• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

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 one-time 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.

“Isn’t that a pathetic strain?” he inquired, listening.

“Oh, very,” she returned, also catching it, now that her attention was called.

“Sit down,” he added, offering her the chair beside him.

They listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling, only hers reached her through the heart. Music still charmed her as in the old days.

“I don’t know what it is about music,” she started to say, moved by the inexplicable longings which surged within her; “but it always makes me feel as if I wanted something—I—”

“Yes,” he replied; “I know how you feel.”

Suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly.

“You ought not to be melancholy,” he said.

He thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observation which, however, accorded with