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the night, when a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. It included a familiar voice.

“Never mind, now. I want to see Miss Madenda. ”

“You'll have to send in your card. ”

“Oh, come off! Here. ”

A half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her dressing-room door. Carrie opened it.

“Well, well! ” said Drouet. “I do swear! Why, how are you? I knew that was you the moment I saw you. ”

Carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation.

“Aren't you going to shake hands with me? Well, you're a dandy! That's all right, shake hands. ”

Carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man's exuberant good-nature. Though older, he was but slightly changed. The same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy countenance.

“That fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until I paid him. I knew it was you, all right. Say, you've got a great show. You do your part fine. I knew you would. I just happened to be passing to night and thought I'd drop in for a few minutes. I saw your name on the programme, but I didn't remember it until you came on the stage. Then it struck me all at once. Say, you could have knocked me down with a feather. That's the same name you used out there in Chicago, isn't it? ”

“Yes, ” answered Carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance.

“I knew it was, the moment I saw you. Well, how have you been, anyhow? ”

“Oh, very well, ” said Carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. She was rather dazed by the assault. “How have you been? ”

“Me? Oh, fine. I'm here now. ”

“Is that so? ” said Carrie.

“Yes. I've been here for six months. I've got charge of a branch here. ”

“How nice! ”

“Well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow? ” inquired Drouet.

“About three years ago, ” said Carrie.

“You don't say so! Well, sir, this is the first I've heard of it. I knew you would, though. I always said you could act—didn't I? ”

Carrie smiled.

“Yes, you did, ” she said.

“Well, you do look great, ” he said. “I never saw anybody improve so. You're taller, aren't you? ”

“Me? Oh, a little, maybe. ”

He gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was set jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to avert. Evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once and without modification.

“Well, ” he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and the like, preparatory to departing, “I want you to come out to dinner with me; won't you? I've got a friend out here. ”

“Oh, I can't, ” said Carrie. “Not to-night. I have an early engagement to-morrow. ”

“Aw, let the engagement go. Come on. I can get rid of him. I want to have a good talk with you. ”

“No, no, ” said Carrie; “I can't. You mustn't ask me any more. I don't care for a late dinner. ”

“Well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow. ”

“Not to-night, ” she said, shaking her head. “We'll have a talk some other time. ”

As a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his face, as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed. Good-nature dictated something better than this for one who had always liked her.

“You come around to the hotel to-morrow, ” she said, as sort of penance for error. “You can take dinner with me. ”

“All right, ” said Drouet, brightening. “Where are you stopping? ”

“At the Waldorf, ” she answered, mentioning the fashionable hostelry then but newly erected.

“What time? ”

“Well, come at three, ” said Carrie, pleasantly.

The next day Drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that Carrie remembered her appointment. However, seeing him, handsome as ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. He talked as volubly as ever.

“They put on a lot of lugs here, don't they? ” was his first remark.

“Yes; they do, ” said Carrie.

Genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed account of his own career.

“I'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon, ” he observed in one place. “I can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars. ”

Carrie listened most good-naturedly.

“Say, ” he said, suddenly; “where is Hurstwood now? ”

Carrie flushed a little.

“He's here in New York, I guess, ” she said. “I haven't seen him for some time. ”

Drouet mused for a moment. He had not been sure until now that the ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. He imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. It must be that Carrie had got rid of him—as well she ought, he thought. “A man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that, ” he observed.

“Like what? ” said Carrie, unwitting of what was coming.

“Oh, you know, ” and Drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with his hand.

“No, I don't, ” she answered. “What do you mean? ”

“Why that affair in Chicago—the time he left. ”

“I don't know what you are talking about, ” said Carrie. Could it be he would refer so rudely to Hurstwood's flight with her?

“Oho! ” said Drouet, incredulously. “You knew he took ten thousand dollars with him when he left, didn't you? ”

“What! ” said Carrie. “You don't mean to say he stole money, do you? ”

“Why, ” said Drouet, puzzled at her tone, “you knew that, didn't you? ”

“Why, no, ” said Carrie. “Of course I didn't. ”

“Well, that's funny, ” said Drouet. “He did, you know. It was in all the papers. ”

“How much did you say he took? ” said Carrie.

“Ten thousand dollars. I heard he sent most of it back afterwards, though. ”

Carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. A new light was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. She remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. She also imagined that he took it on her account. Instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. Poor fellow! What a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time.

At dinner Drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood, fancied he was winning Carrie to her old-time goodnatured regard for him. He began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. Ah, what a prize! he thought. How beautiful, how elegant, how famous! In her theatrical and Waldorf setting, Carrie was to him the all desirable.

“Do you remember how nervous you were that night at the Avery? ” he asked.

Carrie smiled to think of it.

“I never saw anybody do better than you did then, Cad, ” he added ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; “I thought you and I were going to get along fine those days. ”

“You mustn't talk that way, ” said Carrie, bringing in the least touch of coldness.

