Those who look upon Hurstwood's Brooklyn venture as an error of judgmentwill none the less realise the negative influence on him of the factthat he had tried and failed. Carrie got a wrong idea of it. He said solittle that she imagined he had encountered nothing worse than theordinary roughness--quitting so soon in the face of this seemedtrifling. He did not want to work.

She was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second actof the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentateas the treasures of his harem. There was no word assigned to any ofthem, but on the evening when Hurstwood was housing himself in the loftof the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star, feelingexceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a rippleof laughter:

"Well, who are you?"

It merely happened to be Carrie who was courtesying before him. It mightas well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned. Heexpected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. But Carrie,whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring, courtesiedsweetly again and answered:

"I am yours truly."

It was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did itcaught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-fierce potentatetowering before the young woman. The comedian also liked it, hearing thelaughter.

"I thought your name was Smith," he returned, endeavouring to get thelast laugh.

Carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. Allmembers of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or"business" meant a fine or worse. She did not know what to think.

As she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaitinganother entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused inrecognition.

"You can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing howintelligent she appeared. "Don't add any more, though."

"Thank you," said Carrie, humbly. When he went on she found herselftrembling violently.

"Well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus. "Thereisn't another one of us has got a line."

There was no gainsaying the value of this. Everybody in the companyrealised that she had got a start. Carrie hugged herself when nextevening the lines got the same applause. She went home rejoicing,knowing that soon something must come of it. It was Hurstwood who, byhis presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee and replaced them withsharp longings for an end of distress.

The next day she asked him about his venture.

"They're not trying to run any cars except with police. They don't wantanybody just now--not before next week."

Next week came, but Carrie saw no change. Hurstwood seemed moreapathetic than ever. He saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the likewith the utmost calm. He read and read. Several times he found himselfstaring at an item, but thinking of something else. The first of theselapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he had onceattended at a driving club, of which he had been a member. He sat,gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the old voices and theclink of glasses.

"You're a dandy, Hurstwood," his friend Walker said. He was standingagain well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores fora good story.

All at once he looked up. The room was so still it seemed ghostlike. Heheard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had beendozing. The paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the itemshe had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of thedoze idea. Still, it seemed peculiar. When it occurred a second time,however, it did not seem quite so strange.

Butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group with whom hewas then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit--called. Hemet them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. At last he became bold,pretended to be out, or waved them off.

"They can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "If I had it I'd paythem."

Carrie's little soldier friend, Miss Osborne, seeing her succeeding, hadbecome a sort of satellite. Little Osborne could never of herself amountto anything. She seemed to realise it in a sort of pussy-like way andinstinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to Carrie.

"Oh, you'll get up," she kept telling Carrie with admiration. "You're sogood."

Timid as Carrie was, she was strong in capability. The reliance ofothers made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared.Experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. No longerthe lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. She had learned that mencould change and fail. Flattery in its most palpable form had lost itsforce with her. It required superiority--kindly superiority--to moveher--the superiority of a genius like Ames.

"I don't like the actors in our company," she told Lola one day."They're all so struck on themselves."

"Don't you think Mr. Barclay's pretty nice?" inquired Lola, who hadreceived a condescending smile or two from that quarter.

"Oh, he's nice enough," answered Carrie; "but he isn't sincere. Heassumes such an air."

Lola felt for her first hold upon Carrie in the following manner:

"Are you paying room-rent where you are?"

"Certainly," answered Carrie. "Why?"

"I know where I could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. It's toobig for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is only sixdollars a week for both."

"Where?" said Carrie.

"In Seventeenth Street."

"Well, I don't know as I'd care to change," said Carrie, who was alreadyturning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. She was thinking if shehad only herself to support this would leave her seventeen for herself.

Nothing came of this until after the Brooklyn adventure of Hurstwood'sand her success with the speaking part. Then she began to feel as if shemust be free. She thought of leaving Hurstwood and thus making him actfor himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits she feared hemight resist any effort to throw him off. He might hunt her out at theshow and hound her in that way. She did not wholly believe that hewould, but he might. This, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing ifhe made himself conspicuous in any way. It troubled her greatly.

Things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. One of theactresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of leavingand Carrie was selected.

"How much are you going to get?" asked Miss Osborne, on hearing the goodnews.

"I didn't ask him," said Carrie.

"Well, find out. Goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask.Tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow."

"Oh, no," said Carrie.

"Certainly!" exclaimed Lola. "Ask 'em, anyway."

Carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the managergave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part.

"How much do I get?" she inquired.

"Thirty-five dollars," he replied.

Carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioningforty. She was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged Lola, who clungto her at the news.

"It isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especiallywhen you've got to buy clothes."

Carrie remembered this with a start. Where to get the money? She hadnone laid up for such an emergency. Rent day was drawing near.

"I'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "I don't use theflat. I'm not going to give up my money this time. I'll move."

Fitting into this came another appeal from Miss Osborne, more urgentthan ever.

"Come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "We can have the loveliestroom. It won't cost you hardly anything that way."

"I'd like to," said Carrie, frankly.

"Oh, do," said Lola. "We'll have such a good time."

Carrie thought a while.

"I believe I will," she said, and then added: "I'll have to see first,though."

With the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes callingfor instant purchase, she soon found excuse in Hurstwood's lassitude. Hesaid less and drooped more than ever.

As rent day approached, an idea grew in him. It was fostered by thedemands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many more.Twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "It's hard on her," hethought. "We could get a cheaper place."

Stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table.

"Don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked.

