Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser (best book clubs .TXT) 📕

“Well, I don’t know,” said Carrie, smiling.

They were off for a drive⁠—she, looking about and noticing fine clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips which pass for humour in coy circles. Carrie saw the great park parade of carriages, beginning at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance and winding past the Museum of Art to the exit at One Hundred and Tenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth⁠—the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and, above all, the beauty. Once more the plague of poverty galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as to forget Hurstwood. He waited until four, five, and even six. It was getting dark when he got up out of his chair.

“I guess she isn’t coming home,” he said, grimly.

“That’s the way,” he thought. “She’s getting a start now. I’m out of it.”

Carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter after five, and the open carriage was now far up Seventh Avenue, near the Harlem River.

“What time is it?” she inquired. “I must be getting back.”

“A quarter after five,” said her companion, consulting an elegant, open-faced watch.

“Oh, dear me!” exclaimed Carrie. Then she settled back with a sigh. “There’s no use crying over spilt milk,” she said. “It’s too late.”

“Of course it is,” said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show. He was greatly taken with Carrie. “We’ll drive down to Delmonico’s now and have something there, won’t we, Orrin?”

“To be sure,” replied Orrin, gaily.

Carrie thought of Hurstwood. Never before had she neglected dinner without an excuse.

They drove back, and at 6:15 sat down to dine. It was the Sherry incident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to Carrie. She remembered Mrs. Vance, who had never called again after Hurstwood’s reception, and Ames.

At this figure her mind halted. It was a strong, clean vision. He liked better books than she read, better people than she associated with. His ideals burned in her heart.

“It’s fine to be a good actress,” came distinctly back.

What sort of an actress was she?

“What are you thinking about, Miss Madenda?” inquired her merry companion. “Come, now, let’s see if I can guess.”

“Oh, no,” said Carrie. “Don’t try.”

She shook it off and ate. She forgot, in part, and was merry. When it came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I can’t. I have a previous engagement.”

“Oh, now, Miss Madenda,” pleaded the youth.

“No,” said Carrie, “I can’t. You’ve been so kind, but you’ll have to excuse me.”

The youth looked exceedingly crestfallen.

“Cheer up, old man,” whispered his companion. “We’ll go around, anyhow. She may change her mind.”

There was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as Carrie was concerned. She made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. Hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed.

“Is that you?” he said.

“Yes,” she answered.

The next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising.

“I couldn’t get home last evening,” she said.

“Ah, Carrie,” he answered, “what’s the use saying that? I don’t care. You needn’t tell me that, though.”

“I couldn’t,” said Carrie, her colour rising. Then, seeing that he looked as if he said “I know,” she exclaimed: “Oh, all right. I don’t care.”

From now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. There seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. She let herself be asked for expenses. It became so with him that he hated to do it. He preferred standing off the butcher and baker. He ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollars with Oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. Then he changed his grocery. It was the same with the butcher and several others. Carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. He asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have but one ending.

In this fashion, September went by.

“Isn’t Mr. Drake going to open his hotel?” Carrie asked several times.

“Yes. He won’t do it before October, though, now.”

Carrie became disgusted. “Such a man,” she said to herself frequently. More and more she visited. She put most of her spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. At last the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks. “Last two weeks of the Great Comic Opera success⁠—The ⸻,” etc., was upon all billboards and in the newspapers, before she acted.

“I’m not going out on the road,” said Miss Osborne.

Carrie went with her to apply to another manager.

“Ever had any experience?” was one of his questions.

“I’m with the company at the Casino now.”

“Oh, you are?” he said.

The end of this was another engagement at twenty per week.

Carrie was delighted. She began to feel that she had a place in the world. People recognised ability.

So changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. It was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to bear. It became a place to keep away from. Still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. It was a sitting place for Hurstwood. He sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. October went by, and November. It was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat.

Carrie was doing better, that he knew. Her clothes were improved now, even fine. He saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise. Little eating had thinned him somewhat. He had no appetite. His clothes, too, were a poor man’s clothes. Talk about getting