“Won't you let me tell you——”

“No, ” she answered, rising. “Besides, it's time I was getting ready for the theatre. I'll have to leave you. Come, now. ” “Oh, stay a minute, ” pleaded Drouet. “You've got plenty of time. ”

“No, ” said Carrie, gently.

Reluctantly Drouet gave up the bright table and followed. He saw her to the elevator and, standing there, said:

“When do I see you again? ”

“Oh, some time, possibly, ” said Carrie. “I'll be here all summer. Good-night! ”

The elevator door was open.

“Good-night! ” said Drouet, as she rustled in.

Then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived, because she was now so far off. The merry frou-frou of the place spoke all of her. He thought himself hardly dealt with. Carrie, however, had other thoughts.

That night it was that she passed Hurstwood, waiting at the Casino, without observing him.

The next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face to face. He was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if he had to send in word. At first she did not recognise the shabby, baggy figure. He frightened her, edging so close, a seemingly hungry stranger.

“Carrie, ” he half whispered, “can I have a few words with you? ”

She turned and recognised him on the instant. If there ever had lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. Still, she remembered what Drouet said about his having stolen the money.

“Why, George, ” she said; “what's the matter with you? ”

“I've been sick, ” he answered. “I've just got out of the hospital. For God's sake, let me have a little money, will you? ”

“Of course, ” said Carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to maintain her composure. “But what's the matter with you, anyhow? ”

She was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it—a five and two twos.

“I've been sick, I told you, ” he said, peevishly, almost resenting her excessive pity. It came hard to him to receive it from such a source.

“Here, ” she said. “It's all I have with me. ”

“All right, ” he answered, softly. “I'll give it back to you some day. ”

Carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. She felt the strain of publicity. So did Hurstwood.

“Why don't you tell me what's the matter with you? ” she asked, hardly knowing what to do. “Where are you living? ”

“Oh, I've got a room down in the Bowery, ” he answered. “There's no use trying to tell you here. I'm all right now. ”

He seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries—so much better had fate dealt with her.

“Better go on in, ” he said. “I'm much obliged, but I won't bother you any more. ”

She tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward the east.

For days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to wear partially away. Drouet called again, but now he was not even seen by her. His attentions seemed out of place.

“I'm out, ” was her reply to the boy.

So peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye— she was so quiet and reserved.

Not long after the management decided to transfer the show to London. A second summer season did not seem to promise well here.

“How would you like to try subduing London? ” asked her manager, one afternoon.

“It might be just the other way, ” said Carrie.

“I think we'll go in June, ” he answered.

In the hurry of departure, Hurstwood was forgotten. Both he and Drouet were left to discover that she was gone. The latter called once, and exclaimed at the news. Then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of his moustache. At last he reached a conclusion—the old days had gone for good.

“She isn't so much, ” he said; but in his heart of hearts he did not believe this.

Hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. A small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. Begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park, carried him over more days. Resorting to those peculiar charities, several of which, in the press of hungry search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest. Toward the dead of winter, Carrie came back, appearing on Broadway in a new play; but he was not aware of it. For weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the fire sign, announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of amusements. Drouet saw it, but did not venture in.

About this time Ames returned to New York. He had made a little success in the West, and now opened a laboratory in Wooster Street. Of course, he encountered Carrie through Mrs. Vance; but there was nothing responsive between them. He thought she was still united to Hurstwood, until otherwise informed. Not knowing the facts then, he did not profess to understand, and refrained from comment.

With Mrs. Vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself accordingly.

“She ought not to be in comedy, ” he said. “I think she could do better than that. ”

One afternoon they met at the Vances' accidentally, and began a very friendly conversation. She could hardly tell why the onetime keen interest in him was no longer with her. Unquestionably, it was because at that time he had represented something which she did not have; but this she did not understand. Success had given her the momentary feeling that she was now blessed with much of which he would approve. As a matter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. He thought she could have done better, by far.

“You didn't go into comedy-drama, after all? ” he said, remembering her interest in that form of art.

“No, ” she answered; “I haven't, so far. ”

He looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had failed. It moved her to add: “I want to, though. ”

“I should think you would, ” he said. “You have the sort of disposition that would do well in comedy-drama. ”

It surprised her that he should speak of disposition. Was she, then, so clearly in his mind?

“Why? ” she asked.

“Well, ” he said, “I should judge you were rather sympathetic in your nature. ”

Carrie smiled and coloured slightly. He was so innocently frank with her that she drew nearer in friendship. The old call of the ideal was sounding.

“I don't know, ” she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all concealment.

“I saw your play, ” he remarked. “It's very good. ”

“I'm glad you liked it. ”

“Very good, indeed, ” he said, “for a comedy. ”

This is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but later they met again. He was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring at the floor, when Carrie came up with another of the guests. Hard work had given his face the look of one who is weary. It was not for Carrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her.

“All alone? ” she said.

“I was listening to the music. ”

“I'll be back in a moment, ” said her companion, who saw nothing in the inventor.

Now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while he sat.

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