"Indeed I do," said Carrie, not catching his drift.

"I should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "We don'tneed four rooms."

Her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have exhibited thedisturbance she felt at this evidence of his determination to stay byher. He saw nothing remarkable in asking her to come down lower.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered, growing wary.

"There must be places around here where we could get a couple of rooms,which would do just as well."

Her heart revolted. "Never!" she thought. Who would furnish the money tomove? To think of being in two rooms with him! She resolved to spend hermoney for clothes quickly, before something terrible happened. That veryday she did it. Having done so, there was but one other thing to do.

"Lola," she said, visiting her friend, "I think I'll come."

"Oh, jolly!" cried the latter.

"Can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room.

"Certainly," cried Lola.

They went to look at it. Carrie had saved ten dollars from herexpenditures--enough for this and her board beside. Her enlarged salarywould not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her for seventeen. Shepaid half of the six dollars with her friend.

"Now, I've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she confided.

"Oh, I've got some," said Lola. "I've got twenty-five dollars, if youneed it."

"No," said Carrie. "I guess I'll get along."

They decided to move Friday, which was two days away. Now that the thingwas settled, Carrie's heart misgave her. She felt very much like acriminal in the matter. Each day looking at Hurstwood, she had realisedthat, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude, there wassomething pathetic.

She looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go, andnow he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and beatenupon by chance. His eyes were not keen, his face marked, his handsflabby. She thought his hair had a touch of grey. All unconscious of hisdoom, he rocked and read his paper, while she glanced at him.

Knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous.

"Will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked Hurstwood,laying down a two-dollar bill.

"Certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money.

"See if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "I'll cook it fordinner."

Hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and gettinghis hat. Carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel were oldand poor looking in appearance. It was plain enough before, but now itcame home with peculiar force. Perhaps he couldn't help it, after all.He had done well in Chicago. She remembered his fine appearance the dayshe had met her in the park. Then he was so sprightly, so clean. Had itbeen all his fault?

He came back and laid the change down with the food.

"You'd better keep it," she observed. "We'll need other things."

"No," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it."

"Oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "There'll beother things."

He wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become inher eyes. She restrained herself with difficulty from showing a quaverin her voice.

To say truly, this would have been Carrie's attitude in any case. Shehad looked back at times upon her parting from Drouet and had regrettedthat she had served him so badly. She hoped she would never meet himagain, but she was ashamed of her conduct. Not that she had any choicein the final separation. She had gone willingly to seek him, withsympathy in her heart, when Hurstwood had reported him ill. There wassomething cruel somewhere, and not being able to track it mentally toits logical lair, she concluded with feeling that he would neverunderstand what Hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decisionin her deed; hence her shame. Not that she cared for him. She did notwant to make any one who had been good to her feel badly.

She did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings topossess her. Hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of her."Carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought.

Going to Miss Osborne's that afternoon, she found that little ladypacking and singing.

"Why don't you come over with me to-day?" she asked.

"Oh, I can't," said Carrie. "I'll be there Friday. Would you mindlending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?"

"Why, no," said Lola, going for her purse.

"I want to get some other things," said Carrie.

"Oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly, gladto be of service.

It had been days since Hurstwood had done more than go to the grocery orto the news-stand. Now the weariness of indoors was upon him--had beenfor two days--but chill, grey weather had held him back. Friday brokefair and warm. It was one of those lovely harbingers of spring, given asa sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken of warmth and beauty.The blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured down a crystal washof warm light. It was plain, from the voice of the sparrows, that allwas halcyon outside. Carrie raised the front windows, and felt the southwind blowing.

"It's lovely out to-day," she remarked.

"Is it?" said Hurstwood.

After breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes.

"Will you be back for lunch?" asked Carrie, nervously.

"No," he said.

He went out into the streets and tramped north, along Seventh Avenue,idly fixing upon the Harlem River as an objective point. He had seensome ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. Hewondered how the territory thereabouts was growing.

Passing Fifty-ninth Street, he took the west side of Central Park, whichhe followed to Seventy-eighth Street. Then he remembered theneighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected.It was very much improved. The great open spaces were filling up. Comingback, he kept to the Park until 110th Street, and then turned intoSeventh Avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o'clock.

There it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clearlight, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall,tree-covered heights on the left. The spring-like atmosphere woke him toa sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it,folding his hands behind his back. Then he turned and followed it towardthe east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. It was four o'clockbefore the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, causedhim to return. He was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room.

When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He knewthat Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showingthrough the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck betweenthe outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in.Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing towait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late.He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself.

As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What wasit? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw anenvelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almostwithout further action on his part.

Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even whilehe reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Greenpaper money lay soft within the note.

"Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand. "I'm going away. I'm not coming back any more. It's no use trying to keep up the flat; I can't do it. I wouldn't mind helping you, if I could, but I can't support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I make to pay for my clothes. I'm leaving twenty dollars. It's all I have just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I won't want it.--CARRIE."

He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what hemissed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had gonefrom the mantelpiece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, theparlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier had gone theknick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the lacecoverings. He opened the wardrobe--no clothes of hers. He opened thedrawers--nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place.Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them.Nothing else was gone.

He stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking vacantlyat the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat seemedwonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it wasonly dinner-time. It seemed later in the night.

Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There weretwenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving thelights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty.

"I'll get out of this," he said to himself.

Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full.

"Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!"

The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many daysof warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confrontedhim. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand--meresensation, without thought, holding him.

Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him.

"She needn't have gone away," he said. "I'd have got something."

He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud:

"I tried, didn't I?"

At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor.